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THE
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OP
OLIVER GOLBSMITH,
WITH AN
i^ctount of \\x% ILCtc auiT Si^^rltiJigs^^
STEREOTYPED FROM THE PARIS EDITION,
EDITED BY
WASHINGTON IRVING.
COMPLETE IIV 0:\'E VOLUME
PHILADELPHIA:
CRISSY & MARKLEY, No. 4 MINOR ST.
18.3 0.
CONTENTS.
Memoirs of the life and writings of Dr. Gold-
smith,
The Vicar of Wakefield, ....
An Inquiry into the Present State of Polite
Learning,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Prologue by Laberius
The Double Transformation, .
New Simile, in the manner of Swift, .
Description of an Author's Bedchamber, .
The Hermit; a Ballad, . . . .
An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, .
Stanzas on "Woman,
The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society,
The Deserted Village, . . . •
The Gift, . . . .
Epitaph on Dr. Parnell, . . . .
Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters,
Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss
Catley,
Epilogue intended for Mrs. Bulkley,
The Haunch of Venison, . ' .
Song from the Oratorio of the Captivity, .
Song, ....••••
The Clown's Reply, ....
Epitaph on Edward Purdon,
An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize,
Retaliation,
Postscript to ditto,
Song, .
Prologue to Zobeide, ....
Epilogue spoken by Mr. Lewes, .
The Logicians Refuted, ....
Stanzas on the Taking of CLuebec,
On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Light-
Page
7
57
122
A Sonnet,
143
ib.
144
145
ih.
147
ih.
ih.
152
157
ib.
ih.
ib.
158
159
160
ih.
ib.
IGI
ih.
ib.
163
164
ib.
ib.
Wo
ib.
ib.
ib.
Pag»
The Preface to the Roman History, 23(>
The Preface to a History of England, . • 231
The Preface to the History of the Earth, etc. 232
The Preface to the Beauties of English Poetry, 233
The Preface to a Collection of Poems, etc. 238
Criticism on Massey's Translation of the
Fasti of Ovid, 239
Criticism on Barrett's Translation of Ovid's
Epistles, 242
LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE
WORLD TO HIS FRIENDS IN THE
EAST.
Letter
DRAMATIC.
The Good-natured Man, A Comedy, . 1G6
She Stoops to Conquer, or, the Mistakes of a
Night. A Comedy 193
An Oratorio ; first printed in the Paris edi-
tion, in 1825, from the original in Dr.
Goldsmith's own handwriting, . . 221
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
The Preface to Dr. Brookes's Natural His-
tory, 2261
Introduction to a New History of the World, 228 1
I.
II.
Ill
Introduction. A character of the Chi-
nese Philosopher,
The arrival of the Chinese in Lon-
don. His motives for the journey.
Some description of the streets and
houses,
The description of London continu-
ed. The luxury of the English.
Its benefits. The fiine gentleman.
The fine lady, ....
IV. English pride. Liberty. An instance
of both. Newspapers. Politeness,
V. English passion for politics. A spe-
cimen of a newspaper. Character-
istic of the manners of diiferent
countries, ....
VI. Happiness lost by seeking after re-
finement. The Chinese philoso-
pher's disgraces, ....
The tie of wisdom only to make us
happy. The benefits of traveUing
upon the morals of a philosopher.
The Chinese deceived by a prostitute
in the streets of London,
The licentiousness of the English
with regard to women. A charac-
ter of a woman's man, . .
The journey of the Chinese from Pe-
kin to Moscow. The customs of
the Daures, ....
The benefits of luxury in making a
people more wise and happy.
The funeral solemnities of the En-
glish. Their passion for flattering
epitaphs,
VII
VIII
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
248
ib.
249
251
253
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
XIII. An account of Westminster Abbcv, 260
2C2€f20
IV
CONTENTS.
letter Page
XIV. The reception of the Chinese
from a Lady of distinction, . 262
XV. Against cruelty to animals. A
story from the Zendevesta of
Zoroastor, .... 263
XVI. Of falsehood propagated by books
seemingly sincere, . . 264
XVII. Of the war now carried on be-
tween France and England,
with its frivolous motives, . 265
XVIII. The story of the Chinese ma-
tron, .... 266
XIX. The English method of treating
women caught in adultery.
The Russian method, . . 267
XX. Some account of the republic of
letters in England, . . 269
XXI. The Chinese goes to see a play, 270
XXII. The Chinese philosopher's son
made a slave in Persia, . 272
XXIII. The English subscription in fa-
vour of the French prisoners
commended, .... 273
XXIV. The venders of quack medicines
and nostrums ridiculed, , 274
XXV. The natural rise and decline of
kingdoms, exemplified in the
history of the kingdom of Lao, 275
XXVI. The character of the man in
black, with some instances of
his inconsistent conduct, . 276
XXVII. The history ofthe man in black, 278
XXVIII. On the great numbers of old
maids and bachelors in Lon-
don. Some of the causes, . 280
XXIX. A description of a club of au-
thors 281
XXX. The proceedings of the club of
authors, .... 282
XXXI. The perfection of the Chinese
in the art of gardening. The
description ofa Chinese garden 384
XXXII. Of the degeneracy of some of the
English nobility. A mush-
room feast among the Tartars, 285
XXXIII. The manner of writing among
the Chinese. The eastern tales
of magazines, etc. ridiculed, . 287
XXXIV. Of the present ridiculous passion
of the nobility for painting, . 288
XXXV. The philosopher's son describes
a lady, his fellow-captive, . 290
XXXVI. A continuance of his correspond-
ence. The beautiful captive
consents to marry her lord, . 291
XXXVII. Tlie correspondence still con-
tinued. He begins to be dis-
gusted in the pursuit of wis-
Letter
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
XLI.
XLII.
XLIII.
XLIV.
XLV.
XLVI.
XLVII.
XLVIII.
XLIX.
L.
LI.
LII.
Lin.
LIV.
LV.
LVI.
LVII.
Lviir.
LIX.
Pag*
299
29>
293
29e
29:
29J
29f
dom. An allegory to prove its
futility.
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,
The description of true polite-
ness. Two letters of different
countries, by ladies falsely
thought polite at home, .
The English still have poets,
though not versifiers.
The behaviour of the congrega-
tion in St. Paul's church at
prayers, ....
The history of China more re-
plete with great actions than
that of Europe,
An apostrophe on the supposed
death of Voltaire, .
Wisdom and precept may lessen
our miseries, but can never in-
crease our positive satisfactions 301
The ardour of the people of Lon-
don in running after sights and
monsters, ....
A dream, ....
Misery best relieved by dissipa-
tion, .....
The absurdity of persons in high
station pursuing employments
beneath them, exemplified in
a fairy talc, ....
The fairy tale continued.
An attempt to define what is
meant by English liberty,
A bookseller's visit to the Chi-
nese,
The impossibility of distinguish-
ing men in England by their
dress. Two instances of this.
The absurd taste for obscene and
pert novels, such as Tristram
Shandy, ridiculed, "
The character of an important
trifler, .....
His character continued ; with
that of his wife, his house, and
furniture, ....
Some thoughts on the present
situation of affairs in the differ-
ent countries of Europe, .
The difficulty of rising in litera-
ry reputation without intrigue
or riches, ....
A visitation dinner described,
The Chinese philosopher's son
303
304
305
306
308
309
310
313
313
314
315
317
318
319
CONTENTS.
Letter
escapes with the beautiful cap-
tive from slavery, .
LX The History of the beautiful cap-
tive, .....
LXI. Proper lessons to a youth enter-
ing the world, with fables suit-
ed to the occasion, .
LXII. An authentic liistory of Cathe-
rina Alexowna, wife of Peter
the Great, ....
LXIII. The rise or the decline of litera-
ture not dependent on man, but
resulting from the vicissitudes
of nature, . . . .
LXIV. The great exchange happiness
for show. Their folly in this
respect of use to society,
LXV. The history of a philosophic cob-
bler, .....
LXVI. The difference between love and
gratitude
LXVIl. The folly of attempting to learn
wisdom by being recluse,
LXVIII. Quacks ridiculed. Some particu-
larly mentioned,
LXIX. The fear of mad-dogs ridiculed,
LXX. Fortune proved not to be blind.
The story of the avaricious miller
LXXI. The shabby beau, the man in
black, the Chinese philosopher,
etc. at Vauxhall,
LXXII. The marriage-act censured,
LXXIII. Life endeared by age,
LXXIV. The description of a little great
man, .....
LXXV. The necessity of amusing each
other with new books insisted
upon,
LXXVI. The preference of grace to beau-
ty; an allegory,
LXXVII. The behaviour of a shopkeeper
and his journeyman,
LXXVIII. The French ridiculed after their
own manner, ....
LXX IX. The preparations of both thea-
tres for a winter campaign,
LXXX. The evil tendency of increasing
penal laws, or enforcing even
those already in being with
rigour,
LXXXL The ladies' trains ridiculed,
LXXXII. The sciences useful in a populous
state, prejudicial in a barbarous
one,
LXXXin. Some cautions on life taken from
a modern philosopher of China,
LXXXIV. Anecdotes of several poets who
lived and died in circum-
stances of wretchedneas,
Page
320
321
323
324
326
340
352
Letter
LXXXV.
LXXXVL
Lxxxvn.
LXXXVIIL
LXXXIX.
XC.
327
XCI.
328
XCIL
329
231
xcin.
232
xciv.
333
335
xcv.
XCVL
336
338
339
xcvn.
XCVIII.
312
XCIX.
343
344
C.
345
CL
346
on.
347
cm.
348
CIV.
349
cv.
351
CVI.
Page
The trifling squabbles of stage
players ridiculed, . . 353
The races of Newmarket ridi-
culed. The description of a
cart-race, .... 35S
The folly of the western parts
of Europe in employing the
Russians to fight their battles, 356
The ladies advised to get hus- •
bands. A story to this pur-
pose, ib.
The folly of remote or use-
less disquisitions among the
learned, .... 358
The English subject to the
spleen, .... 359
The influence of climate and
soil upon the temper and dis-
positions of the English, . 361
The manner in which some
philosophers make artificial
misery 363
The fondness of some to ad-
mire the writings of lords, etc. 363
The philosopher's son is again
separated from his beautiful
companion, . . . ib.
The father consoles him upon
this occasion, . . . 364
The condolence and congratu-
lation upon the death of the
late king ridiculed. English
mourning described, . . 365
Almost every subject of litera-
ture has been already ex-
hausted, .... 366
A description of the courts of
justice in Westminster Hall 367
A visit from the httle beau.
The indulgence with which
the fair sex are treated in
several parts of Asia, . . 368
A life of independence praised, 369
That people must be contented
to be guided by those whom
they have appointed to gov-
ern. A story to this effect, 370
The passion for gaming among
ladies ridiculed, , . . 371
The Chinese philosopher be-
gins to think of quitting En-
gland, . . . .372
The arts some make use of to
appear learned, . . . 373
The intended coronation de-
scribed, .... 374
Funeral elegies written upon
the great ridiculed. A speci-
men of one, . . . 375
^
Tl
CONTENTS.
Letter Page
CVII. The English too fond of believing
every report without examination.
A story of an incendiary to this
purpose, 376
CVIII. The utility and entertainment
which might result from a jour-
ney into the East, . . . 377
CIX. The Chinese philosopher attempts
to find out famous men, . . 378
ex. Some projects for introducing Asi-
atic employments into the courts
of England 380
CXI. On the different sects in England,
particularly Methodism, . . 381
CXII. An election described, . . 362
CXIII. A literary contest of great import-
ance; in which both sides fight by
epigram 383
CXIV. Against the marriage act. A fable, 385
CXV. On the danger of having too high
an opinion of human nature, . 386
CXVI. Whether love be a natural or ficti-
tious passion, .... 387
CXVII. A city night-piece, . . .389
CXVIII. On the meanness of the Dutch at
the court of Japan, . . . ib.
CXIX. On the distresses of the poor exem-
plified in the life of a private sen«
tinel, 390
CXX. On the absurdity of some late En-
glish titles, .... 392
CXXI. The irresolution of the English ac-
counted for, .... 393
CXXII. The manner of travellers in their
usual relations ridiculed, . . 394
CXXIII. The conclusion, . . .395
The Life of Dr. Parnell 398
The Life of Henry Lord Viscount Bolingbroke 407
THE BEE.
No. L Introduction, 424
On a beautiful youth struck blind by
lightning, 426
Remarks on our Theatres, . . ib.
The Story of Alcander and Septimius, 427
A letter from a Traveller, . . 429
Account of Mr. Maupertuis, . ib.
H. On Dress, . . . . .430
Some particulars relative to Charles 12, 432
Happiness dependent on Constitution, 434
On our Theatres, .... 435
III. On the Use of Language, . . 436
The History of Hyspasia, . . 438
On Justice and Generosity, . . 439
Some particulars relative to Father
Freijo 440
IV. Miscellaneous, .... 441
A Flemish Tradition, . . .442
The Sagacity of some Insects, . 444
Pag«
The Characteristics of Greatness, . 445
Conclusion of a City Night-Piece, 446
V. Upon Political Frugality, . . .447
A Reverie 450
A word or two upon High Life Below
Stairs, 452
Upon unfortunate Merit, . . . 453
VI. On Education, .... 454
On the instability of worldly grandeur, 4.58
Account of the Academies of Italy, 459
VII. Of Eloquence 460
Custom and Laws compared, . . 463
On the Pride and Luxury of the Mid-
dling class of People, . . 464
Sabinus and Olinda, . . . ib.
The Sentimentsof aFrenchman on the
Temper of the English, . . 466
VIII. On Deceit and Falsehood . . 467
An Account of the Augustan Age of
England, 469
Of the Opera in England, . . 471
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XIL
Xlll.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
xxm.
XXIV.
ESSAYS.
Preface to the Essays,
Description of various Clubs,
Specimen of a Magazine in Minia-
ture,
Asem, an eastern Tale; or, Vindica-
tion of the Wisdom of Providence
in the Moral Government of the
World,
On the English Clergy and popular
Preachers, ....
A Reverie at the Boar's-Head Tav-
ern, Eastcheap, ....
Adventures of a Strolling Player,
Rules enjoined to be observed at a
Russian Assembly,
Biographical Memoir supposed to be
written by the Ordinary of New-
gate, . , .
National Concord,
Female Warriors,
National Prejudices, . ,
Taste, ....
Cultivation of Taste, .
Origin of Poetry, .
Poetry distinguished
from
Writing,
Metaphors, . .
Hyperboles, .
Versification, . " .
Schools of Music, Objections
to, and Answers,
Carolan the Irish Bard,
On the Tenants of Leasowes,
Sentimental Comedy,
Scotch Marriages, .
Dignity of Human Nature,
473
474
477
478
480
482
487
490
other
there-
491
492
493
494
496
499
502
506
510
516
517
519
521
522
523
525
5?6
i:!si:(S)!!igs
OP THE
lilFE AND WRITINGS
OF
€)Uber (gJolxri^mitli*
X
>
There are few writers for whom the reader feels
such personal kindness as for OUver Goldsmith.
The fascinating ease and simplicity of his style ;
the benevolence that beams through every page ;
the whimsical yet amiable views of human hfe and
human nature; the mellow unforced humour,
blended so happily with good feehng and good
sense, throughout liis writings; win their way ir-
resistibly to the affections and carry the author with
them. Wliile writers of greater pretensions and
more sounding names are suffered to lie upon our
shelves, the works of Goldsmith are cherished and
laid in our bosoms. We do not quote them with
ostentation, but they mingle with our minds ; they
sweeten our tempers and harmonize our thoughts ;
they put us in good humour with ourselves and
with the world, and in so doing they make us hap-
pier and better men.
We have been curious therefore in gathering to-
gether all the heterogeneous particulars concerning
poor Goldsmith that still exist; and seldom have we
met with an author's life more illustrative of his
works, or works more faithfully illustrative of the
author's life.* His rambling biography displays
him the same kind, artless, good humoured, excur-
sive, sensible, whimsical, intelligent being that he
appears in liis writings. Scarcely an adventure or
a character is given in his page that may not be
traced to his own parti-coloured story. Many of
his most ludicrous scenes and ridiculous incidents
have been drawn from his own blunders and mis-
chances, and he seems really to have been builcted
into almost every maxim imparted by liim for the
nstruction of his readers.
Oliver Goldsmith was a native of Ireland, and
vas born on the 29th of November, 1728. Two
"Tlie present biography is principilly taken from Ihe Scolch
edition of Goldsmith's worlcs, published in 1821.
villages claim the honour of having given him
birth : Pallas in the county of Longford ; and El-
phin, in the county of Roscommon. The former
is named as the place in the epitaph by Dr. John-
son, inscribed on his monument in Westminster
Abbey ; but later investigations have decided in fa-
vour of Elphin.
He was the second son of the Rev. Charles
Goldsmith, a clergyman of the established church,
but without any patrimony. His mother was
daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the
diocesan school at Elphin. It was not till some
time after the birth of OUver that liis father ob-
tained the living of Kilkeimy-West, in the county
of Westmeath. Previous to tliis period he and his
wife appear to have been almost entirely dependent
on her relations for support.
His father was equally distinguished for his lite-
rary attainments and for the benevolence of his
heart. His family consisted of five sons and two
daughters. From this little world of home Gold-
smith has drawn many of his domestic scenes,
bpth wliimsical and touching, which appeal so for-
cilily to the heart, as well as to the fancy; his fa-
ther's fireside furnished many of the family scenes
of the Vicar of Wakefield ; and it is said that the
learned simplicity and amiable peculiarities of that
worthy divine have been happily illustrated in the
character of Dr. Primrose.
The Rev. Henry Goldsmith, elder brother of
the poet, and born seven years before him, was a
man of estimable worth and excellent talents.
Great exjiectations were formed of him, from the
promise of his youth, both when at school and at
coUcgc ; but he offended and disappointed his
fi-icnds, by entering into matrimony at the early
age of nineteen, and resigning all ambitious viewa
for love and a curacy. If, however, we may De-
lievc the pictures drawn by the poet of his brothei'
8
LIFE AND WRITINGS
domestic life, his lot. though humble, was a happy
one. He is the village pastor of the " Deserted
Village," so exemplary in his character, and "pass-
ing rich with forty poiuids a year." It is to this
brother, who was the guide and protector of Gold-
smith during his childhood, and to whom he was
tenderly attached, that he addresses those beautiful
lines in liis poem of the Traveller :
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain.
And drags at each remove a length'ning chain.
His family also form the ruddy and joyous
group, and exercise the simple but generous rites
of hospitality, which the poet so charmingly de-
Bcribes :
Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And leam the luxury of doing good.
The whimsical character of the Man in Black
in the "Citizen of the World," so rich in eccen
tricities and in amiable failings, is said to have
been likewise drawn partly from his brother, part-
ly from his father, but in a great measure from the
author himself. It is difficult, however, to assign
with precision the originals of a writer's characters.
They are generally composed of scattered, though
accordant traits, observed in various individuals,
which have been seized upon with the discriminat-
ing tact of genius and combined into one harmoni-
ous whole. StiL, li is a fact, as evident as it is de-
lightful, that Goldsmith has poured out the genu-
ine feelings of his heart in his works; and has had
continually before him, in his delineations of simple
worth and domestic virtue, the objects of his fihal
and fraternal affection.
Goldsmith is said, in his earlier years, to have
been whimsical in his humours and eccentric in liis
habits. This was remarked in his infancy. Some-
times he assumed the gravity and reserve of riper
years, at other times would give free scope to the
wild frolic and exuberant vivacity suited to his age.
The singvdarity of his moods and manners, and
the evidences he gave of a precocity of talent, caus-
ed him to be talked of in the neighbourhood as a
little prodigy. It is said that, even before he was
eitrht years old he evinced a natural turn for poet-
ry, and made many attempts at rhymes, to the
amusement of liis father and friends; and when
somewhat older, after he had learned to write, his
chief pleasure was to scribble rude verses on small
scraps of paper, and then commit them to the
flames,
His father had strained his slender means in
pvincf a hbcral education to liis eldest son, and had
Jeterrained to bring up Oliver to trade. He was
placed under the care of a village school-master, te
be instructed in reading, writing, and arithmetic.
This pedagogue, whom his scholar afterwards so
happily describes in the " Deserted Village," had
been a quarter-master in the army during the wars
of Q,ueen Anne, and, in his own estimation, a man
of no small pith and moment. Having passed
through various parts of Europe, and being of an
eccentric turn of mind, he acquired habits of ro-
mancing that bordered on the marvellous, and, like
many other travellers, was possessed with a prodi-
gious itch for detailing his adventures. He him-
self was most commonly the redoubted hero of his
own story, and his pupUs were always the amazed
and wiUing auditory :
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
The tales of wonder recounted by this second
Pinto are said to have had surprising effects on his
youthfid hearers; and it has been plausibly con-
jectured that to the vivid impressions thus made on
the young imagination of our author, may be as-
cribed those wandering propensities which influ-
enced his after life.
After he had been for some time with this in-
different preceptor, his mother, with whom he was
always a favourite, exerted her influence to per-
suade his father to give him an education that would
qualify him for a hberal profession. Her solicita-
tions, together with the passionate attachment which
the boy evinced for books and learning, and his
early indications of talent, prevailed over all scru-
ples of economy, and he was placed under the care
of the Rev. Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of Elphin.
He was boarded in the house of his uncle, John
Goldsmith, Esq., of Ballyoughter, in the vicinity.
Here the amiableness of Ids disposition and the
amusing eccentricity of liis humour rendered him a
universal favourite. A little anecdote, preserved
by the family of his uncle e^inces the precocity of
his wit.
At an entertainment given by this gentleman to
a party of yoxmg people in the neighbourhood, a
fiddler was sent for, and dancing introduced. Oli-
ver, although only nine years of age, was permitted
to share in the festivities of the evening, and was
called on to dance a hornpipe. His figure was
never good, but at this time it was peculiarly short
and clumsy, and having but recently recovered from
the small-pox, his features were greatly disfigured.
The scraper of catgut, struck with the oddity of the
boy's appearance, thought to display his waggery
by likening him to ^sop dancing. This comparj
son, according to. his notions, being uncommon?'
happy, he continued to harp on it for a considerabe
time, when suddenly the laugh of the company wis
turned against himself, by Oliver sarcastically is-
marking,
OP DR. GOLDSMITH.
Our herald hath proclaim'd this saying,
See jEsop dancing, and his monkey playing.
So smart a repartee, from so young a boy, was
the subject of much conversation, and perhaps of
itself was decisive of his fortune. His friends mi-
Jnediately determined that he should be sent to the
University; and some of his relations, who belonged
to the church, and possessed the necessary means,
generously offered to contribute towards the ex-
pense. The Rev. Mr. Green, and the Rev. Mr.
Contarine, both men of distinguished worth and
learning, stood forward on this occasion as the
youth's patrons.
To qualify him for the university, he was now
Bent to Athlone school, and placed under the tui-
tion of the Rev. Mr. Campbell. There he re-
mEuned two years; but the ill health of the master
having obliged him to resign his situation, Oliver
was consigned to the care of the Rev. Patrick
Hughes, at Edgeworthstown, in the county of
Longford, under whom he continued his studies till
finally fitted for the university. Under tliis re-
spectable teacher and excellent man, he is said to
have made much greater progress than under any
of the rest of his instructors.
A short time before leaving the school of Mr.
Hughes, our poet had an adventm-e which is be-
lieved to have suggested the plot of his comedy of
"She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a
Night."
His father's house was distant about twenty
miles from Edgeworthstown, and when on liis jour-
ney thither for the last time, he had devoted so
much time to amusement on the road, that it was
almost dark when he reached the httle town of Ar-
dagh. Some friend had given Mm a guinea, and
Ohver, who was never niggard of his purse, re-
solved to put up here for the night, and treat liim-
self to a good supper and a bed. Having asked
for the best house in the village, he was conducted
to the best house, instead of the best inn. The
owner, immediately discovered the mistake, but be-
ing a man of humour, resolved to carry on the joke.
Oliver was therefore permitted to order his horse
to the stable, while he himself walked into the par-
lour, and took his seat famiharly by the fire-side.
The servants were then called about liim to receive
ids orders as to supper. The supper was soon
produced; the gentleman, with his wife and daugh-
ters, were generously invited to partake ; a bottle
of wine was called for to crown the feast, and at
going to bed, a hot cake was ordered to be prepared
for his breakfast. The laugh, to be sure, was ra-
ther against our hero in the morning, when he
called for his bill, and found he had been hospitably
entertained in a private family. But finding that
his host was an acquaintance of liis father's, he en-
tered into the humour of the scene, and laughed as
^teartily as the rest.
On the 11th of June, 1744, Goldsmith, then fif-
teen years of age, was admitted a sizer in Trinity
College, Dublin, under the Rev. Theaker Wilder,
one of the fellows, a man of violent temper, from
whose overbearing disposition he suffered much
vexation. The young student was giddy and
thoughtless, and on one occasion invited a number
of young persons of both sexes to a supper and
dance in his apartments, in direct violation of the
college rules. The vigilant Wilder became ap-
prised of the circumstance, and rushed like a tiger
to the festive scene. He burst into the apartment,
put the gay assembly to the rout, but previous to
their dispersion, seized on the unfortunate delin-
quent, and inflicted corporal chastisement on him,
in presence of the party.
The youthful poet coiJd not brook this outrage
and indignity. He could not look his acquaintances
in the face without the deepest feeling of shame and
mortification. He detennmed, therefore, to esca}ie
altogether from his terrible tutor, by abandoning his
studies, and flying to some distant part of the globe.
With tlois view he disposed of liis books and clothes,
and resolved to embark at Cork : but here his usual
thoughtless and improvident turn was again dis-
played, for he lingered so long in Dublin after his
resolution had been taken, that his finances were
reduced to a single shilling when he set out on the
journey.
He was accustomed afterwards to give a ludi-
crous account of his adventures in this expedition,
although it was attended by many distressful cir-
cumstances. Ha\ing contrived to subsist three
whole days on the sliilluig he set out with, he was
then compelled by necessity to sell the clothes off
his back, and at last was so reduced by famine, that
he was only saved from sijiking under it by the
compassion of a young girl at a wake, from whom
he got a handful of gray peas. This he used to say
was the most delicious repast he had ever made.
While in this state of hunger and wretchedness,
without money and without friends, the rashness
and folly of his undertaking became every moment
more apparent, and, in spite of his lacerated feel-
ings, and the dread of Wilder, he resolved to pro-
pose a reconciliation with his friends, and onc«
more to return to the college. Before he had
reached the place of embarkation, therefore, he con-
trived to get notice conveyed to liis brother of liis
miserable conilition, and hinted that if a promise
of milder treatment were obtained from his tutor,
he shoidd be inclined to return. His affectionate
brother instantly hastened to relieve his distress,
equipped him with new clotliing, and carried him
back to college. A rcconciUation was also in some
degree effected with Wilder, but there was never
afterwards between them any interchange of friend-
ship or regard.
From the despondency resulting from his tutor's
10
LIFE AND WRITINGS
ill treatment, Goldsmith is said to have sunk into
habitual indolence ; yet his genius sometimes dawn-
ed through the gloom, and translations from the
classics made by him at this period were long re-
membered by his cotemporaries with applause. He
Was not, however, admitted to the degree of Bache-
lor of Arts till February 27, 1749, O. S. two years
after the regular time.
The chagrin and vexation attending liis unlucky
disputes with his tutor, were soon after succeeded
by a calamity of deeper moment, and more lasting
consequences to our poet. This was the death of
his worthy and amiable father. He had now lost
his natural guardian and best friend, and found
himself young in the world, without either protector
or guide. His uncle Contarine, however, in this
emergency kindly interfered, and, with almost pa-
rental anxiety, took the charge of advising and di-
recting his future progress. When he had com-
pleted his studies at the university,* Mr. Contarine
advised liim to prepare for holy orders; but this was
a measure always repugnant to his inclinations.
An unsettled turn of mind, an unquenchable de-
eire of visiting other countries, and perhaps an in-
genuous sense of his unfitness for the clerical pro-
fession, conspired to disincline him to the church ;
and though at length he yielded to the pressing so-
licitations of his uncle and friends, by appljing to
the bishop for ordination, it is thought he was more
pleased than disappointed when rejected by liis
lordship, on account of his youth. He was now
anxious, however, to be employed in some way or
other, and when the office of private tutor in the
family of a neighbouring gentleman was offered to
him, he willingly accepted it. In this situation he
remained about a year; but finding the employment
much more disagreeable than he had been taught
to beheve it, and the necessary confinement pain-
fully irksome, he suddenly gave up his charge, pro-
cured a good horse, and, with about thirty pounds
which he had saved, quitted his friends, and set
out nobody knew whither.
As this singular unpremeditated step had been
taken without consulting any of liis friends, and
as no intelligence could be obtained either of him-
self or the motives which had prompted his de-
parture, liis family became much alarmed for his
safety, and were justly offended at his conduct.
* During his studies at the university, he was a contempo-
rary with Burlce; and it has been said that neither of them
gave much promise of future celebrity. Goldsmith, however,
got a premium at a Christmas examination; and a premium
obtained at such examination is more honourable than any
other, because it ascertains the person who receives it to be
the first in literary merit. At the other examinations, the
person thus distinguished may be only the second in merit ;
he who has previously obtained the same honorary reward,
Bometimes receiving a written certificate that he was the best
answerer ; i' being a rule, that not more than one premium
•hould be aujudged to the same person in one year.
Week after week passed away, and no tidings
of the fugitive. At last, when all hope of his re-
turn had been given up, and when they concluded
he must haA-e left the country altogether, the fami-
ly were astonished by his sudden reappearance at
his mother's house; safe and sound, to be sure, but
not exactly in such good trim as when he had left
them. His horse was metamorphosed into a
shabby Uttle pony, not worth tv/enty shillings;
and instead of thirty pounds in his pocket, he was
without a penny. On this occasion the indignation
of his mother was strongly expressed; but his
brothers and sisters, who were all tenderly attach-
ed to him, interfered, and soon eflected a recon-
ciliation.
Once more reinstated in the good graces of Ms
family, our poet amused them with a detail of
his adventures in this last expedition. He pre-
mised that he had long felt a strong inclination to
visit the New World, but knowing that his friends
would throw obstacles in the way of his departiu-e,
he had determined to set out unknown to any of
them. Intending to embark at Cork, he had gone
directly thither, and immediately after he arrived
disposed of his horse, and struck a bargain with a
captain of a ship bound for North America. For
three weeks after his arrival, the wind continued
unfavorable for putting to sea ; and the vessel re-
mained wind-bound in the harbour. In the mean
time, he amused himself by sauntering about the
city and its environs, satisfying his curiosity, and
examining every object worthy of notice. Hav-
ing formed some acquaintances by means of the
captain, he accompanied a party on an excursion
into the country. The idea never occurred to him,
that the wind, which had blown so perversely
a-head during there weeks, might change in a sin-
gle day ; he was not less surprised than chagrined,
therefore, on his return next morning, to find the
vessel gone. This was a death-blow to his scheme
of emigration, as his passage-money was already
in the pocket of the captain.
Mortified and disappointed, he lingered about
Cork, irresolute what to do, until the languishing
state of his purse, which was reduced to two gui-
neas, admonished him to make the best of his way
home. He accordingly bought a poor Uttle pony,
wliich he called Fiddleback, and found that he had
just five sliillings left to defray the travelhng expen-
ses of liimself and liis steed. This pittance, how-
ever, was rather too scanty for a journey of a hun-
dred and twenty miles, and he was at a loss how
to procure a further supply. He at last bethought
himself of an old college friend, who lived on the
road, not far from Cork, and determined to apply
to him for assistance. Having been often pressed
by this person to spend a summer at his house, he
had the less hesitation in papng him a visit under
his present circumstances, and doubted not that he
OP DR. GOLDSMITH,
II
Would at once obtain all the aid his situation re-
quired. When on the road to the house of his
iriend, a poor woman with eight children, whose
husband had been thrown into jail for rent, threw
herself in his way and implored for relief. The
feelings of humanity being ever most easily awak-
ened in Oliver's bosom, he gave her all that re-
mained in his purse, and trusted his own wants to
the expected liberality of his old fellow-coUcgian.
This dear friend, whose promised hospitalities
were so securely relied on, received him with much
apparent satisfaction, and only appeared anxious
to learn the motive which could have prompted
this chance visit. Charmed with this seeming cor-
diality with which he was received, Oliver gave
him an artless and honest account of his whole ex-
pedition; and did not even conceal the offence
which his departure must have given to his friends.
His good host listened with profound attention,
and appeared to take so much interest in tlie detail
of our poet's adventures, that he was at length in-
duced to disclose the imjiiediate object of liis visit.
This chanced to be the true touch-stone for try-
ing the liberality of so honest a friend. A profound
sigh, and querulous declamation on his own in-
firm state of health, was the only return to his hint
for assistance. When pressed a little further, this
kind friend drily remarked, that for his part he
could not understand how some people got them-
selves into scrapes ; that on any other occasion he
would have been happy to accommodate an old
comrade, but really he had been lately so very ill,
and was, even now, in such a sickly contlition,
that it was very inconvenient to entertain compa-
ny of any kind. Besides, he could not well ask a
person in health to share in his slops and milk
diet. If, however, Mr. Goldsmith could think of
putting up with the family fare, such as it was, he
would be made welcome; at the same tmie he
must apprise him that it might not soon be got
ready. The astonishment and dismay of our poet
at the conclusion of this speech was sufficiently
visible in his lengthened visage. Nothing but the
utter emptiness of his purse, and his great distance
from home, could liave induced him to pocket the
insult, or accept so inhospitable an invitation. No
better, however, could be made of it in his present
circumstances; so without showing his chagrin, ho
good-humouredly partook of a miserable supper of
brown bread and butter milk, served up at a late
hour by a miserable looking old woman, the fit
handmaid of so miserable a master.
Notwithstanding the base colours in which our
poet's host had exhibited himself, the former had too
much good-nature to harbour resentment. When
they met in the morning, therefore, he entered fa-
miliarly into conversation, and even condescended
to ask what he would advise him to do in his pre-
sent difficulty. "My dear fellow," said liis host,
"return home immediately. You can never do with-
out the assistance of your friends; and if j^ou keep
them longer in suspense and alarm by remaining
away, you will only widen the breach which your
rashness must have already occasioned, and perhaps
induce them to throw you off altogether." "But,"
rejoined Oliver, "how am I to get on without mo-
ney? I told you I had not a shilling lef^, and it is
quite impossible for me to proceed on the journey,
unless you should be so obliging as to lend me a
guinea for the purpose." Here again his friend'3
countenance fell. He pleaded his inability to lend,
in consequence of having spent all his ready cash
during his late illness, interlarding this apology
with many sage aphorisms on the disadvantages of
borrowing, and the sin of running into debt. " But
my dear fellow," resumed he, " I'll tell you how
you may get over the difficulty. May you not
sell the little horse you brought with you last
night? The price of it will be sufficient for all
your expenses till you arrive among your friends,
and, in the mean time, I think I can furnish you
wdth another to help you forward on the jour-
ney." Oliver could discover no objection to a plan
so feasible, and therefore agreed to it at once; but
when he asked for a sight of the steed wliich was
to carry him home, his host, with solemn gravity,
drew from under the bed a stout oaken staff, which
he presented to him with a grin of self-approba-
tion. Our poor poet now lost all patience, and was
just about to snatch it from him, and apply it to
his pate, when a loud rap announced a visiter. A
person of interesting appearance was immediately
afterwards ushered into the room, and, when the us-
ual compliments were over, Oliver was presented to
him by his host, as if nothing had happened, and
described as the learned and ingenious young man
of whom he had heard so much while at college.
The agreeable manners of this gentleman soon
gave an interesting turn to the conversation. Har-
mony appeared to be once more restored between
Oliver and his host, and the stranger invited them
both to dine with him the following day. This
was not acceded to on the part of the poet, with-
out considerable reluctance; but the gentleman's
pressing solicitations prevailed on him to consent.
The hospitality and kindness displayed at this per-
son's table was a striking contrast to the penury
and meanness exhibited by his fellow-collegian,
and Oliver could hardly refrain from making some
sarcastic remarks on the difference. The hints on
this subject which were occasionally hazarded by
the poot, led the gentleman to suspect that the two
friends were not on the most cordial tenns. He
was therefore induced to invite our poet to spend a
few days at his house. An invitation of this kind,
so opjiortunely and handsomely given, was a for-
tunate circumstance for Oliver. He did not hesi-
tate a moment to accept it, and at parting with his
13
LIFE AND WRITINGS
dear fellow-collegian, archly recommended to him
to take good care of the steed kept at so much ex-
pense for the use of his friends; and, of all things,
to beware of surfeiting them with a milk diet. To
this sarcasm the other only replied by a sneer at
the poet's poverty and improvident disposition.
Their host being well acquainted with the charac-
ter of his neighbour, seemed, when OUver after-
wards recounted to him all the circumstances that
had taken place, to be more amused than surprised
at the detail.
In the house of this new friend Goldsmith expe-
rienced the most hospitable entertainment for seve-
ral days. Two beautiful daughters, as well as the
host himself, were emulous in finding amusement
for their guest during his stay; and when about to
depart, he was offered money to defray the expense
of his journe}', and a servant to attend him on
horseback. The servant and horse he decUned,
but accepted of a loan of three half-guineas ; and
with sentiments of the deepest respect and grati-
tude, took leave of his benevolent host.
He now pursued his journey without any fur-
ther interruption, and arrived at his mother's house
in the sudden and unexpected manner already nar-
rated. Once more reconciled to his friends, he did
not fail to transmit to his kind benefactor suitable
acknowledgments expressive of the grateful sense
he entertained of such unlooked-for and generous
hospitality.
It was now considered essential that he should
fix on a profession, the pursuit of which might di-
vert him from idle and expensive habits. After
various consultations, it was determined that he
should begin the study of the law, and liis uncle
Contarine agreed to advance the necessary funds.
Provided with money for the expenses of his jour-
ney, and to enable him to enter on his studies at
the Temple, Oliver set out for London, but his
customary imprudence again interfered. He fell
by accident into the company of a sharper in Dub-
lin, and being tempted to engage in play, was soon
plimdered of all his money, and again left to find
his way home without a shiUing in his pocket.
His friends now almost despaired of him. Not-
withstanding the brilliancy of his natural talents,
it was feared that his habitual carelessness and im-
providence would form a bar to his success in any
profession whatever. That it would be vain for
him to pursue the study of the law with such dis-
positions was obvious ; and, of course, it was neces-
sary once more to cast about for a profession. Af-
ter various consultations, therefore, it was finally
determined that physic should be his future pur-
suit; and liis kind uncle, who had been prevailed
on to pardon liim once more, took him again under
his protection, and at last fixed him at Edinburgh
OS a student of medicine, about the end of the year
1752. On his arrival in that city, he had no sooner i
deposited his trunk in lodgings than he sallied out
to see the town. He rambled about until a late
hour, and when he felt disposed to turn his face
homeward, recollected for the first time that he
knew neither the name nor address of his landlady.
In this dilemma, as he was wandering at random,
he fortunately met with the porter who had carried
liis baggage, and who now served him as a guide.
In the University of Edinburgh, at that time be
coming famous as a school of medicine, he attend-
ed the lectures of the celebrated Monro, and the
other professors in medical science. What pro-
gress he made in this study, however, is not par-
ticularly ascertained. Riotous conviviaUty, and
tavern adjournments, whether for business or plea-
sure, were at that time characteristic of Edinburgh
society ; and it does not appear that our poet was
able to resist the general contagion. His attention
to his studies was far from being regular. Dissi-
pation and play allured him from the class-room,
and his health and his purse suffered in conse-
quence. About this period, liis contemporaries have
reported, that he sometimes also sacrificed to the
Muses, but of these early effusions no specimen
seems to have been preserved.
The social and good-humoured qualities of oui
poet appear to have made him a general favourite
with his fellow-students. He was a keen partici-
pator in all their wild pranks and humorous frolics.
He was also a prime table companion : always rea-
dy with story, anecdote, or song, though it must be
confessed that m such exhibitions he was far from
being successful. His narrations were too frequent-
ly accompanied by grimace or buffoonery; nor was
his wit of that chaste and classical kind that might
have been expected from his education. On the
contrary, it was generally forced, coarse, and un-
natural. All his oral communications partook of
these defects ; and it is a fact not less true than sin-
gular, that even in after life he was never exempt
from them, although accustomed to the politest li-
terary society.
When conversing on this feature in our poet's
character, his friend Dr. Jolmson many years after-
wards, justly, but perhaps rather severely, remark-
ed, " The misfortime of Goldsmith in conversation
is this : he goes on without knowing how he is to get
off'. His genius is great, but his knowledge is smalL
As they say of a generous man, it is a pity he is
not rich, we may say of Goldsmith, it is a pity he is
not knowing : he would not keep his knowledge to
himself."
On another occasion, Johnson being called on for
his opinion on the same subject, took a similar viet*
of it, with much critical acumen, and all liis usual
power of amplification. "Goldsmith," said he,
" should not be for ever attempting to shine in con-
versation; he has not temper for it, he is so much
.Tiortified when he fails. A game of jokes is com-
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
n
posed partly of skill, partly of chance ; a man may
be beat at times by one who has not the tenth part
of his wit. Now Goldsmith's putting himself
against another, is like a man laying a hundred to
one, who can not spare the lundred. It is not
Worth a man's wliile. A man should not lay a
hundred to one, unless he can easily spare it ; though
he has a hundred chances for Mm, he can get but
a guinea, and he may lose a hundred. Goldsmith
is in this state : when he contends, if he get the bet-
ter, it is a very little addition to a man of his literary
reputation; if he do not get the better, he is misera-
bly vexed."
Though now arrived at an age when reflection
on passing objects and events might have been oc-
casionally elicited, yet it does not appear that any
thing of that kind worth preserving occurred in our
poet's correspondence with his friends. The only
circumstance which seems to have excited particu-
lar remark was the economy of the Scotch in cook-
ing and eating ; and of 1 Ids he would sometimes give
rather a ludicrous account. His first landlady, he
used to say, nearly starved him out of liis lodgings ;
and the second, though somewhat more Uberal, was
still a wonderful adept in the art of saving. When
permitted to put forth all her talents m this way
she would perform surprising feats. A single loui
of mutton would sometimes be made to serve our
poet and two fellow-students a whole week ; a bran-
dered chop was served up one day, a fried steak ano
ther, collops with onion sauce a third, and so on, till
the fleshy parts were quite consumed, when finally
a dish of broth was made from the well-picked bones
on the seventh day, and the landlady rested from
her labours.
After he had attended some courses of lectures at
Edinburgh, it was thought advisable that he should
complete his medical studies at the University of
Leyden, then celebrated as a great medical school :
his uncle Contarine furnishing the funds. Gold-
emith accordingly looked out at Lcith for a vessel
for Holland ; but finding one about to sail for Bor-
deaux, with his usual eccentricity engaged a pas-
sage. He found himself, however, in an awkward
dilemma about the time of embarkation. He had
become security to a tailor for a fellow-student in a
considerable amount. The tailor arrested him for
debt; and, but for the interference of Mr. Lachlan
Maclane and Dr. Sleigh, he would have been
thro^vn into prison. Rescued from this difilcidty,
he embarked, but encountered a storm, and a de-
tention, and an escape from shipwreck, and finally
arrived safe at Rotterdam, instead of Bordeaux; all
which is thus related by himself, in an extract from
a letter, without date, to his generous uncle Conta-
rine.
" Some time after the receipt of your last, I em-
barked for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship, call-
ed the St. Andrew, Captain John Wall, master.
The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as ano-
ther inducement, 1 was let to know that six agree-
able passengers were to be my company. Well,
we were but tvFO days at sea when a storm drove
us into a city of England, called Newcastle-upon-
Tyne. We all went ashore to refresh us, after the
fatigue of our voyage. Seven men and I were one
day on shore, and on the following evening, as we
were all very merry, the room door bursts open, en-
ters a sergeant and twelve grenadiers, with their
bayonets screwed, and puts us all under the king's
arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in
the French service, and had been in Scotland to
enlist soldiers for the French army. I endeavoured
ad I could to prove my innocence; however, I re-
mained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with
difficulty got ofl' even then. Dear sir, keep this all
a secret, or at least say it was for debt ; for if it were
once known at the university, I should hardly get
a degree. But hear how Providence interposed in
my favour; the sliip was gone on to Bordeaux be*
fore I got from prison, and was wrecked at the
mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew
were drov^ned. It happened the last great storm.
There was a ship at that time ready for Holland;
I embarked, and in nine days, thank my God, I ar-
rived safe at Rotterdam, whence I travelled by land
to Leyden, and whence I now write."
He proceeds in the same letter to amuse his
friends with a whimsical account of the costume
and manners of the Hollanders ; which we also ex-
tract for the entertainment of the reader.
" You may expect some account of this country ;
and though I am not well qualified for such an lui-
dertaking, yet I shall endeavour to satisfy some
part of your expectations. Nothing surprised me
more than the books every day pubhshed descrip-
tive of the manners of this country. Any young
man who takes it into his head to publish Ids travels,
visits the countries he intends to describe; passes
through them with as much inattention as his valet
de chambre; and consequently, not liaving a fund
himself to fill a voliune, he appUes to those who
wrote before him, and gives us the manners of a
country ; not as he must have seen them, but such
as they might have been fifty years before. The
modern Dutchman is quite a difierent creature from
him of former times : he in every thing imitates a
Frenchman, but in his easy disengaged air, which
is the result of keeping pohte company. The
Dutchman is vastly ceremonious, and is perhaps
exactly what a Frenchman might have been in the
reign of Louis XIV. Such are the better bred.
But the dovmright Hollander is one of the oldest
figures in nature. Uj)on a head of laidi hair he
wears a h;df-cocked narrow hat, laced with black
riband ; no coat, but seven waistcoats, and nine pair
of breeches; so that his hips reach almost up to his
arm-pits. This well-clothed vegetable is now fit to
14
LIFE AND WRITINGS
see company, or make love. But what a pleasing
creature is the object of his appetite? Why, she
wears a large fur cap, with a deal of Flanders lace;
and for every pair of breeches he carries, she puts
on two petticoats.
" A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phleg-
matic admirer but his tobacco. You must know,
sir, every woman carries in her hand a stove with
coals in it, which, when she sits, she snugs under
her petticoats ; and at tliis chimney dozing Strephon
lights his pipe. I take it that this continual smok-
ing is what gives the man the ruddy healthful com-
plexion he generally wears, by draining his super-
fluous moisture; while the woman, deprived of this
amusement, overflows with such viscidities as tint
the complexion, and give that paleness of visage
which low fenny grounds and moist air conspire to
cause. A Dutch woman and a Scotch will bear
an opposition. The one is pale and fat, the other
lean and ruddy. The one walks as if she were
straddling after a go-cart, and the other takes too
mascuhne a stride. I shall not endeavour to de-
prive either country of its share of beauty; but
must say, that of all objects on this earth, an En-
glish farmer's daughter is most charming. Every
woman there is a complete beauty, while the higher
class of women want many of the requisites to
make them even tolerable. Their pleasures here
are very dull, though very various. You may
smoke, you may doze, you may go to the ItaUan
comedy, as good an amusement as either of the for-
mer. This entertainment always brings in Har-
lequin, who is generally a magician; and in conse-
quence of his diabolical art, performs a thousand
tricks on the rest of the persons of the drama, who
are all fools. I have seen the pit in a roar of laugh-
ter at this humour, when with his sword he touches
the glass from which another was drinking. ' T was
not his face they laughed at, for that was masked:
they must have seen something vastly queer in the
wooden sword, that neither I, nor you, sir, were
you there, could see.
" In winter, when their canals are frozen, every
house is forsaken, and all people are on the ice ;
sleds drawn by horses, and skating, are at that
time the reigning amusements. They have boats
here that slide on the ice, and are driven by the
winds. When fehey spread all their sails they go
more than a mile and a half a minute, and their
motion is so rapid, the eye can scarcely accompany
them. Their ordinary manner of travelling is very
cheap and very convenient. They sail in covered
boats drawn by horses ; and in these you are sure
to meet people of all nations. Here the Dutch
slumber, the French chatter, and the English play
at cards. Any man who likes company, may have
them to his taste. For my part, I generally de-
.ached myself from all society, and was wholly
taken up in observing the face of the country. No-
thing can equal its beauty. Wherever I turn my
eyes, fine houses, elegant gardens, statues, grottos,
vistas, presented themselves ; but when you entei
their towns you are charmed beyond description
No misery is to be seen here ; every one is useful-
ly employed.
" Scotland and this country bear the highest
contrast. There, hills and rocks intercept every
prospect ; here, 'tis all a continued plain. There
you might see a well dressed duchess issuing from
a dirty close ; and here a dirty Dutchman inhabit-
ing a palace. The Scotch may be compared to a
tulip planted in dung; but I never see a Dutchman
in his own house, but I think of a magnificent
Egyptian temple dedicated to an ox.
" Physic is by no means taught here so well as
in Edinburgh ; and in all Leyden there are but
four British students, owing to all necessaries being
so extremely dear, and the professors so very lazy
(the chemical professor excepted,) that we don't
much care to come hither. I am not certain how
long my stay here may be ; however, I expect to
have the happiness of seeing you at Kilmore, if I
can, next March."
While resident in Leyden, he attended the lec-
tures of Gaubius on chemistry, and those of Albi-
nus on anatomy. In the letters of Goldsmith to
his uncle, Gaubius is the only professor of whose
talents he gives a favourable opinion.* Of all the
other professors he seems to have formed rather a
contemptuous estimate ; and with regard to the in-
habitants in general, his remarks are by no means
of a laudatory description. But to appreciate the
characters of men, and describe the manners of a
people with accuracy, require the nicest discrimi-
nation, and much knowledge of the world. On
such subjects, therefore, the opinions of our poet,
at this early period of his life, are to be the less re-
garded. His Dutch characteristics can only be
deemed good humoured caricatures, and probably
were drawn as such, merely for the amusement of
his friends in Ireland.
It happened, unfortunately for Goldsmith, that
one of his most dangerous propensities met with
too much encouragement during his stay in Hol-
land. The people of that country are much addict-
ed to games of chance. Gaming tables are to be
met with in every tavern, and at every place of
amusement. Goldsmith, unable to resist the con-
tagion of example, with his usual facility sailed
with the stream; and fortune, according to custom,
alternately greeted him with smiles and frowns.
His friend, Dr. Ellis, t who was then also study-
ing at Leyden, used to relate, that on one occasion
he came to him with much exultation, and count-
• Gaubius died in 1780, at tlie age of 75, leaving a splendid
reputation. He was the favourite pupil of Boerhaave- and
wrote severallearned and ingenious works.
t Afterwards clerk of the Irish House of Commooa.
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
15
ed out a considerable sura which he had won the
preceding evening. " Perceiving that tliis tempo-
rary success," said Ellis, "was only fanning the
flame of a ruinous passion, I was at some pains to
point out to him the destructive consequences of
indulging so dangerous a propensity. I exhorted
him, since fortune had for once been unusually
kind, to rest satisfied with his present gains, and
showed, that if he set apart the money now in his
hands, he would be abla to complete his studies
without further assistance from his friends. Gold-
pmith, who could perceive, though he could not al-
ways pursue the right path, admitted all the truth
of my observations, seemed grateful for my advice,
*nd promised for the future strictly to adhere to it."
The votary of play, however, is never to be so
nasily cured. Reason and ridicule are equally im-
potent against that unhappy passion. To those
infected with it, the channs of the gaming table
may be said to be omnipotent. Soon after this, he
once more gave himself up to it without control,
and not only lost all he had lately won, but was
stripped of everj' shilhng he had in the world. In
this emergency he was obUged to have recourse to
Dr. Ellis for advice. His friend perceived that ad-
monition was useless, and that so long as he re-
mained within reach of the vortex of play, his
gambling propensities could never be restrained.
It was therefore determined that he ought to quit
Holland ; and with a view to his further improve-
ment, it was suggested that he should visit some
of the neighbouring countries before returning to
his own. He readily acceded to this proposal, and
notwithstanding the paucity of his means, resolved
to pursue it without delay. Ellis, however, kindly
took his wants into consideration, and agreed to
accommodate him with a sum of money to carry
his plan into execution ; but in tliis, as in other in-
stances, his heedless improvidence interfered to
render his friend's generosity abortive. AVhen about
to set out on his journey, accident or curiosity led
him into a garden at Leyden, where the choicest
flowers were reared for sale. In consequence of an
unaccountable mania for flowers having at one
time spread itself over Holland, an extensive trade
in flower roots became universally prevalent in that
country, and at this period the Dutch florists were
the most celebrated in Europe.* Fortunes and
law suits innumerable had been lost and won in
this singular traffic ; and though the rage had now
greatly subsided, flower roots still bore a considera-
ble value. Unluckily, while rambling through the
garden at Leyden, Goldsmith recollected that his
* It was ihe celebrated tulip mania. For a tulip root, known
by the name of Sem}>er Augustus, 550^ sterling was given;
and for otlier tulip roots less rare, various prices were given,
from one hundred to four hundred guineas. This mathiess
raged in IloUand for many years, till at length Uie Slate in-
terfered, anda law was enacted which put a stop to the trade.
uncle was an amateur of such rarities. With hia
usual inconsiderateness he immediately conclutkd
a bargain for a parcel of the roots, never reflectuig
on his own limited means, or the purpose for which
his money had been furnished. This absurd and
extravagant purchase nearly exhausted the fund
he had already received from his friend Ellis, and
it is not unlikely that the gaming table gleaned the
little that remained ; for it has often been asserted,
that after his magnificent speculation in tuUp roots
he actually set out upon his travels with only one
clean shirt, and without a shilling in his pocket.
When this expedition was projected, it is most
likely that nothing more was intended than a short
excursion into Belgium and France. The passion
for travel, however, which had so long lain dormant
in his mind was now thoroughly awakened.
Blessed with a good constitution, an adventurous
spirit, and with that thoughtless, or perhaps happy
disposition, which takes no care for to-morrow, he
continued his travels for a long time in spite of in-
numerable privations; and neither poverty, fatigue,
nor hardship, seems to have damped his ardour, or
interrupted his progress. It is a well authenticated
fact, that he performed the tour of Europe on foot,
and that he finished the arduous and singular un-
dertaking without any other means than was ob-
tained by an occasional display of his scholarship,
or a tune upon his flute.
It is much to be regretted that no account of his
tour was ever given to the world by himself. The
oral communications which he sometimes gave to
friends, are said to have borne some resem-
blance to the story of the Wanderer in the Vicar of
Wakefield. The interest they excited did not arise
so much from the novelty of the incidents as from
the fine vein of moral reflection interwoven with
the narrative. Like the Wanderer, he possessed a
sufficient portion of ancient hterature, some taste
in music, and a tolerable knowledge of the French
language. His learning was a passport to the hos-
pitalities of the hterary and religious establish-
ments on the continent, and the music of his flute
generally procured him a welcome reception at the
cottages of the peasantry. "Whenever 1 ap-
proached a peasant's house towards night-fall," he
used to say, " I played one of my merriest tunes,
and that procured me not only a lodging, but sub-
sistence for the next day; but, in truth;" his con-
stant expression, " I must own, whenever I attempt-
ed to entertain persons of a higher rank, they al-
ways thought my performance odious, and never
made me any return for my endeavours to please
them." The hearty good- will, however, with
wliich he was received by the harmless peasantry,
seems to have atoned to him for the disregard of
the rich. How much their simple manners won
upon his aflfections, may be discovered from the floa
16
LIFE AND WRITINGS
passage in his "Traveller," in which he so happi-
ly introduces himself: —
How often have I led thy sportive choir
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire!
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And freahen'd from the wave the zephyr flew:
And haply, though my harsh touch, falt'ring still.
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancers' skiU,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power.
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.
The learned and religious houses also appear to
have been equally hospitable. "With the mem-
bers of these estabhshments," said he, "I could
converse on topics of hterature, and then I always
forgot the meanness of my circumstances."
In many of the foreign universities and con-
vents there are, upon certain days, philosopliical
theses maintained against every adventitious dis-
putant ; for which, if the champion opposes with
any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money,
a dinner, and a bed for one night. The talents of
Goldsmith frequently enabled him to command the
leUef afforded by this useful and hospitable cus-
tom. In this manner, without money or friends,
he fought his way from convent to convent, and
from city to city, examined mankind more nearly,
• and, as he himself expressed it, saw both sides of
the picture.
To Goldsmith's close and familiar intercourse
•with the scenes and natives of the different coun-
tries through which he passed, the world is indebt-
ed for his " Traveller." For although that poem
was afterwards " slowly and painfuUy elaborated,"
still the nice and accurate discrimination of na-
tional character displayed could only be acquired
by actual examination. In the progress of his
journey, he seems to have treasured his facts and
observations, with a view to the formation of this
• delightful poem. The first sketch of it is said to
have been written after his arrival in Switzerland,
and was transmitted from that country to his bro-
ther Henry in Ireland.
After his arrival in Switzerland, he took up his
abode for some time in Geneva. Here he appears
to have foimd friends, or formed acquaintances;
for we find him recommended at this place as tu-
tor to a young gentleman on his travels. The
youth to whom he was recommended was the ne-
phew of Mr. S******, pavmbroker in London,
who had unexpectedly acquired a large fortune by
the death of his uncle. Determined to see the
world, he had just arrived at Geneva on the grand
tour, and not being provided with a travelling tu-
tor. Goldsmith was hired to perform the functions
of that office. They set out together for Mar-
seilles; but never were tutor and pupil so miserably
assorted. The latter, before acquiring his fortune,
nad been for some time articled to an attorney, and
while in that capacity had so well learned the art
of managing in money concerns, that it had at
length become his favourite study. Naturally ava«
ricious, his training as an attorney had nothing
diminished the reign of that sordid passion, and it
discovered its most odious features in almost every
transaction. When he engaged a tutor, there-
fore, he took care to make a special proviso, that
in all money matters he should be at liberty to tu-
tor himself. A stipulation of this kind so cramp-
ed the views and propensities of Goldsmith, and
afforded to the pupil so many opportunities of dis-
playing his mean disposition, that disgust and dis-
like almost immediately ensued. When arrived
at Marseilles they mutually agreed to separate;
and the poet having received the small part of his
salary that was due, his pupil, terrified at the ex-
pense of travelling, instantly embarked for Eng-
land.
Goldsmith, thus freed from the trammels of tu-
torship, set out once more on foot, and in that man-
ner travelled through various districts of France.
He finally pursued his journey into Italy, visiting
Venice, Verona, Florence, and other celebrated
places. At Paduai, where he staid six months, he
is said to have taken a medical degree, but upon
what authority is not ascertained. Wliile resi-
dent at Padua he was assisted, it is believed, by
remittances from his uncle Contarine, who, how-
ever, unfortunately died about that tune.* In
Italy, Goldsmith found his talent for music al-
most useless as a means of subsistence, for every
peasant was a better musician than himself; but
his skiU in disputation still served his purpose, and
the religious establishments were equally hospita-
ble. At length, curiosity being fully gratified, he
resolved to retrace liis steps towards his native
home. He returned through France, as the short-
er route, and as affording greater facilities to a
pedestrian. He was lodged and entertained aa
formerly, sometimes at learned and religious estab-
hshments, and sometimes at the cottages of the
peasantry, and thus, vrith the aid of his philoso-
phy and his flute, he disputed and piped his way
homewards.
When Goldsmith arrived at Dover from France^
it was about the breaking out of the war in
1755-6. Being unprovided with money, a new
difficulty now presented itself, how to fight his
'The Rev. Thomas Contarine was descended from the no-
ble family of the Contarini of Venice. His ancestor, having
married a nun in his native country, was obliged to fly with
her into France, where she died of the small-pox. Being
pursued by ecclesiastical censures, Contarini came to Eng-
land; but the puritanical manners which then prevailed, hav-
ing afforded him but a cold reception, he was on his way to
Ireland, when at Chester he met with a young lady of the
name of Chaloner whom he married. Having afterward*
conformed to the established church, he, through the interest
of his wife's family, obtained ecclesiastical preferment in the
diocese of Elphin. This gentleman w.t3 their lineal dasceni
dani — Campbell's Biographu of Goldsmith.
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
17
^ay to the metropolis. His whole stock of cash
could not defray the expense of the ordinary con-
veyance, and neither flute nor logic could help
flim to a supper or a bed. By some means or other,
However, he contrived to reach London in safety.
On his arrival he had only a few halfpence in liis
pocket. To use his own words, in one of his let-
ters, he found himself "without friend, recom-
mendation, money, or impudence;" and, contrary
to his usual habits, began to be filled with the
gloomiest apprehensions. There was not a mo-
ment to be lost, therefore, in seeking for a sit-
uation that might aflbrd him the means of imme-
diate subsistence. His first attempt was to get ad-
mission as an assistant to a boarding-school or aca-
demy, but, for want of a reconimendation, even
that poor and painful situation was found difficult
to be obtained. This diflSciilty appears also to have
been notliing lessened by his stooping to make use of
a feigned name. What liis motives were for such
a measure has never lieen fully explained ; but it
is fair to infer, that his Uterary pride revolted at
servitude, and perhaps, conscious that his powers
would ultimately enable him to emerge from his
present obscurity, he was unwilling it should after-
wards be known that he had occupied a situation
60 humble. Deceit and finesse, however, are at all
times dangerous, be the motive for employing them
ever so innocent; and in the present instance our
author found them productive of considerable em-
barrassment; for, when the master of the school
demanded a reference to some respectable person
for a character, Goldsmith was at a loss to account
for using any other name than his own. In tliis
dilemma he wrote to Dr. Radcliff, a mild benevo-
lent man, who had been joint-tutor with his perse-
cutor Wilder, in Trinity College, and had some-
times lectured the other pupils. Having can-
didly stated to the doctor the predicament in which
he was placed, and explained the immediate object
in view, he told him that the same post which
conveyed this information would also bring liim a
ietter of inquiry from the school-master, to wliich
.t was hoped he would be so good as return a fa-
vourable answer. It appears that Dr. Radclifi'
tromptly complied with this request, for Goldsmith
anmediately obtained the situation. We learn
from Campbell's PhiIosoj)hical Survey of the
South of Ireland, that our author's letter of thanks
to Dr. Radcliff on that occasion was accompanied
with a very interesting account of his travels and
adventures.
The employment of usher at an academy in Lon-
don, is of itself a task of no ordinary labour; but,
independent of the drudgery and toil, it is attended
with so many little irritating circumstances, that
of all others it is perhaps a situation the most pain-
ful and irksome to a man of independent mind and
liberal ideas. To a person of our author's temper
2
and habits, it was peculiarly distasteful. How long
he remained in this situation is not well ascertained,
but he ever spoke of it in bitterness of spirit. The
very remembrance of it seemed to be gall and worm-
wood to him; and how keenly he must have felt its
mortification and misery, may be gathered from the
satire with which it is designated in various parts
of his works. The language which he has put
into the mouth of the Wanderer's cousin, when he
applies to him for an ushersliip, is feelingly charac-
teristic. "I," said he, "have been an usher to a
boarding-school myself; and may I die by an ano-
dyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turn-
key in Newgate ! I was up early and late : I wa3
browbeat 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 ap-
prentice to the business 7" — No. — "Then you won't
do for a school. Can you dress the boys' hair ?" —
No. — " Then you won't do for a school. Have
you had the small-pox7" — 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."
On another occasion, when talking on the same
subject, our author thus summed up the misery of
such an employment: — "After the fatigues of the
day, the poor usher of an academy is obhged to
sleep in the same bed with a Frenchman, a teacher
of that language to the boys, who disturbs liim
every night, an hour perhaps, in papering and fiJlet-
ing his hair, and stinks worse than a carrion, with
his rancid pomatums, when he lays his head beside
him on his bolster."
Having tlorown up this wretched emplojTncnt,
he was obliged to cast about for one more concrenial
to his mind. In tliis, however, he again found con-
siderable difficulty. His personal appearance and
address were never prepossessing, but at that par-
ticular period were still less so from the thread-bare
state of his wardrobe. He applied to several of the
medical tribe, but had the mortification to meet with
repeated refusals ; and on more than one occasion
was jeered with the mimicry of his broad Irish ac-
cent. At length a chemist, near Fish-street -hill,
took him into his laboratory, where his medical
knowledge soon rendered him an able and useful
assistant. Not long after this, however, accident
discovered to him that his old friend and fellow-
student, Dr. Sleigh, was in London, and he deter-
mined, if possible, to renew his acquaintance with
him. " It was Sunday," said Goldsmith, "when
I paid him the first visit, and it is to be suppcvseJ ,
18
LIFE AND WRITINGS
was dressed in my best clothes. Sleigh scarcely
knew me ; such is the tax the unfortunate pay to
poverty. However, when he did recollect me, I
found his heart as warm as ever, and he shared his
purse and his friendship with me during his con-
tinuance in London."
The friendslup of Dr. Sleigh* was not confined
to the mere relief of our poet's immediate wants,
but showed itself in an anxious solicitude for his
permanent success in life. Nobody better knew
how to appreciate his talents and acquirements, and
the accurate knowledge that Sleigh possessed of
London qualified him to advise and direct the poet
in his subsequent pursuits. Accordingly we find
ttiat Goldsmith, encouraged by liis friend's advice,
commenced medical practitioner at Bankside, in
Southwark, whence he afterwards removed to the
Temple and its neighbourhood. In Southwark it
appears that his practice did not answer his ex- 1
pectations, but in the vicinity of the Temple he ;
was more successful. The fees of the physician,
however, were httle, and that little, as is usual
among the poorer classes, was very ill paid. He
found it necessary, therefore, to have recourse like- [
wise to his pen, and being introduced by Dr.'
Sleigh to some of the booksellers, was almost im- '
mediately engaged in their service ; — and thus,
" with very little practice as a physician, and very ;
little reputation as a poet," as he himself expresses
it, he made " a shift to live." The peculiarities of
his situation at this period are described in the fol-
lowing letter, addressed to the gentleman who had
married his eldest sister. It is dated Temple Ex-
change Coflfee-house, December 27, 1757, and ad-i
dressed to Daniel Hodson, Esq., at Lishoy, near'
Ballymahon, Ireland.
" Dear Sir, — It may be four years since my last
letters went to Ireland ; and from you in particular
I received no answer, probably because you never
wrote to me. My brother Charles, however, in-
forms me of the fatigue you were at in soliciting a
subscription to assist me, not only among my friends
and relations, but acquaintance in general. Though
my pride might feel some repugnance at being thus
relieved, yet ray gratitude can sutler no diminution.
How much am I obliged to you, to them, for such
generosity, or (why should not your virtues have
the proper name) for such charity to me at that
juncture. Sure I am born to ill fortune, to be so
much a debtor, and unable to repay. But to say
no more of this : too many professions of gratitude
are often considered as indirect petitions for future
favours; let me only add, that my not receiving that
supply was the cause of my present establishment
"lihs gent'eman subsequently settled in Cork, his native
eJ J, Aj tvcis rapidly rising into eminence in his ijrofcssion,
when he was cut off in the flower of his age by an inflamma-
tory kver, which deprived the world of a fine scholar, a skilful
physician, and an honest man.
at London. You may easily imagine what ditR-
culties I had to encounter, left as I was without
friends, recommendations, money, or impudence;
and that in a country where being bom an Irish-
man was sufficient to keep me unemployed. Many
in such circumstances would have had recourse to
the friar's cord, or the suicide's halter. But, with
all my follies, 1 had principle to resist the one, and
resolution to combat the other.
" I suppose you desire to knoW my present situ-
ation. As there is notliing in it at which I should
blush, or which mankind could censure, I see no
reason for making it a secret. In short, by a very
little practice as a physician, and a very little repu-
tation as a poet, I make a shift to live. Nothing is
more apt to introduce us to the gates of the Muses
than poverty ; but it were well for us if they only
left us at the door — the mischief is, they sometimes
choose to give us their company at the entertain-
ment, and want, instead of being gentleman usher,
often turns master of the ceremonies. Thus, upon
hearing I write, no doulit you imagine I starve ;
and the name of an author naturally reminds you
of a garret. In this particular I do not think pro-
per to undeceive my friends. But whether I eat
or starve ; live in a first floor, or four pair of stairs
high, I still remember them with ardour ; nay, my
very country conies in for a share of my afltctioiu
Unaccountable fondness for country, this maladis
du fays, as the French call it! Unaccountable,
that he should still have an afl!ection for a place,
who never received, when in it, above common ci
vility ; who never brought any thing out of it, ex-
cept his brogue and his blunders. Surely my aifec-
tion is equally ridiculous with the Scotchman's,
who refused to be cured of the itch because it made
him unco thoughtful o' his wife and honnie Inve-
\ rary. But now to be serious ; let me ask myself
what gives me a wish to see Ireland again 1 The
country is a fine one, perhaps ? No. — There are
good company in Ireland? No. — The conversation
there is generally made up of a smutty toast, or a
bawdy song. The vivacity supported by some
humble cousin, who has just folly enough to earn
his dinner. — Then, perhaps, there is more wit and
learning among the Irish 1 Oh, Lord, no! There
has been more money spent in the encouragement
of the Podareen mare there in one season, than
given in rewards to learned men since the time of
Usher. All their productions in learning amount
to perhaps a translation, or a few tracts in divinity;
and all their productions in wit to just nothing at
all. — Why the plague, then, so fond of Ireland 1
Then, all at once, because you, my dear friend,
and a few more, who are exceptions to the general
picture, have a residence there. This it is that
gives me all the pangs I feel in separation. 1 con-
fess I carry tliis spirit sometimes to the souring the
pleasures I at present possess. If I go to the opera,
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
19
where Signora Columba pours out all the mazes
of melody, I sit and sigh for Lishoy fireside, and
Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, from Peg-
gy Golden. If I climb Flamstead-hill, than where
nature never exhibited a more magnificent pros-
pect, I confess it fine, but then I had rather be
placed on the little mount before Lishoy gate, and
there take in, to me, the most pleasing horizon in
nature. Before Charles came hither, my thoughts
sometimes found refuge from severe studies among
my friends in Ireland. I fancied strange revolutions
at home ; but I find it was the rapidity of my own
motion that gave an imaginary one to objects really
at rest. No alterations there. Some friends, he
tells me, are still lean, but very rich ; others very
fat, but still very poor. Nay, all the news I hear
of you is, that you and Mrs. Hodson sometimes
sally out in visits among the neighbours, and some-
times make a migration from the blue bed to the
brown. I could from my heart wish that you and
she, and Lishoy and Ballymahon, and all of you,
would fairly make a migration into Middlesex ;
Shough, upon second thoughts, this might be at-
tended with a few inconveniencies : therefore, as
the mountain will not come to Mahomet, why Ma-
homet shall go to the mountain ; or, to speak i)lain
English, as you can not conveniently pay me a visit,
if next summer I can contrive to be absent six
weeks from London, I shall spend three of them
among my friends in Ireland. But first believe me,
•ny design is purely to visit, and neither to cut a
figure nor levy contributions, neither to excite cn-
^ nor solicit favour; in fact, my circumstances are
adapted to neither. I am too poor to be gazed at,
and too rich to need assistance.
"You see, dear Dan, how long I have been
talking about myself; but attriliute my vanity to
my affection : as every man Is fond of himself, and
I consider you as a second self, I imagine you will
consequently be pleased with these instances of
egotism."
Goldsmith then alludes to some concerns of a
private nature, and concludes :
" My dear sir, these things give me real uneasi-
ness, and I could wish to redress them. But at
present there is hardly a kingdom in Europe in
which I am not a debtor. I have already discharged
my most threatening and pressing demands, for
we must be just before we can be grateful. For
the rest I need not say, (you know I am,) your af-
fectionate kinsman."
The medical and literary pursu' 1s of our author,
though productive, at this period, tf httle emolu-
ment, gradually extended t]h£ sphere rf his acquaint-
ance. Several of his fellow students at Edinburgh
and Dublin were now resident in London, and, by
degrees, he continued to renew the intimacy that
had formerly subsisted between them. Some of
them occasionally assisted him with their purse,
and others procured him the notice of the polite
and the learned. Among the friendships thus
agreeably renewed, there was one with a medical
character,* afterwards eminent in his profession,
who used to give the following account of our au-
thor's first interview with him in London.
" From the time of Goldsmith's leaving Edin-
burgh in the year 1754, I never saw him till the
year 1756, when I was in London attending the
hospitals and lectures : early in January he called
upon me one morning before 1 was up, and on my
entering the room I recognised my old acquaint-
ance, dressed in a rusty full trimmed black suit,
with his pockets full of papers, which instantly re-
minded me of the poet in Garrick's farce of Lethe.
After we had finished our breakfast he drew from
his pocket part of a tragedy, which he said he had
brought for my correction. In vain I pleaded ina-
liility, when he began to read, and every part on
which I expressed a doubt as to the propriety, was
immediately blotted out. I then more earnestly
pressed him not to trust to my judgment, but to
talce the opinion of persons better qualified to de-
cide on dramatic compositions. He now told me
that he had submitted his production, so far as he
had written, to Mr. Richardson, the author of Cla-
rissa, on which I peremptorily declined offermg
another criticism on the performance. The name
and subject of the tragedy have unfortunately es-
caped my memory, neither do I recollect, with ex-
actness, how much he had written, though I am
inclined to believe that he had not completed the
third act; I never heard whether he afterwards
finished it. In this visit, I remember his relating a
strange Q,uixotic scheme he had in contemplation,
of going to decipher the inscriptions on the Writ-
ten Mountains, though he was altogether ignorant
of Arabic, or the language in which they might
be supposed to be written. The salary of three
hundred pounds per annum, which had been left
for the purpose, was the temptation !"
With regard to the sketch of a tragedy here al-
luded to, the piece never was completed, nor did he
afterwards attempt any tiling in the same line.
His project respecting the Written Mountains,
was certainly an undertaking of a most extrava-
gant description; but, if we consider how little
qualified he was for such a task, it can hardly be
supposed that the scheme ever entered seriously
into his mind. It was not unusual with him to
hazard opinions and adopt resolutions, without
much consideration, and often without calculating
the means to the end. " Goldsmith," said Bos-
well, "had a more than common share of that
hurry of ideas which we often find in his country-
men. He was very much what the French call
un etourdi, and from vanity and an eager desira
• It is pieeiimed that Dr. Sieigh is meant.
2C
LIFE AND WRITINGS
of being conspicuous, wherever he was, he fre-
fiuentiy talked earelessly, without knowledge of
the subject or even without thought." The ex-
travagant scheme respecting the Written Moun-
tains, however, seems not to have given way to a
more rational undertaking at home; and, notwith-
standing our author's boast, in his letter to Mr.
Hodson, of being " too rich to need assistance,"
we find him, about this time, induced to relinquish
his medical practice, and undertake the manage-
ment of the classical school at Peckham. The
never do it sincerely. Take me then with all mj
faults. Let me write when I please ; foi* you see I
say what I please, and am only thinking aloud
when writing to you. I suppose you have heard
of my intention of going to the East Indies. Tha
place of my destination is one of the factories on
the coast of Coromandel, and I go in the quality of
physician and surgeon ; for which the Company has
signed my warrant, which has already cost me teii
pounds. I must also pay fifty pounds for my pas
sage, and ten pounds for my sea-stores ; and the
master, Dr. Milner, having been seized with a se- 1 other incidental expenses of my equipment wili
vere illness, was unable to attend to the duties of amount to sixty or seventy pounds mote. The sa-
his charge; and it had been necessary to procure a lary is but trifling, viz. one hundred pounds pet
person, of classical attainments, to preside over
the estabhshment, while deprived of his own sup-
port. The son of the doctor having studied with
Goldsmith at Edinburgh, knew his abilities as a
scholar, and reconunended him to his father as a
person well qualified for the situation. Our autlior
accordingly took charge of the school, and acquitted
himself in the management so much to the satis-
faction of his employer, that he engaged to procure
a medical appointment for him under the East In-
dia Company. Dr. Milner had considerable in-
fluence with some of the directors, and afterwards
made good his promise, for, by his means, through
the interest of the director Mr. Jones, Goldsmith
was appointed physician to one of the factories m
India, in the year 1758.
This appointment seems, for a while, to have
filled the vivid imagination of our author with
splendid dreams of futurity. The princely fortunes
acquired by some individuals in the Indies flattered
him with the hope of similar success ; and accord-
ingly we find him bending his whole soul to the
accomplishment of tliis new undertaking. The
chief obstacle that stood in the way was the ex-
pense of his equipment for so long a voyage ; but
his " Present State of Polite Literature in Europe"
had been, for some time, preparing for the press ;
and he seems to have relied that the profits of that
work would afford the means of enabling hun to
embark. Proposals were immediately drawn up,
and published, to print the work by subscription.
These he circulated with indefatigable zeal and
industry. He wrote to his friends in Ireland to
promote the subscription in that country, and, in
the correspondence with them, he evinces the
greatest anxiety for its success. In the following
letter he explains his situation and prospects, and
shows how much he had set his heart on the ex-
pedition to the East. It is without date, but writ-
ten some time in 1758, or in the early pai* of 1759,
and addressed to Mr. Daniel Hodson, Iiis brother-
in-law.
"Dear Sir, — You can not expect regularity in
one who is regular in nothing. Nay, were I forced
U> love yxm by rule, I dare venture to say, I could
annum; but the other advantages, if a person be pru-
dent, are considerable. The practice of the place,
if I am rightly informed, generally amounts to not
less than one thousand pounds jier annum, for which
the appointed physician has an exclusive privilege.
This, with the advantages resulting from trade,
with' tlie high interest which money bears, viz.
twenty per cent., are the inducements which per-
suade me to undergo the fatigues of the sea, the
dangers of war, and the still greater dangers of the
climate ; which induce me to leave a place where I
am every day gaining friends and esteem, and
where I might enjoy all the conveniencies of life.
I am certainly wrong not to be contented with what
I already possess, trifling as it is ; for should I ask
myself one serious question. What is it I want?—,
what can I answer] RIy desires are as capricious
as the big-bellied woman's who longed for a piece
of her husband's nose. I have no certainty, it is
true ; but whj can not I do as some men of more
merit, who have lived on more precarious terms'?
Scarron used jestingly to call hmiself the Marquis
of Gluenault, which was the name of the booksel-
ler that employed him ; and why may not I assert
my privilege and quality on the same pretensions')
Yet, upon deliberation, whatever airs I give my-
self on tliis side of the water, my dignity, I fancy
would be evaporated before I reached the other. I
know you have in Ireland a very indifferent idea of
a man who writes for bread, though Swift and
Steele did so in the earliest part of their lives. You
imagine, I suppose, that every author by profession
lives in a garret, wears shabby clothes, and con-
verses with the meanest company. Yet I do not
believe there is one single vcriter, who has abilities
to translate a French novel, that does not keep bet-
ter company, wear finer clothes, and live more gen-
teely, than many who pride themselves for nothing
else in Ireland. I confess it again, my dear Dan,
that nothing but the wildest ambition could prevail
on me to leave the enjoyment of that refined con-
versation which I am sometimes permitted to par-
take in, for uncertain fortune, and paltry show.
You can not conceive how I am sometimes divided.
To lea\ e all that is dear to me gives me pain ; but
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
21
when I consider I may possibly acquire a genteel
independence for life ; when I think of that dignity
which philosophy claims, to raise itself above con-
tempt and ridicule; when I think thus, I eagerly
long to embrace every opportunity of separating
myself from the vulgar, as much in my circum-
stances as I am already in my sentiments. I am
going to publish a book, for an account of which I
refer you to a letter which I wrote to my brother
Goldsmith. Circulate for me among your acquaint-
ance a hundred proposals, which I have given or-
ders may be sent to you, and if, in pursuance of
such circulation, you should receive any siibscrip
tions, let them, whe-i collected, be transmitted to
Mr. Bradley, who will give a receipt for the same,
" I know not how my desire of seeing Ireland,
which h id so long slept, has again revived with so
much ardour. So weak is my temper, and so un-
steady, that I am frequently tempted, particularly
when low-spirited, to return home, and leave my
fortune, though just beginning to look kinder. But
it shall not be. In five or six years I hope to in-
dulge these transports. I find I want constitution,
and a strong steady disposition, which alone makes
men great. I will, however, correct my faults,
since I am conscious of them."
The following letter to Edward Mills, Esq. dat-
ed Temple Exchange Coffee-house, August 7,
1739, gives the title of the book he was about to pub-
lish, as stated in the foregoing letter.
" Dear Sir, — You have quitted, I find, that plan
of life which you once intended to pursue, and given
up ambition for domestic tranquillity. Were I to
consult your satisfaction alone in this change, I have
the utmost reason to congratulate your clioice ; but
when I consider my own, I can not avoid feeling
some regret, that one of my few friends has declin-
ed a pursuit in which he had every reason to expect
-success. The truth is, like the rest of the world, I
am self-interested in my concern; and do not so
much consider the happiness you have acquired, as
the honour I have probably lost in the change. I
have often let my fancy loose when you were the
subject, and have imagined you gracing the bench,
or tliundering at the bar; while I have taken no
small pride to myself, and whispered all that I could
come near, that this was my cousin. Instead of
this, it seems you are contented to be merely a hap-
py man; to be esteemed only by your acquaintance ;
to cultivate your paternal acres ; to take unmolested
a nap under one of your own hawthorns, or in
Mrs. Mills's bed-chamber, which, even a poet must
confess, is rather the most comfortable place of the
two,
" But, however your resolutions may be altered
with respect to your situation in life, I persuade my-
<»4»If they are unalterable with regard to your friends
in it I can not think the world has taken such
entire possession of that heart (once so suscep-
tible of friendship,) as not to have left a Corner
there for a friend or two; but I flatter myself that I
even have my place among the number. This I
have a claim to from the similitude of our disposi-
tions; or, setting that aside, I can demand it as my
right by the most equitable law in nature, I mean
that of retaliation ; for indeed you have more than
your share in mine. I am a man of few professions;
and yet this very instant I can not a\'oid the pain-
ful apprehension, that my present profession (which
speaks not half my feelings,) should be considered
only as a pretext to cover a request, as I have a re-
quest to make. No, my dear Ned, I know j^ou are
too generous to think so; and you know me too
proud to" stoop to mercenary insincerity. I have a
request, it is true, to make ; but, as 1 know to whom I
am a petitioner, I make it without diffidence or con-
fusion. It is in short this: I am going to publish a
book in London, entitled, " An Essay on the pre-
sent State of Taste and Literature in Europe."
Every work published here, the printers in Ireland
republish there, without giving the author the least
consideration for his copy. I would in this respect
disappoint their avarice, and have all the additional
advantages that may result from the sale of my per-
formance there to myself. Tlie book is now print-
ing in London, and I have requested Dr. Radcliff,
Mr. Lawder, Mr. Bryanton, my brother Mr. Hen-
ry Goldsmitli, and brother-in-law Mr. Hodson, to
circulate my proposals among their acquaintance.
The same request I now make to j'ou; and have
accordingly given directions to Mr. Bradley, book-
seller in Dame-street, Dublin, to send you a hun-
dred proposals. Whatever subscriptions, pursuant
to those proposals, you may receive, when collected,
may be transmitted to Mr. Bradley, who will give
a receipt for the money and be accountable for tho
books. I shall not, by a paltry apology, excuse my-
self for putting you to this trouble. Were I not
convinced that you found more pleasure in doing
good-natured things than uneasiness at being em-
ployed in them, I should not have singled you out
on this occasion. It is probable you would comply
with such a request, if it terded to the encourage-
ment of any man of learning whatsoever; what then
may not he expect who has clauus of family and
friendship to enfore his?"
The same subjects are pursued in another and
every interesting letter, written in 1759, but subse-
quent to the foregoing, to his brother, the Rev.
Henry Goldsmith.
" Dear Sir, — Your punctuahty in answering a
man whose trade is writing, is more than I had
reason to expect, and yet you see me generally fill
a whole sheet, which is all the recompense I can
make for being so frequently troublesome. Tho
behaviour of Mr. Mills and Mr. Lawder is a lifle
22
LIFE AND WRITINGS
extraorJinary. However, their answering neither
you nor me, is a sufficient indication of their dis-
lilting the employment which 1 assigned them. As
their conduct is diU'erent from what I had expected,
so I have made an alteration in mine. I shall the
beginning of next month send over two hundred
and fifty books,* which are all that I fancy can be
well sold among you, and I would have you make
some distinction in the persons who haye subscribed.
The money, which will amount to sixty pounds,
may be left with Mr. Bradley as soon as possible.
I am not certain but I shall quickly have occasion
for it. I have met with no disappointment with
respect to my East India voyage, nor are my reso-
lutions altered ; though at the same time, I must
confess it gives me some pain to think I am almost
beginning the world at the age of thirty-one.
Though I never had a day's sickness since I saw
you, yet I am not that strong active man you once
knew me. You scarcely can conceive how much
eight years of disappointment, anguish, and study,
have worn me down. If 1 remember right, you
are seven or eight years older than me, yet 1 dare
venture to say, if a stranger saw us both, he would
pay me the honours of seniority. Imagine to your-
self a pale, melancholy visage, with two great
wrinkles between the eye-brows, with an eye dis-
gustingly severe, and a big wig, and you may have
a perfect picture of my present appearance. On
the other hand, I conceive you as perfectly sleek
and healthy, passing many a happy day among
your own children, or those who knew you a child.
Since I knew what it was to be a man, this is a
pleasure I have not known. I have passed my days
among a parcel of cool designing beings, and have
contracted all their suspicious manner in my own
behaviour. I should actually be as unfit for the so-
ciety of my friends at home, as I detest that which
I am obliged to partake of here. I can now neither
partake of the pleasure of a revel, nor contribute to
raise its jollity. I can neither laugh nor drink,
have contracted a hesitating disagreeable manner
of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-nature itself;
in short, I have thought myself into a settled melan-
choly, and an utter disgust of all that life brings
with it. Whence this romantic turn, that all our
family are possessed with? AVhcnce this love for
overy place and every country but that in which we
.esidel for every occujiation but our own? This
ilesire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dissi-
pate? I perceive, my dear sir, that I am at intervals
for indulging this splenetic manner, and following
my own taste regardless of yours.
•' The reasons you have given me for breeding ujj
•"our son a scholar, are judicious and convincing.
I should, however, be glad to know for what par-
• The " Present State o/ Polite Literature in Europe,'' sub-
icription pvice, 53.
ticular profession he is designed. If he be assidu-
ous, and divested of strong passions, (for passions
in youth always lead to pleasure.) he may do very
well in your college; for it must be owned, that the
industrious poor have good encouragement there,
perhaps better than in any other in Europe. But
if he has ambition, strong passions, and an exqui-
site sensibility of contempt, do not .send him there,
unless you have no other trade for him except your
own. It is impossible to conceive how much may
be done by a proper education at home. A boy, tor
instance, who understands perfectly well Latin.
French, arithmetic, and the principles of the civil
law, and can write a fine hand, has an education
that may qualify him for any undertaking. And
these parts of learning should be carefully incul-
cated, let Mm be designed for whatever calling he
will. Above all things, let him never touch a ro-
mance or novel ; these paint beauty in colours more
charming than nature, and describe happiness that
man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive
are those pictures of consummate bliss ! They teach
the youthful mind to sigh after beauty and happi-
ness which never existed ; to despise the little good
which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting
more than she ever gave : and in general, take the
word of a man who has seen the world, and has
studied human nature more by experience than
precept; take my word for it, I say, that books teach
us very little of the world. The greatest merit in
a state of poverty would only serve to make the
possessor ridiculous ; may distress, but can not re-
lieve him. Frugality, and even avarice, in the
lower orders of mankind, are true ambition. These
afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to prefer-
ment. Teach, then, my dear sir, to your son thrift
and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's
example be placed before his eyes. I had learned
from books to be disinterested and generous, before
1 was taught from experience the necessity of being
prudent. I had contracted the habits and notions
of a philosopher, while I was exposing myself to
the insidious approaches of cunning; and often by
being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to
excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed my-
self in the very situation of the wretch who did not
thank me for my bounty. When I am in the re-
motest part of the world, tell him this, and perhaps
he may improve from my example. But 1 find my-
self again falling into my gloomy habits of thinking.
"My mother, I am informed, is almost blind:
even though I had the utmost inclination to return
home, under such circumstances I could not ; for to
behold her in distress, without a capacity of reliev-
ing her from it, would add too much to my .splenetic
liabit. Your last letter was much too short; it
should have answered some queries 1 made in my
former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward
till you have filled all ycur paper; it requires no
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
23
thougbt, at least from the ease with which my own
sentiments rise when they are addressed to you:
for, believe me, my head has no share in all I write ;
my heart dictates the whole. Pray give my love
to Bob Bryanton, and entreat him, from me, not to
drhik. My dear sir, give me some account about
poor Jenny.* Yet her husband loves her ; if so,
she can not be unhappy.
" I know not whether I should tell you — yet why
should I conceal those trifles, or indeed any tiling,
from you? There is a book of mine will be pub-
lished in a few days, the life of a very extraordinary
man — no less than the great Voltaire. You know
already by the title, that it is no more than a catch-
penny. However, I spent but four v/eeks on the
whole performance, for which I received twenty
pounds. When published, I shall take some me-
thod of conveying it to you, unless you may think
it dear of the postage, which may amount to four
or five shillings. However, I fear you will not find
an equivalence of amusement. Your last letter, I
repeat it, was too short ; you should have given me
your opinion of the design of the heroic-comical
poem which I sent you : you remember I intended
to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a pal-
try alehouse. You may take the following speci-
men of the manner, wliich I flatter myself is quite
original. The room in which he lies, may be de-
scribed somewhat tliis way : — , •
" The window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That feebly show'd the state in which he lay.
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
Tlie game of goose was there exposed to view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ;
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face.
The mom was cold; he views with keen desire
A rusty grate unconscious of a fire ;
An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chiirmey -board.
" And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the land-
lord to make his appearance, in order to dun liim
for the reckoning : — >, . . .
" Not with that face, so servile and so gay,
That welcomes every stranger that can pay;
With sulky eye he smoked the patient man.
Then pull'd hLs breeches tight, and thus began, etc.
" All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a
good remark of Montaigne's, that the wisest men
often have friends, with whom they do not care
how much they play the fool. Take my present
follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much
easier, and more agreeable species of composi-
tion than prose; and could a man live by it, it
were no unpleasant employment to be a poet. I
am resolved to leave no space, though I should fill
it up only by telling you, what you very well know
• His youngest sister, who had married unfortunately.
already, I mean that I am your most affectionate
friend and brother."
Notwithstanding the ardour with which our au-
thor at first prosecuted his intention of embarking
for the Indies, we find soon after that he abandon
ed the design altogether, and applied himself with
renewed vigour to literary pursuits. From what
particular motive this expedition was given up, has
never been accurately explained, but most likely it
was owing to the immediate impracticability of
raising an adequate sum for liis equipment. Per
haps, however, a better reason may be found in the
rapid change that took place in our author's circum-
stances about this time, in consequence of the in-
creased patronage he began to receive from the
booksellers. No man had the art of displaying
with more advantage as a writer, whatever literary
acquisitions he had made ; and whatever he put his
hands to as an author, he finished with such felici-
ty of thought and purity of expression, that it al-
most instantly became popular. Hence the booksel-
lers were soon bound to him from interest, and the
profits they derived from the ready sale of his pro-
ductions became the guarantee of his constant em-
ployment. He had by this time published the
" Bee, being Essays on the most interesting Sub-
jects," also Essays and Talcs in the British Maga-
zine, afterwards collected and published in one vol-
ume, besides various criticisms in the newspapers
and reviews, all of which were read with avidity by
the public, and commended by the learned. His
connexions with literary characters became conse-
quently still more extended, and his hterary pros-
pects were rendered still more flattering; and hence
we may the more easily account for the change
that took place in his mind with regard to liis In-
dian aj)pointment.
Our author's toil in the service of the booksellers
was now exceedingly laborious. Independent of
his contributions to newspapers and magazines, he
wrote regularly for Mr. Gritliths in the Monthly
Review, from nine till two o'clock every day. His
friend Dr. Milner had introduced hun to Griffiths,
and tliis work was performed in consequence of a
written agreement which was to last for a year.
The remuneration to be given on the part of Mr.
Grilfiths, was board and lodging, and a handsome
salary; but it is probable Goldsmith found the
drudgery too irksome, for at the end of seven or
eight months the agreement was dissolved by mu-
tual consent. When the " Inquiry into the state
of Polite Literature" was j)ublished, Mr. Newber-
ry, the bookseller, who at that time gave great en-
couragement to men of literary talents, became one
of our author's chief patrons. For that gcntlcmdn
he was now regularly engaged in writing or com ■
))iling a variety of minor pieces, and at the samo
tune was introduced by his means as a writer ni
the Pubhc Ledger, to which he contributed Cki-
9i
LIFE AND WRITINGS
Tiess Letters, afterwards published under the title
of the "Citizen of the World."
At this time also, Goldsmith wrote occasionally
for the British Magazine and Critical Review, con-
ducted by Dr. Smollett. To that celebrated wri-
ter he was originally introduced in consequence of
the taste and accuracy with which he had criticis-
ed a despicable translation of Ovid's Fasti, by a
pedantic schoolmaster ; though the intercourse be-
tween them does not appear to have been kept up
for any considerable time, yet Goldsmith is said to
have derived important advantages from the con-
nexion. It is well known that the liberal soul of
Smollett made him the friend of every author in
distress; and it is generally understood that, for
some time, he warmly interested himself in Gold-
smith's success. He not only recommended him
to the patronage of the most eminent booksellers,
but introiluced liim to the notice of the first literary
characters.
Notwithstanding the variety of our author's lite-
rary labours, however, no decided improvement in
his circumstances appears to have taken place till
after the publication of his " Inquiry" in 1759.
At that time he had lodgings in Green-Arbour
Court, Old Bailey; and, that he must have occu-
pied them rather on principles of economy than
from the excellence of their accommodation, is
proved by a little anecdote related by one of his
literary friends. " I called on Goldsmith, at his
lodgings," said he, "in March 1759, and found
him writing his " Inquiry," in a miserable, dirty-
looking room, in which thei'e was but one chair ;
and when from civility, he resigned it to me, he
was himself obliged to sit in the window. Wliile
we were conversing together some one gently
tapped at the door, and being desired to come in,
a poor ragged little girl, of a very becoming de-
meanour, entered the room, and dropping a cour-
tesy said, ' my mamma sends her compliments, and
begs the favour of you to lend her a chamber-pot
full of coals?' "
Our author's labours for the booksellers, though
for some time unproductive of general hterary
fame, by degrees procured him the more substan-
tial benefits of good living and commodious lodg-
ings. He soon acquired extraordinary facility in
compilation, and used to boast of the power of his
pen in this way of procuring money. According-
ly, as early as 1761, we find him removed from
Green-Arbour Court to Wine-Office Court in
Fleet-street, where he occupied genteel apartments,
received visits of ceremony, and sometimes gave
wntertainmcnts to his literary friends.
Among the distinguished characters to whom
Goldsmith had been lately introduced, and with
wtiom he now regularly associated, either from
idmilarity of disposition or pursuits, the most re-
nnrkable in point of eminence was Dr. Johnson.
To a mind of the highest order, richly and varioti*
ly cultivated, Johnson united a warm and gene-
rous disposition. Similar quaUtics, both of the
head and the heart, were conspicuous in Gold-
smith; and hence, to use an expression of the
Rambler himself, no two men were, perhaps, ever
better formed to take to one another. The innate
benevolence of heart which they mutually display-
ed first drew them together; and so strong was the
attraction, ultimately increased by respect for each
other's powers, that their friendship subsisted with-
out interruption, and with undiminished regard,
for a period of fourteen years. It has been inju-
diciously remarked, that this connexion was unfor-
tunate for the reputation of Goldsmith, and that,
in the literary circles of the time, " he seldom ap-
peared but as a foil to the Giant of Words." On .
the contrar}', however, the intercourse that subsist-
ed between these eminent men, would rather ap-
pear to have been productive of the finest illustra-
tion of their respective characters; and such was
the strength of their mutual attachment, that it
seems to have been the study of each to embellish
and exalt the character of the other. Besides,
Johnson was the giant of intellect as well as the
giant of words, and it is absurd to suppose, that, in
the display of lus extraordinary powers he would
ever require a foil to heighten their effect. Gold-
smith, it is true, seemed sometimes, as it were, to
look up to the great moralist, but it was rather with
affection than with dread, more with the spirit of
emulation than the despair of equal excellence.
And, on the other hand, in no single instance do
we find that Johnson ever looked down upon Gold-
smith as inferior to himself: the reverse, indeed, is
much more frequently the case; for the uniform
tendency of his remarks on the genius and writings
of our author is to hold him up as the brighest lite-
rary ornament of his time. Long before his fame
was established with the public, Johnson had justly
appreciated his talents, and in a conversation with
Boswell, concluded with asserting, that "Gold-
smith was one of the first men then existing as an
author."
It has not been ascertained by whom Johnson
and our author were originally introduced to one
another; but it is generally understood that their
intimacy commenced in the beginning of 1761.
On the 31st of May, that year, we find Johnson,
for the first tune, at a supper in Goldsmith's lodg-
ings, in Wine-Office Court, along with a number
of literary friends. Dr. Percy, afterwards Bishop
of Dromore, was one of the party invited, and be-
ing intimate with the great lexicographer, was re-
quested to call at his chambers and take him along
with him. When walking together, to the poet's
lodging, Percy was struck with the unusual
spruceness of Johnson's appearance in the studied
neatness of his dress: he had on a new suit of
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
S5
clothes, a new hat, and a wig nicely powdered ;
and in the tcmt ensemble of his apparel there was
a degree of smartness, so perfectly dissimilar to his
ordinary habits and appearance, that it could not
fail to prompt an inquiry on the part of liis compan-
ion, as to the cause of this transformation. " "Why,
sir," said Johnson, " I hear that Goldsmith, who
is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of
cleanliness and decency, quoting my practice, and
I am desirous this night to show him a better ex-
ample."
The connexion betwixt our author and John-
son was henceforth more closely cemented by dai-
ly association. Mutual communication of thought
oegot mutual esteem, and as their intercourse in-
creased, their friendship improved. Nothing could
have been more fortunate for Goldsmith. A man
of his open improvident disposition was apt to
Btand in need of the assistance of a friend. The
years, wisdom, and experience of Johnson, ren-
dered his advice of the highest value, and from
the kindness and promptitude with which he un-
dertook and perfonncd good offices, he might al-
ways be securely relied on in cases of difficulty
or distress. It was not long before the improvi-
dence of our author produced embarrassment in
his circumstances, and we find the illustrious mo-
ralist the prompt and affectionate Mentor of his
imprudent friend. The sums which he was now
receiving as a writer, might naturally be supposed
to have been at least equal to his wants, and more
than sufficient to have kept him out of debt. But
Goldsmith's affections were so social and generous,
that when he had money he gave it most liberally
aveay. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, if
we find him soon after this period in distress for
money, and even under arrest for his rent He
had just put the finishing stroke to his Vicar of
"Wakefield when the arrest took place, and was
obliged to send for his friend Johnson to raise mo-
ney by a sale of the manuscript.
Our author's situation, on tliis occasion, hav-
ing been mis-stated, it may be proper to give an
authentic detail of it as narrated by Johnson him-
self.
" I received one morning a message from poor
Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and as it
was not in his power to come to me, begging that
I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent
him a guinea, and promised to come to him direct-
ly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed,
and found that his landlady had arrested him for
his rent, at which he was in a violent passion : I
perceived that he had already changed my guinea,
and had a bottle of Madeira and a glass before
him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he
would be calm, and began to talk to him of the
means by which lie might be extricated. He then
told me that he had a novel ready for the press,
which he produced to me. I looked into it, and
saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon re-
turn ; and having gone to a bookseller sold it for
sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money,
and he discharged his rent, not without rating his
landlady in a high tone for having used him so
ill."
Mr. Newberry was the person with whom
Johnson thus bargained for the '-Vicar of Wake-
field." The price agreed on was certainly little
for a work of such merit ; but the author's name
was not then conspicuously known to the public,
and the purchaser took the whole risk on himself
by pa3'in<r the money down. So unconscious was
he of the real worth of his purchase, and so little
sanguine of its success, that he kept the manu-
script by him for a long time after. Indeed, it was
not till the author's fame had been fully establish-
ed by the publication of his "Traveller," that the
publisher ventured to put the "Vicar of Wake-
field" to the press; and then he reaped the two-fold
advantage arising from the intrinsic merit of the
work, and the high character of its author. Wlien
Boswell some vears afterwards, remarked to John-
son, that there had been too little value given by
the bookseller on this occasion: "No, sir," said he,
"the price was sufficient when the book was sold;
for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been ele-
vated, as it afterwards was, by his "Traveller;"
and the bookseller had such faint hopes of profit
by his bargain, that he kept the manuscrijit by
him a long time, and did not publish till after the
"Traveller" had appeared. Then, to be sure,
it was accidentally worth more money. Had it
been sold after the "Traveller," twice as much
money would have been given for it, though sixty
guineas was no mean price. The bookseller had
the advantage of Goldsmith's reputation from the
"Traveller," in the sale, though Goldsmith had it
not in selling the copy."
After the sale of this novel. Goldsmith and Mr.
Newberry became still more closely connected.
We find him, in 17G3, in lodgings at Canonbury
House, Islington, where he laboured assiduously
for that gentleman, in the revisal and correction of
various publications; particularly, "The Art of
Poetry," in 2 vols. 12mo; a "Life of Beau Nash,"
the famous king of Bath; a republication of his
own letters, originally written in the character of
a Chinese Philosopher, and contributed to the
Piiblic Ledger, a newspaper of which Kelly was
at that time the editor. These were now collected
and given to the public in 2 vols. 12mo, under the
title of "The Citizen of the World." Of all his
productions, prompted by necessity, and written on
tlie sjuir of the moment, this collection of letters
is entitled to the praise of supereminent merit.
Few works exhibit a nicer perception, or more deli-
cate delineation of life and manners. Wit, humour,
26
LIFE AND WRITINGS
and sentiment, pervade every page; the vices and i man of letters, but as such not very remarkabln
follies of the day are touched with the most play
ful and diverting satire; and EngUsh character-
istics, in endless variety, are hit off with the pen
cil of a master. They have ever maintained their
vurrency and reputation, and are ranked among
the classical productions of the British muse.
Nearly about the same time, or early in 1764, a
selection of all his fugitive pieces, originally con-
tributed to various magazines, were collected and
published for his own benefit, in one volume, un-
der the title of "Essays." These, in their general
scope and tendency bear some analogy to the letters
of the Cliinese Philosopher. The manner is still
happier than the matter, though tliat too is excel-
lent ; and our author appears to have been prompt-
ed to their repubUcation, in consequence of the libe-
ral use that was surreptitiously made of them by
the magazines, and other fugitive repositories of
the day. In a humorous preface which accom-
panied the volume, he took notice of that circum-
stance, and vindicates his claim to the merit as
well as the profit of his own productions. "Most
of these Essays," said he, "have been regularly
reprinted two or three times a-year, and conveyed
to the public through the channel of some engag-
ing compilation. If there be a pride in multiplied
editions, I have seen some of my labours sixteen
times reprinted, and claimed by different parents
as their own. I have seen them flourished at
the beginning with praise, and signed at the
end with the names of Philantos, Pliilalethes, Phi-
laleutheros, and Phdanthropos. These gentle-
men have kindly stood sponsors to my produc-
tions; and to flatter me more, have always passed
them as their own. It is time, however, at last to
vindicate my claims ; and as these entertainers of
the pubhc, as they call themselves, have partly
lived upon me for some years, let me now try if I
can not hve a little upon myself. I would desire,
in this case, to imitate that fat man, whom I have
somewhere heard of in a shipwreck, who, when
the sailors, pressed by famine, were takmg slices
from his posteriors to satisfy their hunger, insisted,
with great justice, on having the first cut for him-
self." The rapidity with which the first impres-
sion of this httle volume was disposed of, greatly
surpassed the expectations of its author. Since
that time, few books have gone through a greater
variety of editions.
It has been somewhere remarked, that Gold-
smith was a plant of slow growth ; and perhaps
there may be some truth in the observation, in so
far as regards public applause. He had now been
seven years a writer, and, notwithstanding the va-
riety of his labours, had produced little, except his
"Inquiry" and "Citizen of the World," to distin-
guish Iiim from the herd of authors by profession
distinguished; and it was frequently observed,
that though his publications were much read, they
were not greatly talked of With the characteris-
tic irritability of genius, conscious of its powers
and jealous of its reward. Goldsmith used to fret
under the pangs of neglected merit, and to repine
at the slow progress of public opinion.
No votary of the muses was ever more emulous
of fame; and, with liis accustomed simplicity, he
was careless of concealing his impatience to ob-
tain it. Various anecdotes of his fretful anxiety
for applause have been recorded in different pub-
lications, but the most authentic is one of rather a
ludicrous description, noticed by Mr. Boswcll.
Conversing with Dr. Johnson one day on the dif-
ficulty of acquiring literary celebrity, "Ah," said
he, in a tone of distress, "the pubhc will never do
me justice; whenever I write any thing, they
make a point to know nothing about it." On an-
other occasion, when Boswell was present, "I
fear," said Goldsmith, "I have come too late into
the world ; Pope and other poets have taken up
the places in the temple of Fame, and as a few at
any period can possess poetical reputation, a man of
genius can now hardly acquire it." And in the
same querulous tone of despondency he addresses
his brother, in the dedication to his "Traveller:"
"Of all kinds of ambition, as things are now cir-
cumstanced, perhaps that which pursues poeticaj
fame is the wildest. What from the increased re-
finement of the times, from the diversity of judg-
ment produced by opposing systems of criticism
and from the more prevalent divisions of opinion
influenced by . party, the strongest and happiest
efibrts can expect to please but a very narrow cir-
cle." A short time, however, proved to our au-
thor how fallacious were his fears. In less than a
year the publication of his "Traveller," placed
him at the head of the poets of his time.
The outline of this beautiful poem had been
sketched during our author's residence in Switz-
erland, and part of it, as noticed in the dedication,
had been addressed from that country to his brother
Henry in Ireland. Diffident of its merit, and
fearful of its success, he kept it by him in its origi-
nal crude state for several years, and it was not till
he had been strongly encouraged by the high opin-
ion expressed of it by Dr. Johnson, that he was at
last induced to prepare it for the press. For two
years previous to its publication, while toiling at
other works for bread, his choicest hours are said
to have been devoted to the revisal and connection
of this poem, and, if report may be believed, no po-
em was ever touched and retouched by its author
with more painful and fastidious care. When he
thought at length that it had received the highest
possible finishing, it was committed to the press,
With the public he was generally knovs^n as a and cajne out early in 1765. It was hailed vitij
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
27
delight by all ranlcs, celebri y and patronage fol-
lowed the applause with which it was received,
and Goldsmith, so far as regarded fame, was at last
at the height of his ambition.
The great moral object of the " Traveller" is to
reconcile man with his lot. The poet maintains
that happiness is equally distributed among man-
kind, and that a ditferent good, either furnished by
nature or provided by art, renders the blessings of
£dl nations even. In pursuing his subject he takes
an imaginary station on the Alps, and passes liis
view over the countries that lie spread out beneath
him, noticing those only, however, through wliich
the author had personally travelled.
He draws a picture of each in succession, de-
scribing from his own observation their scenery
and manners. He enumerates their advantages,
and contrasts their various pursuits, — " wealth,
commerce, honour, liberty, content," — showing that
each favourite object, when attained, runs into ex-
cess, and defeats itself by bringing with it its own
peculiar evil. He proceeds to show, that content-
ment is more frequently to be found in a meagre
mountain soil and stormy region, than in a genial
climate and luxuriant country ; for labour produces
competence, and custom inures to hardsliip, while
ignorance renders the rugged peasant cahn and
cheerful under a life of toil and deprivation. But
the poet makes a distinction between mere content
and happiness. If the wants of barren states are
few, and their wishes limited, thck enjoyments are
in like manner circumscribed ; for every want be-
comes a sourcce of pleasure when gratified. Their
virtues partalj:e also a similar dearth, and their
morals, like their pleasures, are scanty, coarse, and
low.
of him in every page; we grow intimate with him
as a man, and learn to love liim as we read. A
general benevolence glows throughout this poem.
It breathes the liberal spirit of a true citizen of the
world. And yet how beautifully does it inculcate
and illustrate that local attachmentj that preference
to native land, which, in spite of every disadvan-
tage of soil or climate, pleads so eloquently' to every
bosom ; which calls out with maternal voice from
the sandy desert or the stormy rock, appealing ir-
resistibly to the heart in the midst of foreign luxu-
ries and delights, and calling the wanderer home.
When the " Traveller" was published. Dr.
Johnson wrote a review of it for one of the journals,
and pronounced it the finest poem that had appear-
ed since the time of Pope. This was no cold praise,
for the versification of Pope was at that time the
model for imitation ; his rules were the standard of
criticism, and the " Essay on Man" was placed at
the head of didactic poetry. The fame of Gold-
smitli was now firmly established; and he had the
satisfaction to find, that it did not merely rest on
the authority of the miUion, for the learned and
the great now deemed themselves honoured by his
acquaintance.
His poem was frequently the subject of conver-
sation among the hterary circles of the time, and
particularly in that circle which used to assemble
at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds. On one oc-
casion it was remarked among the company at Sir
Joshua's, that " the ' Traveller' had brought Gold-
smith into high reputation." — "Yes," said Mr.
Langton, "and no wonder; there is not one bad
line in that poem, not one of Dryden's careless
verses."
" Sir Joshua. — I was glad to hear Charles Fox
say, it was one of the finest poems in the English
language.
"Langton. — Why were you glad? You sure-
ly had no doubt of it before.
"Dr. Johnson. — No: the merit of the " Travel-
ler," is so well estabUshed, that Mr. Fox's praise
can not augment it, nor his censure diminish it."
"Sir Joshua. — But his friends may suspect they
had too great a partiality for him.
"Johnson. — Nay, sir, it can not be so; for the
partiality of his friends was always against him."
Goldsmith, however, was not permitted to enjoy
the fame he had acquired without experiencing al
so the detraction tliat generally attends successful
genius. The envy of some and the jealousy of
others, especially among the minor candidates foi
poetical fame, was speedily awakened by the ap-
plause bestowed on his poem. Unable to deny th«
merit of the performance, they strove to detract
from the merit of its author, by ascribing the cliief
part of it to tlic friendly muse of Dr. Johnson.
This question has since been finally settled. In
separably identified witli their works. We tlmik I the year 1763, Dr. Johnsoii, at the reciuest of Mr.
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Dnalter'd, unimproved, tlie manners run;
And love's and friendsliip's finely pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated hean.
Some sterner \ irtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Tlirough life's more cultured walks, and charm the way
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
The poet comes at length to the conclusion, tliat
happiness centres in the mind, that it depends up-
on ourselves, and is equally to be enjoyed in every
country and under every government; for, even in
regions of tyranny and terror, where unjust laws
oppress, and cruel torture.s are inflicted, these evils
rarely find tlieir way into the hallowed seclusion of
a domestic circle.
In this poem, we may particularly remark a
quality which distinguishes tlie writings of Gold-
emith ; it perpetually presents the author to our
minds. He is one of the few writers who are in-
ss
LIFE AND WRITINGS
Boswell, marked with a pencil all the Unes he had
furnished, which are only line 420th,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go;
and the concluding ten lines, except the last coup-
let but one, printed in italic.
How small of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or liinirs can cause or cure ;
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find;
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy.
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,'
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.
Johnson added " these are all of which 1 can be
Bure." They bear indeed but a very trifling pro-
portion to the whole, which consists of four hun-
dred and tliirty-eight verses. The truth in this
case seems to be, that the report had its origin in
the avowed fact of the poem having been submit-
ted to Johnson's friendly revision before it was sent
to the press.
Goldsmith, though now universally known and
admired, and enabled to look forward to indepen-
dence at home, appears still to have retained a
strong tincture of his original roving disposition.
He had long entertained a design of penetrating
into the interior parts of Asia, to investigate the
remains of ancient grandeur, learning, and man-
ners; and when Lord Bute became prime minister
at the accession of George the Third, this desire
was more strongly excited by the hope of obtain-
ing some portion of the royal bounty, then so libe-
rally dispensed by that nobleman in pensions and
benefactions to men of learning and genius. That
he might be enabled to execute this favourite pro-
ject he resolved on making a direct application to
the premier for pecuniary assistance, and the sanc-
tion of Government, but, the better to ensure suc-
cess, he previously drew up and published in the
Public Ledger, an ingenious essay on the subject,
in which the advantages of such a mission were
stated with much ability and eloquence. Our poor
author, however, was then but little known, and
not having distinguished himself by any popular
literary eflbrt, his petition or memorial was thrown
* Goldsmith in this couplet mentions Luke as a person well
known, and superficial readers have passed it over quite
smoothly; while those of more attention have been as much
perplexed by Lttke, as by Lydiat in "The Vanity of Human
Wishes." The truth is, that Goldsmith himself was in a mis-
take. In the "Respuhlica Hungarica," there is an account
of a desperate rebellion in the year 1514, headed by two bro-
thers of the name of Zeck, George and Luke. When it was
quelle 1, George, and not Luke, was pimished, by his head
being encircled with a red hot iron crown: Corona cande-
scenleferrea coronatur. The same severity of torture was
exercised on the Earl of Athol, one of the murderers of James
I of Scotland.
aside unnoticed or neglected. Perhaps it was for-
tunate for literature that it so happened. Gold-
smith, with all his genius and taste as a writer,
was but little versed in the arts ; and it is extrem&.
ly questionable whether he was qualified to accom-
plish the task wliich he had proposed to himself.
The opinion of his friend, Dr. Johnson, who so
well knew and appreciated the extent of his ac-
quirements, may be given as decisive of such a
question. In a conversation with Mr. Boswell,
the latter remarked, that our author "had long a
visionary prospect of some time or other going to
Aleppo, when his circutiistances should be easier,
in order to acquire a knowledge, as far as might be,
of any arts peculiar to the East, and introduce them
into Britain;" to which Johnson rejoined, " of all
men, Goldsmith is most unfit to go out on such an
inquiry ; for he is yet ignorant of such arts as we
ourselves already possess, and consequently could
not know what would be accessions to our present
stock of mechanical knowledge: sir, he would
bring home a grinding-barrow, and think he had
furnished a wonderful improvement." Goldsmith,
however, seems never to have been conscious of
the deficiency of his own powers for such an un-
dertaking. His passion for travel was never ex-
tinguished ; and notwithstanding the neglect with
which his application for ministerial patronage had
been treated, his design of penetrating to the East
frequently revived. Even after the publication of
the " Traveller," as formerly remarked, though en-
gaged in several literary undertakings, this design
was still predominant; and had it not been for his
characteristic simplicity or carelesness, or perhaps
his propensity to practical blundering, an opportu-
nity was now thrown in his way that might have
enabled him to fulfil his most sanguine expecta-
tions.
Among the distinguished characters of the day
which the merit of the " Traveller," had attached
to its author, either as patrons or friends, LoiJ
Nugent (afterwards Earl of Clare) was conspicu-
ous in point of rank; and his lordship, not satisfied
vdth his own personal notice and friendship, warm-
ly recommended him to his friends in power, par-
ticularly to the Earl (afterwards Duke) of North-
umberland, then lord-lieutenant of Ireland. That
nobleman, on the recommendation of Lord Nu-
gent, had read several of Goldsmith's productions,
and being charmed with the elegance of their style,
expressed a desire to extend his patronage to their
author. After his lordship's return from Ireland,
in 17G5, he communicated liis intentions to Dr.
Percy, who was related to the family of Northum-
berland, and by his means an interview took place
between the poet and the peer. Of this visit to
his lordship, Goldsmith used to give the following
account: "I was invited by my friend Percy to
wait upon the duke, in consequence of the satis-
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
39
fection he had received from the perusal of one of
•my productions. I dressed myself in the best man-
ner I could, and after studying some compliments
I thought necessary on such an occasion, proceed-
ed to ]N'orthumberland-housc, and acquainted the
servants that I had particular business with the
duke. They showed me into an ante-chamber,
where, after waiting some time, a gentleman very
elegantly dressed made his appearance. Taking
him for the diike, I delivered all the fine things 1
had composed, in order to complijnent him on the
honour he had done me ; when, to my great aston-
ishment, he told mo Iliad mistaken him for his mas-
ter, who would see me inmicdiatcly. At that in-
stant the duke came into the apartment, an<i I was
so confounded on the occasion, that I wanted words
barely sufficient to express the sense I entertained
of the duke's politeness, and went away exceedingly
chagrined at the blunder I had committed.
In the embarrassment which ensued from this
awkward mistake, our author's eastern project, for
which he had intended to have solicited his lord-
ship's patronage, was totally forgotten, and the
visit appears to have been concluded without even
a hint as to this great object of his wishes.
Sir John Hawkins, in his " Life of Dr. John-
son," has noticed and commented on the circum-
stances attending tliis interview, with peevishness
and ill-humour. " Having one day," says he, " a
call to wait on the late Duke, then Earl of North-
umberland, I found Goldsmith waiting lor an au-
dience in an outer room : I asked him what had
brought him there; he told me, an invitation from
his lordship. I made my business as short as I
could, and as a reason, mentioned that Dr. Gold-
smith was waiting without. The earl asked me
if I was acquainted with him? I told him I was,
adding what I thought was hkcly to recommend
him. I retired, and stayed in the outer room to
take hiin home. Upon his coming out, I asked
him the result of this conversation. " His lord-
ship," said he, " told me he had read my poem,
meaning the ' Traveller,' and was much delighted
with it; that he was going lord-lieutenant to Ire-
land, and that, hearing I was a native of that coun-
try, he should be glad to do me any kindness."
" And what did you answer," asked I, " to this
gracious offer?" — " Wh}'," said he, " I could say
liotliing but that I had a brother there, a clergy-
man, that stood in need of help : as for myself, I
have no dependence on the promises of great men;
I look to the booksellers for support; they are my
best friends, and I am not inclined to forsake them
for others." — " Thus," continues Sir John, "did
this idiot in the affairs of the world trifle with his
fortunes, and put back the hand that was held out
to assist him!" — In a worldly point of view, the
coiiduct of Goldsinith on tliis occasion was un-
doubtedly absurd; but those who have generous
dispositions wOl be pleased with such a character-
istic instance of his well-known simplicity and
goodness of heart. A benevolent mind will dis-
cover in the recommendation of a brother, to the
exclusion of himself, a degree of disinterestedness,
which, as it is seldom to be met with, is the more to
be admired.
Though Goldsmith thus lost the only good op-
portunity that had offered for obtaining Govern-
ment patronage for his intended eastern expedi-
tion, it must be admitted to the honour of the Duke
of Northumberland, that when the plan was after-
wards explained to him at a distant period, he ex-
pressed his regret that he had not been made ac-
quainted with it earlier; for he could at once have
placed the poet on the Irish establishment, with a
sufficient salary to enable him to prosecute his re-
searches, and would have taken care to have had
it continued to him during the whole period of his
travels. From tliis time our poet, though he some-
times talked of his plan, appears to have for ever
relinquished the design of travelling into Asia.
Independent of every consideration of interest or
ambition, the introduction of Goldsmith to a noble-
man of such high rank as the Earl of Northum-
berland, was a circumstance sufficiently gratifvin*
to a mind fond of distinction. In fact, the vanity
of our poet, was greatly excited by the honour of
the interview with his lordship : and, for a consider-
abl ^ time after, it was much the subject of allusion
and reference in his conversation. One of those
ingei'ious executors of the law, a bailiff, having
come to the knowledge of this circumstance, deter-
mined to turn it to his advantage in the execution
of a writ which he had against the poet for a small
debt. He wrote Goldsmith a letter, stating, that
he was steward to a nobleman who was charmed
with reading his last production, and had ordered
him to desire the doctor to appoint a place where
he might have the honour of meeting him, to con-
duct him to his lordship. Goldsmith swallowed
the bait without hesitation ; he appointed the Bri-
tish Coffee-house, to which he was accompanied
by his friend Mr. Hamilton, the proprietor and
printer of the Critical Review, who in vain remon-
strated on the singularity of the application. On
entering the coffee-room, the bailiff paid his re-
spects to the poet, and desired that he might have
the honour of immediately attending him. They
had scarcely entered Pail-Mall on their way to his
lordship, when the bailiff produced his writ, to the
infinite astonishment and chagrin of our author.
Mr. Hamilton, however, immediately interfered,
generously paid the money, and redeemed the poet
from captivity.
Soon after the publication of the " Traveller,"
Goldsmith appears to have fixed his abode in the
Temple, where he ever aft;envards resided. His
apartments were first in the library staircase, next
LIFE AND WRITINGS
in the King's-Bench-walk, and ultimately at No. 2,
in Brick-court. Here he had chambers in the first
floor, elegantly furnished, and here he was often
visited by literary friends, distinguished alike by
their rank, talents, and acquirements. In the num
ber of those with whom he now associated, and
could rank among his friends, he was able to ex
hibit a list of the most eminent and conspicuous
men of the time, among whom may be particu-
larized the names of Burke, Fox, Johnson, Percy,
Reynolds, Garrick, Colman, Dyer, Jones, Boswell,
and Beauclerk, with the Lords Nugent and Charle-
mont. The mention of these names naturally calls
up the recollection of the famous Literary Club of
which Goldsmith was one of the earliest members,
and of which the conversational anecdotes, re-
ported by Mr. Boswell, have contributed to give so
much interest to the pages of that gentleman's bi-
ography of Johnson. As our author continued a
member of this select society from its foundation till
his death, and shone as one of its most conspicuous
ornaments, some account of its institution, and a
notice of the names of its members till the present
time, all of whom have more or less figured in the
literary or political world, may not be unacceptable
to many of our readers.
This literary association is said by Mr. Boswell
to have been founded in I7G4, but Dr. Percy is of
opinion that its institution was not so early. Sir
Joshua Reynolds had the merit of being the first to
suggest it to Dr. Johnson and Mr. Burke; and they
having acceded to the proposal, the respective friends
of these three were invited to join them. The ori-
ginal members, therefore, as they stand on the re-
cords of the society, were Sir Joshua Reynolds,*
Dr. Johnson, Mr. Edmund Burke, Dr. Nugent,t
Mr. Beauclerk, Mr. Langton, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr.
Chamier, and Sir John Hawkins ; and to this num-
ber there was added soon afterwards Mr. Samuel
Dyer.t It existed long without a name, but at the
• Neither Sir Joshua nor Sir John Hawkins had then been
knighted, nor had Johnson been presented with his diploma
of LL D. ; but boih here and on other occasions the parties are
noticed by their most common appellations.
t Tliis gentleman was a physician, father of Mr. Burke's
wife; not the Dr. Nugent who published some volumes of tra-
vels, and several philosophical works, for whom he has been
rometimes mistaken. The above Dr. Nugent was a very
amiable man, and highly respected by his contemporaries.
} This gentleman was one of the intimate friends of Mt.
Burke, who inserted in the public jiapers the following cha-
racter of him at the time of his death, which happened on
Monday, September 14, 1772:
" On Monday evening died at his lodgings in Castle-street,
Leicester Fields, Samuel Dyer, Esq., Fellow of the Royal So-
ciety. He wa= a man of profound and general erudition ; and
his sagacity and judgment were fully equal to the extent of his
learning. His mind was candid, sincere, benevolent; his
friendship disinterested and unalterable. The modesty, sim-
plicity, and sweeme.^s of his manners, rendered his conversa-
tion as amiable as it was instructive, and endeared him to
funeral of Mr. Garrick, became distinguished by
the title of the Literary Club. The members met
and supped together one evening in every week, at
the Turk's Head, in Gerrard street, Soho. Their
meetings commenced at seven; and by means of
the inexhaustible conversational powers of Johnson,
Burke, and Beauclerk, their sittings were generally
protracted till a pretty late hour. It was originally
intended that the number of members should be
made up to twelve, but for the first three or four
years it never exceeded nine or ten ; and it was un-
derstood that if even only two of these shoul.l chance
to meet, they would be able to entertain one anotlier
for the evening.
About the beginning of 1768, the attending oi
eflScient members were reduced to eight ; first by
the secession of Mr. Beauclerk, who became es-
tranged by the gayer attractions of more flishiona-
ble clubs; and next by the retirement of Sir Jbhn
Hawkins.
Soon after this it was proposed by Dr. Johnson
to elect a supply of new members, and to make up
their number to twelve, the election to be made by
ballot, and one black ball to be sufficient for the ex
elusion of a candidate. The doctor's proposal was
immediately carried into eflect by the election of Sir
Robert Chambers, Dr. Percy, and the late George
Colman ; and these three were introduced as new
members on Monday evening, February 1.5, 1768.
Mr. Beauclerk having desired to be restored to the
society, was re-elected about the same time.
From this period till 1772 the club consisted of
the same members, and its weekly meetings were
regularly continued every Monday evening till De-
cember that year, when the night of meeting was
•altered to Friday. Shortly afterwards there were
no less than four vacancies occasioned by death.
These were supplied, first by the Earl of Charle-
mont and David Garrick, who were elected on the
12th of March, 1773 ; and next by Mr. (afterwards
Sir William) Jones and Mr. Boswell, the former
of whom was elected on the 2d, and the latter on
the 30th of April following. In adverting to the
election of Mr. Garrick, it may not be deemed im-
pertinent to notice an error on the part of Sir John
Hawkins, in lus " Life of Johnson." Speakincr
of that gentleman's wish to become a member of
the club, "Garrick," says the knight, " tni.sted that
the least intimation of a desire to come among us
would procure him a ready admission; but in this
he was mistaken. Johnson consulted me upon it ;
those few who had the happiness of knowing intimately that
valuable unostentatious man ; and his death is to tliem a loss
irreparable."
Mr. Dyer was held in high estimation for his erudition bj
Dr. Johnson, but we know not of any literary work in which
he was concerned, except that he corrected and improved the
translation of Plutarch's Lives, by Dryden and others, when
it was revived bj Tonson.
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
31
and when I could find no objection to receiving
him, exclaimed, " he will disturb us by his buf-
foonery!" and afterwards so managed matters, that
he was never formally proposed, and by conse-
quence never admitted.
In justice both to Mr. Grarrick and Dr. Johnson,
Mr. Boswcll has rectified this mis-statement. " The
truth is," says he, " that not very long after the in-
stitution of our club, Sir Joshua Reynolds was
spealiing of it to Garrick: ' I like it much (said the
latter); I think I shall be of you.' When Sir
Joshua mentioned this to Dr. Johnson, he was
much displeased with the actor's conceit. * HeHl
be of us (said Johnson), how does he know we will
•permit him? The first duke in England has no
right to hold such language.' However, when
Garrick was regularly proposed some time after-
wards, Johnson, though he had taken a momentary
offence at his arrogance, warmly and kindly sup-
ported him; and he was accordingly elected, was a
most agreeable member, and continued to attend
our meetings to the time of his death." Tliis state-
ment, while it corrects the inaccuracy of Sir John,
affords also a proof of the estimation in which the
Literary Club was held by its own members, and the
nicety that might be opposed to^he admission of a
candidate. The founders appear to have been
somewhat vain of the institution, both as unique in
its kind, and as distinguished by the learning and
talent of its members. Dr. Johnson, in particular,
seems to have had a sort of paternal anxiety for its
prosperity and perpetuation, and on many occasions
exhibited almost as jealous a care of its purity and
reputation as of his own. Talking of a certain
lord one day, a man of coarse manners, but a man
of abilities and information, " I don't say," con-
tinued Johnson, " he is a man I would set at the
head of a nation, though perhaps he may be as
good as the next prime minister that comes : but he
^ a man to be at the head of a club, I don't say our
club, for there is no such dub." On another oc-
casion, when it was mentioned to liim by Mr.
Beauclerk that Dr. Dodd had once wished to be a
member of the club, Johnson obsen'ed, " I should
be sorry indeed if any of our club were hanged,"
and added, jocularly, " I will not say but some of
them deserve it," alluding to their politics and re-
ligion, which were frequently in opposition to his
own. But the high regard in which the doctor
held this association was most strikingly evinced in
the election of Mr. Sheridan. In return for some
literary civilities received from that gentleman while
he had as yet only figured as a dramatist, Johnson
thoutrht the finest compliment he could bestow would
be to procure his election to the Literary Club.
When the ballot was proposed, therefore, he ex-
erted his infiuence, and concluded his recommenda-
tion of the candidate by remarking, that " he who
has written the two best comedies of h's age, is
surely a considerable man." Sheridan had accord-
ingly the honour to be elected. The importance
thus attached by its members to this celebrated
club, seems justified by time and public opinion.
No association of a like kind has existed, and re-
tained its original high character, for so long a pe-
riod ; and none has ever been composed of men so
remarkable for extraordinary talent.
In 17''4, an accession of new members was add-
ed by the election of the Hon. Charles James Fox,
Sir Charles Bunbury, Dr. George Fordyce, and
George Steevens, Esq. ; and this brings the annals
of the club down to the death of Goldsmith. Either
then, or soon after, the number of the members was
increased to thirty; and, in 1776, instead of sup-
ping once a-week, they resolved to dine together
once a-fortnight during the sitting of Parliament;
and now the meetings take place every other Tues-
day at Parsloe's, in St. James' s-street. It isbehev-
ed, that this increase in the number of the mem-
bers, originally limited to twelve, took place in con-
sequence of a suggestion on the part of our author.
Conversing with Johnson and Sir Joshua Rey-
nolds one day, Goldsmith remarked, " that he wish-
ed for some additional members to the Literary
Club, to give it an agreeable variety; for (said he)
there can be nothing new among us; we have tra-
velled over one another's minds." Johnson, how-
ever, did not like the idea that his mind could be
travelled over or exhausted, and seemed rather dis-
pleased ; but Sir Joshua thought Goldsmith in the
right, observing, that "where people have Uved a
great deal together, they know what each of them
will say on every subject. A new understanding,
therefore, is desirable ; because, though it may only
furnish the same sense upon a question which
would have been furnished by those with whom we
are accustomed to live, yet this sense will have a
different colouring, and colouring is of much effect
in every thing else as well as painting.""
"From the institution of the Literary Club to the prudent
lime, it is believed tliat the following is a correct list ol tha
members: — . ■ . .
Lord Ashburtoii (Dunning.)
Sir .losepli Banks.
' Marquis of Bath.
' Dr. Barnard, Bishop of Kila-
loe.
■ Mr. Topham Beauclerk.
■ Sir Cliarles Blagden.
' Mr. Boswell.
■ Sir Ciiarles Bunbury.
•Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
•Richard Burke (Ids son.)
■ Dr. Buniey.
' Sir Riibert Chambers.
Mr. Cliamier.
■ Earl of Cliarlemont.
■ Oeorcre Colman.
Mr. Courtney.
Dr. Douglas, Bish.p of Salis-
bury.
*Mr. Dyer.
' Lord Elliot.
* Rev. Dr. Fanner.
• Dr. George Fordyce. "
•Right Hon. C.J. Fox. ; •_•
' David Garrick.
• Mr. Gibbon. ■'
' Dr. Goldsmith.
' Sir William Hamilton.
' Sir .John Hawkins.
Dr. Hinchlitfe, Bishop of Ta
terborongli.
* Dr. Johnson.
•Sir William Joneat
Mr. Langtoa
32
LIFE AND WRITINGS
In a society thus composed of men distinguished
for genius, learning, and rank, where the chief ob-
ject of the institution was social and hterary enjoy-
ment, it is certainly interesting to know what kind
of intellectual sauce was usually served up to give a
aest to their periodical suppers. Happily, Mr.
Boswell has supplied such a desideratum ; and as a
fair specmien of the numerous conversations which
he has reported of the members, it may not be un-
amusing to our readers to be presented with part of
the discussion which took place at the time of his
own election in April, 1773, and a full report of
the sittuig of the club on the 24th of March, 1775.
This we do with the more pleasure, on account of
the first discussion being in some sort illustrative of
the character and writings of our author.
"On Friday, April 30," says Mr. Boswell, "I
dined with Dr. Johnson at Mr. Beauclerk's, where
were Lord Charlemont, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and
Bome more members of the Literary Club, whom he
nad obligingly invited to meet me, as I was this
evening to be balloted for as candidate for admission
into that distinguislied society. Johnson had done
me the honour to propose me, and Beauclerk was
very zealous for me.
" Goldsmith being mentioned, Johnson said, ' It
is amazing how little Goldsmith knows. He sel-
dom comes where he is not more ignorant than any
pne else,' Sir Joshua Reynolds, ' Yet there is no
man whose company is more liked.' Johnson, ' To
be sure, sir. When people find a man, of the most
distinguished abilities as a writer, their inferior
while he is with them, it must be highly gratifying
to them. What Goldsmith comically says of him-
• Duke of Leeds.
• Earl Lucan.
• Earl Macartney.
•Mr. Malone.
Dr. Marlay, Bishop of Clon-
fert.
•Dr. Nugent.
lion. Frederick North (now
Earl of Guilford.)
'Earl of Tipper Ossory.
*Vi3couni Palmerston.
*Dr. Percy, Bishop of Dro-
more.
Major RenneL
•Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Sir W. Scott (now Lord Sto-
well)
•M. R.B.Sheridan.
•Dr. Shipley, Bishop of St.
Asaph.
♦Dr. Adam Smith.
Earl Spencer.
William Lock, jua
Mr. George Ellis.
Lord Minto.
• Dr. French Lawrence.
• Dr. Horsley, Bishop of St
Asaph.
Henry Vaughan, M. D.
* Mr. George Steevens.
* Mr. Agmendesham Vesey.
* Dr. Warren.
* Dr. Joseph Wartoa
• Rev. Thomas Warton.
• Right Hon. William Wind-
ham.
Right Hon. George Canning.
Mr. Marsden.
Right Hon. J. II. Frere.
Right Hon. Thos. Grenville.
'Rev. Dr. Vincent, Dean of
Westminster.
Right Hon. Sir William
Grant, Master of the Rolls.
Sir George Staunton.
Mr. Charles Wilkins.
Right Hon. William Drum-
mond.
The members whose names are distinguished by an asterisk
ii the foregoing list have all paid the debt of nature. Among
those who survive, it i? generally understood that the spirit of
the original a? jciation is still preserved.
self is very true, he always gets the better when he
argues alone : meaning, that he is master of a sub-
ject in his study, and can write well upon it; but
when he comes into company grows confused, and
unable to talk. Take him as a poet, his " Travel-
ler" is a very fine performance; ay, and so is his
"Deserted Village," were it not sometimes too
much the echo of his " Traveller." Whether, m-
deed, we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, oi
as a liistorian, he stands in the first class.' Boswtll,
' A historian! my dear sir, you will not surely rank
his compilation of the Roman History with the
works of other liistorians of this agel" Johnson,
' Why, who is before him?' Boswell, ' Hume, Ro-
bertson, Lord Lyttleton,' Johnson (his antipathy
to the Scotch beginning to rise,) ' I have not read
Hume; but, doubtless. Goldsmith's History is bet-
ter than the verbiage of Robertson, or the foppery
of Dalrymple.' Boswell, ' Will you not admit the
superiority of Robertson, in whose History we find
such penetration, such paintingT' Johnson, ' Sir,
you must consider how that penetration and that
painting are employed. It is not liistory ; it is ima-
gination. He who describes what he never saw,
draws from fancy. Robertson paints minds as
Sir Joshua paints faces in a history-piece : he ima-
gines a heroic countenance. You must look upon
Robertson's work as romance, and try it by that
standard. History it is not. Besides, sir, it is the
great excellence of a writer to put into his book as
much as his book will hold. Goldsmith has dona
this in his History. Now Robertson might have
put twice as much into his book. Robertson is
like a man who has packed gold in wool : the wool
takes up more room than the gold. No, sir, I al-
ways thought Robertson would be crushed by his
own weight — would be buried under his own orna-
ments. Goldsmith tells you shortly all you want
to know; Robertson detains you a great deal too
long. No man will read Robertson's cumbrous de-
tail a second time; but Goldsmith's plain narrative
will please again and again. I would say to Ro-
bertson what an old tutor of a college said to one of
his pupils: "Read over your compositions and
wherever you meet with a passage which you think
is particularly fine, strike it out." Goldsmith's
abridgment is better than that of Lucius Florus or
Eutropius : and I will venture to say, that if you
compare him with Vertot, in the same places of the
Roman History, j'ou will find that he excels Vertot.
Sir, he has the art of compiling, and of saying every
thing he has to say in a j)leasing manner. He is
now vsrriting a Natural History, and will make it as
entertaining as a Persian Tale.'
" I can not dismiss the present topic (continues
Mr. Boswell) without observing, that Dr. Johnson,
who owned that he of\en talked for victory, rathei
urged plausible objections to Dr. Robertson's ex-
cellent historical works in the ardour of conteat,
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
33
than expressed his real and decided opinion; for
it is not easy to suppose, that he should so widely
differ from the rest of the hterary world.
"Johnson, 'I remember once being with Gold-
smith in Westminster Abbey. While we sur-
veyed the Poet's-Corner, I said to him, —
Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis,*
When we got to Temple-Bar he stopped me,
pointed to the heads upon it, and slily whispered
we, —
I'orsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis.'t
"Johnson praised John Bunyan Mghly. 'His
"Pilgrim's Progress" has great merit, both for in-
vention, imagination, and the conduct of the story ;
and it has had the best evidence of its merits, the
general and continued approbation of mankind.
Few books, I believe, ha\'e had a more extensive
Bale. It is remarkable, that it begins very much
lilve the poem of Dante; yet there was no trans-
lation of Dante when Bunyan wrote. There is
reason to think that he had read Spenser."
"A proposition which had been agitated, that
monuments to eminent persons should, for the
time to come, be erected in St. Paul's Church a:>
well as in the Westminster Abbey, was mention-
ed; and it was asked, who should be honoured by
having his monument first erected 1 Somebody
suggested Pope. Johnson, 'Why, sir, as Pope was
a Roman Catholic, I would not have his to be
first. I think Milton's rather should have the pre-
cedence. I tliink more highly of him now than I
did at twenty. There is more thinking in him
and Butler than in any one of our poets.'
" The gentlemen (continues Mr. Boswell) now
went away to their club, and I was left at Beau-
clerk's till the fate of my election should be an-
nounced to me. I sat in a state of anxietj', which
even the charming conversation of Lady Di
Beauclerk could not entirely dissipate. In a short
time I received the agreeable intelligence that I
was chosen. I hastened to the place of meeting,
and was introduced to such a society as can sel-
dom be found. Mr. Edmund Burke, whom I
then saw for the first time, and whose splendid ta-
lents had long made me ardently wish for his ac-
quaintance; Dr. Nugent, Mr. Garrick, Dr. Gold-
smith, Mr. (afterwards Sir William) Jones, and the
company with whom I had dined. Upoii my en-
trance, Johnson placed lumself behind a chair, on
which he leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and,
with humourous formaUty, gave me a charge,
pointing out the conduct expected from me as a
member of this club."
The next conversational specimen given by Mr.
• Ovid, de Art. Amand. 1. iii. 5. 13.
tin allusion to Dr. Johnson's supposed political principle?,
and p rhap-s liis own. E.
3
Boswell, is of the discussion which took place at
the meeting of 24th March, 1775. "Before John-
son came in, we talked of his 'Journey to the Wes-
tern Islands,' and of his coming away 'willing to
believe the second sight,' which seemed to excite
some ridicule. I was then so unpressed with the
truth of many of the stories of which I nad been
told, that I avowed my conviction, saying 'He is
only willing to believe ; I do believe. The evidence
is enough for me, though not for his great mind.
What will not fill a quart bottle will fill a pint bot-
tle. I am filled with behef ' Are you,' said Col-
man, 'then cork it up.'
"I found liis 'Journey' the common topic of
conversation in London at this time, wherever I
happened to be. At one of Lord Mansfield's for-
mal Sunday evening conversations, strangely call-
ed levees, liis Lordship addressed me, 'We have
all been reading your Travels, Mr. Boswell.' I an-
swered, 'I was but the humble attendant of Dr.
Johnson.' The Chief- Justice rcphed, with that
air and manner which none who ever lieard oi
saw liim can forget, ' He speaks ill of nobody but
Ossian.'
"Johnson was in high spirits tliis evening at
tlie club, and talked with great animation and
success. He attacked Swift, as he used to do upon
all occasions: "The Tale of a Tub" is so much su
perior to lus other vmtings, that we can hardly
believe he was the author of it : there is in it such
a vigour of mind, such a swarm of thoughts, so
much of nature, and art, and life.' I wondered to
hear him say of 'Gulliver's Travels,' 'When
once you have thought of big and httle men, it is
very easy to do all the rest.' I endeavoured to
make a stand for Swift, and tried to rouse those
who were much more able to defend him ; but in
vain. Johnson at last, of his own accord, allowed
very great merit to the inventory of articles found
in the pocket of 'the Man Mountain,' particular-
ly tlie description of his watch, which it was con-
jectured was his god, as he consulted it upon all
occasions. He observed, that 'Swift put his name
but to two things (after he had a name to put),
the "Plan of the Improvement of the English
Language," and the last "Drapier's Letters."'
"From Swift there was an easy transition to
Mr. Thomas Sheridan. Johnson, 'Sheridan is a
wonderful admirer of the tragedy of Douglas, and
presented its author with a gold medal. Some
years ago, at a Cofice-house in Oxford, I called to
him "Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Sheridan, how came you
to give a gold medal to Home, for writing that
foolish play?" This, you see, was wanton and in-
solent; but I TTieant to be wanton and insolent.
A medal has no value but as a stamp of ment.
And was Sheridan to assume to himself the risrht of
giving that stamp? If Sheridan was magnificent
enough to bestow a gold medal as an honoTury ro-
34
LIFE AND WRITIISIGS
ward of dramatic excellence, he should have re-
quested one of the universities to choose the per-
son on whom it should be conferred. Sheridan
had no right to give a stamp of merit: it was
counterfeiting Apollo's coin.' "
Now that Goldsmith had acquired fame as a
poet of the first rani?, and was associated with
the wit and talent that belonged to this cele-
brated club, his publisher, Mr. Newberry, thought
he might venture to give the "Vicar of Wakefield"
to the world. It was accordingly brought out in
1766, and not only proved a most lucrative specu-
lation for the bookseller, but brought a fresh ac-
cession of literary celebrity to its author. Notwath-
standing the striking merit of this work, it is a
fact not less singular than true, that the literary
friends to whom Goldsmith submitted it for criti-
cism, before publication, were divided in opinion as
to the probability of its success ; and it is still more
singular that Dr. Johnson himself should have en-
tertained doubts on the subject. It has been as-
serted, that the publisher put it to press in the
crude state in which he found it, when the bar-
gain was made with Johnson for the manuscript ;
but such a conclusion is obviously erroneous.
Goldsmith was at that time on the best terms with
Newberry, and engaged in the completion of vari-
ous minor pieces for him; and as the fame of the
one as well as the profit of the other were equally
at stake on the success of the performance, it is ex-
ceedingly improbable that both author and pub-
lisher should be regardless of such revisal and cor-
rection as was clearly for the benefit of both.
That Goldsmith did alter and revise this work be-
fore publication, may be gathered from a conversa-
tion which took place between Johnson and Mr.
Boswell. "Talking of a friend of ours," says the
latter, "who associated with persons of very dis-
cordant principles and characters, I said he was a
very universal man, quite a man of the world."
"Yes, sir," said Johnson, "but one may be so
much a man of the world, as to be nothing in the
world. I remember a passage in Goldsmith's 'Vi-
car of Wakefield,' which he was afterwards foul
enough to expunge; '/ do not late a man who is
zealous for nothing.'" '' Boswell, "That was a fine
passage." Johnstin, "Yes, sir; there was another
fine passage which he struck out: 'When I was a
young man , being anxious to distinguish my-
self, I was ■perpetually starting new propositions;
but I soon gave this over; for I found that gener-
ally what was new was false.' "
The "Vicar of Wakefield" has long been con-
sidered one of the most interesting tales in our
language. It is seldom that a story presenting
merely a picture of common life, and a detail of
domestic events, so powerfully affects the reader.
The irresistible charm this novel possesses, exinces
how much may be done, without the aid of extra-
vagant incident, to excite the imagination and in-
terest the feelings. Few productions of the kind
afford greater amusement in the perusal, and still
fewer inculcate more impressive lessons of morali-
ty. Though wit and humour abound in every
page, yet in the whole volume there is not one
thought injurious in its tendency, nor one senti-
ment that can offend the chastest ear. Its language,
in the words of an elegant writer, is what "angels
might have heard and virgins told." In the deli-
neation of his characters, in the conduct of his fa-
ble, and in the moral of the piece, the genius of the
author is equally conspicuous. The hero displays
with unaftected simplicity the most striking virtues
that can adorn social life: sincere in his professions,
humane and generous in his disposition, he is him-
self a pattern of the character he represents. The
other personages are drawn with similar discrimi-
nation. Each is distinguished by some peculia.
feature ; and the general grouping of the whole has
this particular excellence, that not one could be
wanted without injuring the unity and beauty of
the desiixn. The drama of the tale is also manajred
with equal skill and effect. There are no extra-
vagant incidents, and no forced or improbable situ-
ations; one event rises out of another in the same
easy and natural manner as flows the language of
the narration; the interest never flags, and is kept
up to the last by the expedient of concealing the
real character of Burchell. But it is the moral ol
the work which entitles the author to the praise ot
supereminent merit in this species of writing. No
writer has arrived more successfully at the great
ends of a moralist. By the finest examples, he in-
culcates the practice of benevolence, patience in
suffering, and reliance on the providence of God.
A short time after the publication of the "Vicai
of Wakefield," Goldsmith printed his beautiful
ballad of the "Hermit." His friend Dr. Percy
had published, in the same year, "Reliques of An-
cient English Poetry;" and as the "Hermit" was
found to bear some resemblance to a tale in thai
collection, entitled "The Friar of Orders Graj',"
the scribblers of the time availed themselves of the
circumstance to tax him with plagiarism. Irritated
at the charge, he publislied a letter in the St.
James's Chronicle, vindicating the priority of his
own poem, and asserting that the plan of the other
must have been taken from his. It is probable,
however, that both poems were taken from a very
ancient ballad in the same collection, beginning
"Gentle Heardsman." Our author had seen and
admired this ancient poem, in the possession of
Dr. Percy, long before it was jmntcd ; and some of
the stanzas he appears, perhaps undesignedly, to
have imitated in the "Hermit," as the reader will
perceive on examining the following specimens:— »
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
35
FROM THE OLD BALLAD.
And grew soe coy and nice to please,
As women's loolces are often soe,
Ho might not kisse, nor hand forsootlie,
Unless I willed him so to doe.
Thus being wearyed with delayes, • ' ,
To see I pittyed not his greeffe, ' '
He gotl him to a secrett place,
And there hee dyed without releefle.
And for his sake these weeds I weare,
And sacrifice my tender age ; ' .
And every day I'll beg my bread,
To uiidergo this pilgrimage.
Thus every day I fast and pray, ....
And ever will doe till I dye ;
And gett mo to some secrett place;
For soe did hee, and soe will I.
FROM TIIE HERMIT.
For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I Iriumph'd in his pain.
Till, quite dejected by my scorn, , '
He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn, ' ■ ' ,
In secret, where he died.
But mine the sorrow, mine the fault.
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought.
And stretch me where he lay.
And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die ; ' • '
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, .
And so for him will L
, There has been an attempt, in later days, to cast
a doubt upon the title of Goldsmith to the whole
of this poem. It has been asserted that the " Her-
mit" was a translation of an ancient French poem
entitled "Raimond and Angeline." The pretend-
ed original made its appearance in a trifling peri-
odical publication, entitled "Theauiz." It bears
internal evidence of being in reality an unitation of
Goldsmith's poem. The frivolous source of tliis
flippant attack, and its transparent fiilsity, would
have caused it to pass unnoticed here, had it not
been made a matter of grave discussion in some
periodical journals. To enter into a detailed refu-
tation would be absurd.
The poem of "The Hermit" was at first in-
scribed to the Countess (afterwards Duchess) of
Northumberland, who had shown a partiality for
productions of this kind, by patronizing Percy's
"Reliques of Ancient English Poetry '' Tliis led
to a renewed intercourse with the d-jce, to whom
we have already narrated Goldsmith's first visit;
but the time had gone by when liis grace could
have been politically useful, and we do not know
that our author reaped any other advantage from
the notice that nobleman took of him, than the
gratification of being recognized by a man of the
dulce's high rank as a literary friend.
Tliis distinguished peer and his duchess were
accustomed to spend part of each summer at Bath;
and one year, after their return to London, her
grace related to Dr. Percy, with considerable hu-
mour, the following occurrence, characteristic of
our author's occasional abstraction of mind. On
one of the parades at Bath, the duke and Lord
Nugent had hired two adjacent houses. Gold-
smith, who was then resident on a visit with the
latter, one morning walked up into the duke's din-
ing room, as he and the duchess were preparing to
sit down to breakfast. In a manner the most free
and easy he threw himself on a sofa ; and, as he
was then perfectly known to them both, they in-
quired of him the Bath news of the day. But per-
ceiving him to be rather in a meditative humour,
they rightly guessed there was some mistake, and
endeavoured, by easy and cheerful conversation to
prevent his becoming embarrassed. When break-
fast was served up, they invited him to stay and
partake of it ; and then poor Goldsmith awoke from
his reverie, declared he thought he had been in the
house of his friend Lord Nugent, and with confu-
sion hastily withdrew; not, however, till the good-
humoured duke and duchess had made him promise
to dine with them.
Something akin to this incident, is the well
known blunder committed by our author during a
conversation with the Earl of Shelbourne. One
evening, while in company with this nobleman.
Goldsmith, after a variety of conversation, fell into
a fit of musing. At last, as if suddenly recovering
from his abstraction, he addressed his lordship ab-
ruptly in this manner; — "My lord, I have often
wondered why every body should call your lordship
Malagrida; for Malagrida, you know, was a very
good man." The well bred peer only replied to
this awkward compliment bj^ a smile, and the
heedless poet went on totally unconscious of his
error. It was afterwards remarked by Dr. John-
son, that this mistake of Goldsmith was only a
blunder in emphasis, and that the expression meant
nothing more than, "I wonder they should use
Malagrida as a term of reproach."
About this period, or perhaps a little earlier,
Goldsmith, in addition to the apartments he occu-
pied in the Temple, took a country-house on the
Edgeware-road, in conjunction with a Mr. Bott,
one of his literary friends, for the benefit of good
air, and the convemence of retirement. To this
little mansion he gave the jocular appellation of Sh oe-
maker's Paradise, the architecture being in a fan-
tastic style, after the taste of its original possessor,
who was one of the craft. Here he began and
finished one of his most pleasing and successful
compilations, a " History of England, in a Scriew
of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son," This
36
LIFE AND WRITINGS
little work was at first published anonymously,
and was very generally ascribed to the pen of Lord
Lyttleton. That nobleman then held some rank
in the world of letters, and as the chief feature in
the performance was an easy elegance of language,
without much depth of thought, or investigation,
the public were the more easily betrayed into a be-
lief that it was the work of his lordship. It hat!
likewise the honour to be ascribed to the Earl of
Orrery, and some other noble authors of that period.
That it was really the production of Goldsmith,
However, was soon afterwards generally known; a
circumstance, which in all probability, greatly en-
hanced its value in the estimation of the world.
Few books have had a more extensive sale or
wider circulation.
The fame our author had now acquired as a
critic, a novelist, and a poet, prompted him to ad-
venture in the drama. His first effort produced
" The Good-natared Man." This comedy was
offered to Garrick, to be brought out at his theatre
of Drury-Lane ; but after much fluctuation between
doubt and encouragement, with his customary hesi-
tation and uncertainty, he at length declined it. The
ConductofGarrick in this instance was the more sur-
prising, as the piece had been read and applauded in
manuscript by most of the author's literary friends,
and had not only the sanction of Burke's critical
judgment, but Johnson himself had engaged to
write the prologue. Colman, the manager of Cov-
ent-Garden Theatre, was, however, not so scrupu-
lous; especially when he found it presented under
such patronage. It was therefore agreed that it
should be'produced at his theatre ; and it was repre
sented there for the first time on the 29th of Janu
ary, 1768. Contrary to the expectations of the au-
thor and his friends, it did not meet with unquali-
fied applause ; and though it kept possession of the
stage nine nights, it was finally withdrawn. The
pecidiar genius of its author was apparent in the
ease and elegance of the dialogue, and throughout
the whole there were many keen remarks on men
and manners; but the piece was deficient in stage-
effect. The Bailiff scene, in particular, was gene-
rally reprobated, though the characters were well
drawn. Tliis scene was afterwards greatly abridg-
ed. Whatever were the faults of the piece as a
whole, it was admitted that many of the parts pos-
sessed great comic effect, and these were highly
applauded. The part of Croaker, in particular, was
allowed to be excellent. It was admirably sup-
ported by Shutcr, the most popular comedian of liis
day. The drollery of his manner while reading
the incendiary letter in the fourth act, and his ex-
pression of the different passions by which he was
agitated, were so irresistibly comical, that he brought
down thunders of applause. Goldsmith himself was
so overcome with the acting of Shuter, that he ex-
pressed his delight before the whole company, as-
suring him that " he had exceeded his own ide«
of the character, and that the fine comic richncsf
of his colouring made it almost appear as new tsr
him as to any other person in the house." Dr.
Johnson furnished the prologue, and publicly de-
clared, that in his opinion, " The Good-natured
Man" was the best comedy that had appeared
since " The Provoked Husband." He dwelt with
much complacency on the character of Croaker,
and averred that none equal to it in originality
had for a long time been exhibited on the stage.
Goldsmith used to acknowledge, that for his con-
ception of this character he was indebted to John-
son's Suspirius in the "Rambler." That of Honey-
wood, in its undistinguisliing benevolence, bear*
some resemblance to his own. " The Good-na-
tured Man" has undoubtedly great merit; and
though deficient in effect for the stage, will always
be a favourite in the closet. Mr. Cumberland rC'
marks, that it "has enough to justify the good
opinion of its literary patrons, and secure its au-
thor against any loss of reputation; for it has the
stamp of a man of talents upon it, though its popu-
larity with the audience did not quite keeppacewith
the expectations that were grounded on the fiat it
had antecedently been honoured with." Short as
its career was, however, its author by the sale of the
copy, and the profits of his three nights, acquired
not less than five hundred pounds, a sum which
enabled him to enlarge his domestic establishment,
and improve his style of living, though it is believ-
ed on rather a too expensive scale. On removing,
at this time from an attic in the Inner- Temple, to
elegant chambers in Brick-court, Middle-Temple,
he is said to have laid out upwards of four hundred
pounds.
Goldsmith's improved circumstances, did not,
however, compensate for the vexations he suffered
from the virulence of some of the periodical critics.
"At that time," says Mr. Cumberland, "there
was a nest of vipers in league against every name
to which any degree of celebrity was attached ; and
they kept their hold upon the papers till certain of
their leaders were compelled to fly their country,
some to save their ears, and some to save theit
necks. They were well known ; and I am sorry
to say, some men whose minds should have been
superior to any terrors they could hold out, made
suit to them for favour, nay even combined witn
them on some occasions, and were mean enough
to enrol themselves under their despicable ban-
ners." From this class of critics, poor Goldsmith's
sensitive feelings suffered the horrors of crucifixion.
To add to his mortification, the comedy of " False
Delicacy," written by his friend Kelly, came out at
Drury-Lane Theatre about the same time with
" The Good-natured Man" at Covent-Garden, and
had such an unexampled run of success, that it
was said to have driven its opponent fairly off the
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
field. This might, perhaps, he in some measure
owing to the able management of Garrick, under
whose special superintendence it was got up; but
at that time sentimental writing was the prevailing
taste of the town, and Kelly's piece was the finest
speciinen of the sentimental school that had ap-
peared. Although " False. Delicacy," according
to Dr. Johnson, was "totally devoid of character,"
no less than ten thousand copies were sold in the
course of only one season; and the booksellers con-
cerned in the copyright, as a mark of the sense
they entertained of the comedy, evinced by its ex-
traordinary sale, presented Kelly with a piece of
plate of considerable value, and gave a sumptuous
entertainment to him and his friends. These cir-
cumstances so wrought upon the irritable feelings
of Goldsmith, in whose disposition, warm and
generous as it was, envy had an unhappy predomi-
nance, that he renounced the friendship of Kelly,
and could with difficulty be brought to forgive him
this temporary success. Our author, though in
the cliief features of his character the original of his
own " Good-natured ]Man," was yet strangely
jealous of the success of others, and particularly
in whatever regarded literary fame.
We find it difficult to reconcile the possession
of so odious a quality with affectionate habits and
benevolent propensities like his. True it is, how-
ever, that he was prone to indulge this unamiable
passion to so ridiculous an excess, that the instances
of it are hardly credible. When accompanying
two beautiful young ladies,* with their mother, on
a tour in France, he was amusingly angry that
more attention was paid to them than to him. And
once, at the exhibition of the Fantoccini in Lon-
don, when those who sat next him observed with
what dexterity a puppet was maJe to toss a pike,
he could not bear that it should have such praise,
and exclaimed with some warmtli, " Pshaw! I can
do it better myself" In fact, on his way home
with Mr. Burke to supper, he broke his shin, by
attempting to exhibit to the company how much
better he could jump over a stick than the puppets.
His envy of Johnson was one day strongly ex-
hibited at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
While the doctor was relating to the circle there
assembled the particulars of his celebrated uiter-
view with the king. Goldsmith remained unmoved
upon a sofa at some distance, affecting not to join
in the least in the eager curiosity of the company.
At length, however, the frankness and simplicity
of his natural character prevailed. He spruna
from the sofa, advanced to Johnson, and in a kind
m flutter, from imagining liimself in the situation
he had just been hearing described, exclaimed,
"Well, you acquitted \'ourself in this conversation
better than I should have done ; for I should have
bowed and stammered through the whole of it."
On another occasion, during an interesting ar
gument carried on by Johnson, Mayo, and Top-
lady, at the table of Messrs. Dilly, the booksellers,
' Goldsmith sat in restless agitation, from a wish to
get in and shine. Finding himself excluded, he
had taken his hat to go away, but remained for
some time with it in his hand, like a gamester who,
at the close of a long night, lingers for a little while,
to see if he can have a favourable opening to finish
with success. Once when he was beginning to
speak, he found himself overpowered by the loud
voice of Johnson, who was at the opposite end of
the table, and did not perceive Goldsmith's attempt.
Thus disappointed of his wish to obtain the atten-
tion of the company. Goldsmith in a passion threw
down his hat, looking angrily at Johnson, and ex-
claiming in a bitter tone " 7''ake it." When Top-
lady was going to speak, Johnson uttered some
sound, which led Goldsmith to think that he wag
beginning again, and taking the words from Top-
lady. Upon which he seized this opportunity of
venting his own spleen, under the pretext of sup-
porting another person : "Sir," said he to Johnson,
"the gentleman has heard you patiently for an
hour: pray allow us now to hear liim." Johnson
replied, " Sir, 1 was not interrupting the gentle-
man ; I was only giving hiin a signal of my atten-
tion. Sir, you are impertinent." Goldsmith made
no reply. Johnson, Boswell, and Mr. Langton,
towards the evening, adjourned to the club, where
they found Burke, Garrick, and some other mem-
bers, and amongst them their friend Goldsmith,
who sat silently brooding over Johnson's reprimand
to him after dinner. Johnson perceived this, and
said aside to some of them, "I'll make Goldsmith
forgive me;" and then called to him in a loud
voice, " Dr. Goldsmith, — something passed to-day
where you and I dined ; I ask your pardon." Gold-
smith answered placidly, "It must be much from
you, sir, that I take ill." And so at once me dif-
ference was over ; they were on as easy terms as
ever, and Goldsmith rattled away as usual.'
The tincture of envy thus conspicuous in the dis-
position of our author, was accompanied by another
characteristic feature, more innocent but withal ex
cecdingly ridiculous. He was vain of imaginary
qualifications, and had an incessant desire of being
conspicuous in company ; and this was the occasion
of his sometimes appearing to such disadvantage as
one should hardly have supposed possible in a man
of his genius. When his literary reputation had
risen deservedly high, and his society was much
courted, his jealousy of the great attention paid to
Johnson was more strikingly apparent. One eve-
ning, in a circle of wits, he found fault with Bos-
* The Miss Hornecks, one of whom was afterwards married ^'"^''^ *"^^'' t'dking of Johnson as entitletl to the lionour
to Uemy Buiibury, Esq. and ihe oil.er to Colonel Gwja |0f unquestionable superiority. "Sir," said h^
38
LIFE AND WRITINGS
" you are for making a monarchy of what should
be a republic."
He was still more mortified, when, talking in a
company with fluent vivacity, and, as he flattered
himself, to the admiration of all who were present,
a German who sat next him, and perceived Johnson
rolling himself, as if about to speak, suddenly stop-
ped him, saying, " Stay, stay ; Toctor Shonson is
going to say something." This was very provok-
ing to one so irritable as Goldsmith, who frequently
mentioned it with strong expressions of indigna-
tion.
There is thus much to be said, however, for the
envy of Goldsmith. It was rarely excited but on oc-
casions of mere literary competition ; and, perhaps,
appeared much more conspicuous in him than other
men, because he had less art, and never attempted
to conceal it. Mr. Boswell used to defend him
against Dr. Johnson for this fault, on the grovmd
of his frank and open avowal of it on all occasions;
but Johnson had the best of the argument. " He '
talked of it to be sure often enough," said the latter,
" but he had so much of it that he could not con-
ceal it. Now, sir, what a man avows, he is not
ashamed to think ; though many a man thinks what
he is ashamed to avow. We are all envious na-
turally ; but by checking envy, we get the better
of it. So we are all thieves naturally ; a child al-
ways tries to get at what it wants the nearest way :
by good instructions and good habits this is cured,
till a man has not even an inclination to seize what
is another's ; has no struggle with himself about
it." But, after all, if ever envy was entitled to be
called innocent, it certainly was so in the person
of Goldsmith. Whatever of this kind appeared in
his conduct was but a momentary sensation, which
he knew not like other men how to disguise or con-
ceal. Rarely did it influence the general tenor of
his conduct, and, it is believed, was never once
knowm to have embittered his heart.
While Goldsmith was occupied with his comedy
of the "Good-natured Man," he was, as usual,
busily employed in the compilation of various pub-
Kcations for the booksellers, particularly a series
of histories for the instruction of young readers.
These were, his " History of Rome," in 2 vols. 8vo.
and the " History of England," in 4 vols. 8vo.
The " History of Greece," in 2 vols. 8vo. pub-
lished under his name after his death, can not
with certainty be ascribed to his pen. For the
"History of England," Da\'ies the bookseller con-
tracted to pay him 500Z. and for an abridgment of
the Roman history, the sum of fifty guineas.*
These historical compilations possess all the ease,
grace and simplicity, peculiar to the general style
of their author, and are well calculated to attract
young readers by the graces of composition. But
the more advanced student of history mus* resort
to other sources for information.
In the History of England, in particular, there
are several mis-statements; and one instanoj may
be given from his account of a remarkable occur-
rence in the affairs of his own country, to wliich
it might have been expected he would have paid
more than ordinary attention. This is to be found
in his narrative of the famous siege of London-
derry, in 1689, sustained against the French army
during a hundred and four days, after the city was
found to be without provisions for little more than
a week, and had besides been abandoned by the
military commanders as utterly untenable. For
this memorable defence the country was indebted
to the courage, conduct, and talents of the Rev.
George Walker, a clergyman who happened ta
take refuge in the city after it was abandoned by
the miUtary. Under the direction of Walker, as-
sisted by two officers accidentally in the place, the
defence was conducted with so much skill, couracre,
and perseverance, and the citizens displayed such
valour, patience, and fortitude, under innumerable
hardsliips and privations, that the city was finally
saved.* For his services on this occasion Mr,
" MEMORANDUM.
" Russell street, Covent Garden.
" It is agreed between Oliver Goldemith, M, B., on the one
Viand, and Thomas Da vie.s, bookseller, of Russell street Covent
Garden, on the other, that Oliver Goldsmith shall write for
Thomas Davies, a History of England, from the birth of the
British Empire, to the death of George the II., in four volumes,
octavo, of the size and letter of the Roman History, written by
Oliver Goldsmith. The said History of Eiigland shall be
written and compiled in the space of two years from the data
hereof And when the said History is written and delivered
in manuscript, the primer giving his opinion that the ntantity
above mentioned is completed, that then Oliver Goltismith
shall be paid by Thomas Davies the sum of 500^. sterling, for
having written and compiled the same. It is agreed also, tha;
Oliver Goldsmith shall print his name to the said work. In
witness whereof we have set our names the 13th of June, 1769.
" Oliver Gotdsynith.
" Thomas Davies."
' The articles of agreement relative to these works between
the bookseller and Goldsmith having been preserved, we quote
them for tlie gratification of our reader's curiosity, especially
v they were drawn by the doctor liimself.
« MEMORANDIBI.
" September \5, 1770.
" It is agreed between Oliver Goldsmith, M.B., and Thomas
Davies, of Covent Garden, bookseller, that Oliver Goldsmith
shall abridge, for Thomas Davies, the book entitled Gold-
smith's Roman Histoiy, in two volumes, 8vo, into one volume
in 12mo, so as to fit it for the use of such as will not be at the
expense of that in Svo. For tlie abridging of the said history,
and for putting his name thereto, said Thomas Davies shall
pay Oliver Goldsmith fifty guineas; to be paid him on the
auridgment and delivering of the copy. As witness our handa.
" Oliver Goldsmith.
" Tliomas Davies."
* A ciu-ious journal whiclt Mr. Walker h.ad kept of all the
occurrences during the siege, was published at that period, in
4to, and was afterwards republished by the late Dr. Browi^
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
39
Walker, who belonged to the Established Church,
was afterwards created Bishop of Dromore by ICing
William ; but his military zeal prompted him to
volunteer liis services at the battle of the Boyne,
where he was unfortunately killed. Of this ex-
traordinary character Goldsmith takes a very sUght
and rather disrespectful notice, stating him to have
been a dissenting minister, which he was not, and
neglecting to record either his promotion or his
death.*
Goldsmith, besides his regular employment in the
compilation of these histories, had now all the other
business of an author by profession. Either through
friendship or for money, but oftener from charity to
the needy or unsuccessful of his brethren, he was
frequently engaged in the composition of prefaces,
dedications, and introductions to the performances
of other writers. These exhibit ingenious proofs
of his ready talent at general writing, and for the
most part gave a much better display of the subjects
treated of than could have been done by their own
authors. But in this view he is rather to be con-
sidered as an advocate pleading the cause of ano-
ther, than as delivering the sentiments of his own
mind; for he often recommends the doubtful pecu-
liarities, and even the defects of a work, which it is
obvious, had been engaged on the other side, he
could with equal ability have detected and exposed.
Something like this our readers will find in an Ad-
dress to the Public, which was to usher in propo-
sals for "A New History of the World, from the
creation to the present time," in 12 vols. 8vo. by
Guthrie and others, to be printed for Newberry.
This undertaking was to form an abridgment of all
the volumes of the ancient and modern universal his-
tories ; and our author urges a great variety of topics
in praise of such contractions and condensing of liis-
torical materials, which, with equal ingenuity, he
author of the Estimate, etc. One very providential circum-
stance happened to the besieged. Being reduced by the ex-
tremity of famine to eat every kind of unwliolesome food, they
were dying in great numbers of the bloody flux ; but the acci-
dental discovery of some concealed barrels of starch and tal-
lovr, relieved their hunger, and cured the dysentery at the
eame time.
' Our avithor's inaccuracy, with regard to Mr. Walker, was
corrected in the following letter addressed to him by Mr.
Woolsey, of Dundalk : " To Dr. Goklsmilh. — Sir, I beg leave
to acquaint you, there is a mistake in your abridgment of the
History of England, respecting Dr. Walker, viz. ' one Walker,
a dissenting minister.'
"I venture to assure you, Mr. Walker was a clergyman ol
the Established Church of Ireland, who was appointed Uishop
of Dromore by King William, for his services at Derry, but
was unfortunately killed at the battle of the Boyne; which I
hope you will be pleased to insert in future editions of your
late book.
"Tlie Duke of Schomberg was certainly killed in passing
the river Boyne. I am, Sir, with great respect, your most
oljedient humble servant,
" TViomas Woolsey."
'Dundalk, April 10, 1772."
could have opposed and refuted. But the whole ia
truly excellent as a composition. About the same
time, he drew up a preface or introduction to Dr.
Brookes's " System of Natural History," in G vols.
12mo, in itself a very dull and uninteresting work ;
but such an admirable display of the subject wai>
given in the preface, whicli he rendered doubly cap-
tivating by the charms of his style, that the book-
sellers immediately engaged liim to undertake his
own larger work of the " History of the Earth and
Animated Nature." It was this work which Dr.
Johnson emphaticaHy said, its author would " make
as entertaining as a Persian Talc." The result
proved the accurac}' of the judgment thus passed on
it; for, although it contains numerous defects, yet
the witchery of its language has kept it buoyant in
spite of criticism. The numerous editions through
which it has passed attest, that, if not a profound,
it is at least a popular work ; and few will be dispos-
ed to deny, that with all its faults, if not the most
instructive, it is undoubtedly the most amusing work
of the kind yet published. It would be absurd to
aver, that an adept would find himself enlightened
by the doctor's labours in that science : but a com-
mon reader will find his curiosity gratified, and that
time agreeably disposed of which he bestows on this
work. When our autlior engaged in this compi-
lation, he resolved to make a translation of Pliny,
and, by the help of a commentary, to make that
agreeable writer more generally acceptable to the
public; but the appearance of Bufi'on's work induced
him to change his plan, and instead of translating
an ancient writer, he resolved to imitate the last
and best of the moderns who had written on the
same subject. To this illustrious Frenchman Gold-
smith acknowledges tlie higliest obligations, but,
unluckily, he has copied him without discrimina-
tion, and, while he selected his beauties, heedlessly
adopted his mistakes.
In a serio-comical apostrophe to the author, Mr.
Cumberland observes, on the subject of this work,
that " distress drove Goldsmith upon undertakings
neither congenial with his studies, nor worthy of his
talents. I remember him, when, in his ciiambers in
the Temple, he showed me the beginning of his
' Animated Nature;' it was with a sigh, such as ge-
nius draws, when hard necessity diverts it from its
bent to drudge for bread, and talk of birds, and beasts,
and creeping things, which Pidcock's showman
would have done as well. Poor fellow, he hardly
knew an ass from a nmle, nor a turkey from a goose,
but when he saw it on the table. But publishers
hate poetry, and Patcrnostcr-row is not Parnassus.
Even the mighty Dr. Hili, who was not a very deh-
cate feeder, could not make a dinner out of tha
press, till, by a happy transformation into Hannah
Glass, he turned himself into a cook, and sold re-
ceipts for made-dishes to all the savoury readers ui
the kingdom. Then, indeed, the press acknow-
40
LIFE AND WRITINGS
ledged him second in fame only to John Bunyan :
his feasts kept pace in sale with Nelson's Fasts ;
and when his own name was fairly written out of
credit, he wrote himself into immortality under an
alias. Now, though necessity, or I should rather
say, the desire of finding money for a masquerade,
drove Oliver Goldsmith upon abridging histories,
and turning Buffon into English, yet I much doubt,
if, without that spur, he would ever have put his
Pegasus into action : no, if he had been rich, the
world would have been poorer than it is, by the
loss of all the treasures of his genius, and the con-
tributions of his pen."
Much in the same style was Goldsmith himself
accustomed to talk of his mercenary labours. A
poor writer consulted him one day on what subjects
he might employ his pen with most profit : " My
dear fellow," said Goldsmith, laughing, indeed, but
in good earnest, "pay no regard to the draggle-tail
Muses; for my part, I have always found produc-
tions in prose nacre sought after and better paid
for."
On another occasion, one of his noble friends,
whose classical taste he knew and admired, lament-
ed to him his neglect of the Muses, and enquired
of him why he forsook poetry, to compile histories,
and write novels'] "My lord," said our author,
"by courting the Muses I shall starve, but by my
other labours, I eat, drink, and have good clothes,
and enjoy ihe luxuries of life." This is, no doubt,
the reason that his poems bear so small a pro[)or-
tion to his other productions; but it is said, that he
al\vays reflected on these sacrifices to necessity with
the bitterest regret.
Although Goldsmith thus toiled for a livelihood
in the drudgery of compilation, we do not find that
he had become negligent of fame. His leisure
hours were still devoted to his Muse ; and the next
voluntary production of his pen was the highly-
finished poem of " The Deserted Village." Pre-
vious to its publication, the bookseller who had bar-
gained for the manuscript, gave him a note for one
hundred guineas. Having mentioned this soon
afterwards to some of his friends, one of them re-
marked, that it was a very great sum for so short a
performance. "In truth," said Goldsmith, "I
think so too; it is much more than the honest man
can afford, or the piece is worth : I have not been
easy since I received it; I will therefore go back and
return him his note :" which he actually, did, and
left it entirely to the bookseller to pay him accord-
ino- to the success of the sale and the profits it might
produce. His estimate of the value of this perform-
ance was formed from data somewhat singular
for a poet, who most commonly appreciates his la-
bours rather by their quality than their quantity.
he computed, that a hundred guineas was equal to j
five sliillings a couplet, which, he modestly observ-.
ed, "was certainly too much, because more than hs
thought any publisher could afford, or, indeed, than
any modern poetry whatever could be worth."
The sale of this poem, however, was so rapid and
extensive, that the bookseller soon paid him the full
amount of the note he had returned, with an ac-
knowledgment for the disinterestedness he had
evinced on the occasion.
Although criticism has allotted the highest rank
to "The Traveller," there is no doubt that "The
Deserted Village" is the most popular and favourite
poem of the two. Perhaps no poetical piece of
equal length lias been more universally read by all
classes or has more frequently supplied extracts
for apt quotation. It abounds with couplets and
single lines, so simply beautiful in sentiment, so
musical in cadence, and so perfect in expression,
that the ear is delighted to retain them for theij
truth, while their tone of tender melancholy indeli-
bly engraves them on the heart. — The character-
istic of our author's poetry is a prevailing simplici-
ty, which conceals all the artifices of versification :
but it is not confined to his expression alone, for it
pervades every feature of the poem. His delinea-
tion of rural scenery, his village portraits, his moral,
political, and classical allusions, while marked by
singular fidelity, chasteness, and elegance, are all
chiefly distinguished for this pleasing and natural
character. The finishing is exquisitely delicate,
without being overwrought; and, with the feelings
of tenderness and melancholy which runs through
the poem, there is occasianally mixed up a slight
tincture of pleasantry, which gives an additional
interest to the whole.
" The Deserted Village" is written in the same
style and measure with " The Traveller," and may
in some degree be considered a suite of that poem :
pursuing some of the views and illustrating in their
results .some of the principles there laid down. But
the poet is here more intimately interested in his
subject. The case is taken from his own experi-
ence, the scenery drawn from his own home, and
the application especially intended for his own
country.
The main intention of the poem is to contrast
agriculture with commerce, and to maintain that
the former is the most worthy pursuit, both as it
regards individual happiness and national prosperi-
ty. He proceeds to show that commerce, while it
causes an influx of wealth, introduces also luxury,
and its attendant vices and miseries. He dwells
with pathos on the effects of those lordly fortunes
which create little worlds of solitary magnificence
around them, swallowing up the small farms in
their wide and useless domains ; thus throwing an
air of splendour over the country, while in fact they
hedge and wall out its real life and soul — its hardjf
peasantry.
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
41
III fares the land, to hasfnin? 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;
Kuta bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. '
The poet, again personified in the traveller, re-
turns from his wanderings in distant countries to
the village of his childhood. In the opening of the
poem he draws from memory a minute and beauti-
ful picture of the place, and fondly recalls its sim-
ple sports and rustic gambols. In all his journey-
ings, his perils, and his sufferings, he had ever look-
ed forward to this beloved spot, as the haven of re-
pose for the evening of his days.
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
\ still had hopes, my long vexations past,
ilere to return, and die at home at last.
With these expectations he returns, after the
lapse of several years, and finds the village desertetl
and desolate. A splendid mansion had risen in its
neighbourhood ; the cottages and hamlets had been
demolished; their gardens and fields were thrown
into parks and pleasure-grounds; and their rustic
inhabitants, thrust out from their favourite abodes,
had emigrated to another hemisphere.
To distant climes, a dieary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with feinting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Dejected at this disappointment of his cherished
hope, the poet wanders among the faint traces of
past scenes, contrasting their former life and gaiety
with their present solitude and desolation. This
gives occasion for some of the richest and mellow-
est picturing to be found in any poetry. The
village-preacher and his modest mansion; the
schoolmaster and his noisy troop ; the ale-house
and its grotesque frequenters, are all masterpieces
of their kind.
The village alluded to in this poem is at present
sufficiently ascertained to be Lishoy, near Bally-
mahon, in the county of Westmeath, Ireland, in
which Goldsmith passed his youth. It has been
remarked, that the description of the place and
the people, together with the introduction of the
nightingale, a bird, it is said, unknown in the Irish
ornithology, savour more of the rural scenery and
rustic life of an English than an Irish village. But
this presents no insuperable difficulty. Such li-
censes are customary in poetry; and it is notorious
that the clear blue sky and the delicious tempera-
ture of Italy, have with much greater freedom
been appropriated by English bards to deck out
their descriptions of an English spring. It is evi-
dent, indeed, that Goldsmitii meant to represent
his village as an English one. He took from Lis-
hoy, therefore, only such traits and characteristics
as might be applied to village-life in England, and
modified them accordingly. He took what be-
longed to human nature in rustic hfe, and adapted
it to the allotted scene. In the same way a painter
takes his models from real life around him, even
when he would paint a foreign or a classic group.
There is a verity in the scenes and characters of
"The Deserted Village" that shows Goldsmith to
have described what he had seen and felt; and it
is upon record that an occurrence took place at
Lishoy, during his life time, similar to that wliich
produced the desolation of the village in the poem.
This occurrence is thus related by the Rev. Dr.
Strean, of the diocese of Elphin, in a letter to Mr.
Mangin, and inserted in that gentleman's "Essay
on light reading."
"The poem of 'The Deserted Village,'" says
Dr. Strean, "took its origin from the circumstance
of General Robert Napier, the grandfather of the
gentleman who now lives in the house, within
half a mile of Lishoy, built by the general, having
purchtised an extensive tract of the country sur-
rounding Lishoy, or Auburn; in consequence of
which, many families, here called cottiers, were re-
moved to make room for the intended improve-
ments of what was now to become the wide do-
main of a rich man, warm with the idea of chang-
ing the face of his new acquisition, and were forc-
ed, 'with fainting steps,' to go in search of 'torrid
tracts,' and 'distant climes.'
"This fact might be sufficient to establish the
seat of the poem; but there can not remain a doubt
in any unprejudiced mind, when the following are
added ; viz. that the character of the village preach-
er, the above-named Henry, the brother of the poet,
is copied from nature. He is described exactly as
hehvcd: and his 'modest mansion' as it existed.
Burn, the name of the village-master, and the site
of his school-house, and Catherine Giraghty, a
lonely widow,
The wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread.
(and to this day the brook and ditches near the
spot where her cabin stood abound with cresses),
still remain in the memory of the inhabitants, and
Catherine's children live in the neighbourhood.
The pool, the busy mill, the house where 'nut-
brown draughts inspired,' are still visited as the
poetic scene; and the 'hawthorn bush,' growing
in an open space in front of the house, which I
knew to have three trunks, is now reduced to one,
the other two having been cut, from time to time,
bv persons carrying pieces of it away to be made
into toys, etc. in honour of the bard, and of the
celebrity of his poem. All these contribute to the
same proof; and the 'decent church,' which I at-
tended for upwards of eighteen years, and which
'tops the neighbouruig liill,' is exactly described
42
LIFE AND WRITINGS
as seen from Lishoy, the residence of the preach-
er."
To the honour of Ireland, and in particular of
a gentleman named Hogan, grandson to General
Napier the destroyer, we are enabled to add that
the village of Lishoy, now bearing its poetical
name of Auburn, has been renovated and restor-
ed, at least as to its locahties, to what it was in its
happiest days. The parsonage, rescued from
a legion of pigs and poultry, which had taken
possession of its lower apartments, and relieved
from loads of grain and fodder, under which its
upper chambers had for some years groaned, has
resumed its ancient title of Lishoy-house : the
church yet crowns the hill, and is again entitled
to the appellation of decent; the school-house
maintains its station; and the village-inn, with its
sign repainted, its chambers re-whitewashed, and
the varnished clock replaced in its corner, echoes
once more with the voices of rustic politicians,
merry peasants, and buxom maids,
Half willing to be press'd,
Who kiss the cup to pass it to tlie rest
To render the dispensation of poetical justice still
more complete, the usurping mansion, the erection
of which occasioned the downfall of the village,
has become dismantled and dilapidated, and has
b«>en converted into a barrack.*
* Hie following account of the renovation of this village
la extracted from a number of the New Monthly Magazine.
"About three miles from Ballymahon, a very central town in
the sister kingdom, is the mansion and village of Auburn, so
called by their present possessor, Captain Hogan. Through
Uie taste and improvement of this gentleman, it is now a beau-
tiful spot, although fifteen years since it presented a very bare
and unpoetical aspect. This, however, was owing to a caase
which serves strongly to corroborate the assertion, that Gold-
smith had tills scene in vie w when he wrote his poem of ' The
Deserted Village.' The then possessor, General Napier, turn-
ed all his tenants out of their farms, that he might enclose
them in his own private domain. Littleton, the mansion of
the General, stands not far off, a complete emblem of the deso-
lating spirit lamented by the poet, dilapidated and converted
into a barrack.
"The chief object of attraction is Lishoy, once the parson-
age-house of Henry Goldismith, that brother to whom the
poet dedicated his ' Traveller,' and who is represented as the
Village Pastor,
Passing rich with forty younds a-year.
"When I was in the country, the lower chambers were in-
habited by pigs and sheep, and the drawing-rooms by oats.
Captain Hogan, however, has, I believe, got it since into his
possession, and has, of course, improved its condition.
"Though at first strongly inclined to ''ispute the identity of
Auburn, Lishoy-house overcame my scruples. As I clambered
ever the rotten gate, and crossed the grass-grown lawn, or
court, the tide of association became too strong for casuistry :
here thf poet dwelt and wrote, and here his thoughts fondly
recurred when comi-iosing his ' Traveller,' in a foreign lan(l.
Yonder was the decent church, that literally ' topped the neigh-
Goldsmith dedicated "The Deserted Village" to
his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds, from motives of af-
fection. "I can have no expectations," said the
poet, " 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 igno-
rant of that art in which you are said to excel :
and I may lose much by the severity of your judg-
ment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than
you. Setting interest therefore aside, to which I
never paid much attention, I must be indulged at
present in following my affections. The only
dedication I ever made was to my brother, because
I loved him better than most other men. He is
since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to
you."
bouring hill.' Before me lay the little hill of Knocknie, on
which he declares, in one of his letters, he had rather sit with
a book in hand, than mingle in the proudest assemblies. And
above all, startingly true, beneath my feet was
Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild.
"A painting from the life could not be more exact. 'Tha
stubborn currant-bush' lifts its head above the rank gra-ss, an4
the proud hollyhock flaimts where its sisters of the flower-
knot are no more.
"Li the middle of the village stands the old 'hawthorn-
iree,' built up witli masonry, to distinguish and preserve it*,
it is old and stunted, and suffers much from the depreda
tions of post-chaise travellers, who generally stop to procure a
twig. Opposite to it is the village ale-house, over the door of
which swings 'The Three Jolly Pigeons.' Within, every
thing iaarrjinged according to the letter:
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The vamish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ;
The pictures placed for ornament and use.
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.
" Captain Hogan, I have heard, found great difficulty In
obtaining ' the twelve good ndes,' but at length purchased
them at some London book-st<ill, to adorn the white-washed
parlour of the 'Three Jolly Pigeons.' However laudable thi3
may be, nothing shook my faith in the reality of Auburn so
much as this exactness, which had the disagreeable air of be-
ing got up for the occasion. The last object of pilgrimage is
the quondam habitation of the schoolmaster,
There, in his noisy mansion, skifl'd to rule.
" It is stuTounded with fragrant proofs of its identity in
Tlie blossom'd furze unprofitably gay.
"Here is to be seen the chair of the poet, which fell into tha
hands of its presents possessors at the wreck of the parson-
age-house : they have frequently refused large offers of pur-
chase ; but more, I dare say, for the sake of diawing conlri-
butioas from the curious than from any reverence for the
bard. The chair is of oak, with back and seat of cane, which
precluded all hopes of a secret drawer, like that lately disco-
vered in Gay's. There is no fear of its being worn out by the
devout earnestness of sitters — as the cocks and hens have
usurped undisputed possession of it, and protest most cla-
morously against all attemps to get it cleai^ed. or \o seat one**
self.
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
43
The warm friendship wliich had subsisted for
years between the painter and the poet, warranted
this dedication ; while the fine qualities which dis-
tinguished that eminent artist- richly merited the
elegant compliment thus paid him by Goldsmith.
"RejTiolds," says Mr. Cumberland, "was a per-
fect gentleman ; had good sense, great propriety,
with all the social attributes, and all the graces of
hospitality, equal to any man. He well knew how
to appreciate men of talents, and how near akin
the muse of poetry was to that art of which he was
60 eminent a master. From Goldsmith he caught
the subject of liis famous Ugolino ; what aids he
got from others, if he got any, were worthily be-
stowed and happily appUed. Great as an artist.
Sir Joshua was equally distinguished as a man ;
and as few have better deserved, so few have had
a more ample share of prosperity dealt out to them.
He sunned himself, as it were, in an unclouded
sky, and )us Muse, that gave him a palette dressed
by all the Graces, brought him also a cornucopia,
rich and full as Flora, Ceres, and Bacchus could
conspire to make it. When he was lost to the
world," continues Mr. Cumberland, "his death
Was the dispersion of a bright and luminous circle
of ingenious friends, whom the elegance of his
manners, the equability of his temper, and the at-
traction of his talents, had caused to assemble
round him as the centre of their society. In all the
most engaging graces of his art, in disposition, at-
titude, employment, character of his figures, and
above all, in giving mind and meaning to his por-
traits, if I were to say Sir Joshua never was ex
celled, I am inclined to believe so many better
opinions would be with me, that I should not be
found to have said too much."
"The controversy concerning t'le identity of this Auburn
was formerly a standing theme of discussion among the learn-
ed of the neighbourhood, but since the pros and cons have
been all ascertained, the argument has died away. Its abet-
tors plead the singular agreement between the local history of
the place and the Auburn of the poem, and the exactness with
which the scenery of the one answers to the description of
the other. To this is opposed the mention of the nightingale,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made ; —
ihere being no such bird in the island. The objection is slight-
ed, on the other hand, by considering the passage as a mere
poetical license: 'Besides,' say they, 'the robin is the Irish
nightingale.' And if it be hinted, how unlikely it wa-s that
Goldsmith sliould have laid the scene in a place from whicli
he was and had been so long absent, the rejoinder is always,
'Pray, sir, was Milton in hell when he built Pandemonium'?'
"Tlie line is naturally drawn between; — there can be no
doubt that the poet intended England by
• * • * * The land tohast'ning illsaprey,
Where wea'th accumulates and men decay.
"But it is very natural to suppose, (hat at the same time
his imacinntion hail in view the scenes of his youth, wliich
give such strong fe-iturus of resemblaiwe to the picture."
Soon after the pubUcation of "The Deserted
Village," Goldsmith found leisure to accompany a
party of ladies on an excursion to Paris. The
only memorial which has been preserved of this
journey, is the following fragment of a letter ad-
dressed to his friend Sir Joshua.
"My dear Friend, — We had a very quick pas-
sage from Dover to Calais, which we performed in
three hours and twenty minutes, all of us extreme-
ly sea-sick, which must necessarily have happened,
as my macliine to prevent sca-sickncss was not
completed. We were glad to leave Dover, be-
cause we hated to be imposed upon ; so were in
high spirits at coming to Calais, where we were
told that a little money would go a great way. Upon
landing two httle trmiks, which was all we carried
with us, we were surprised to see fourteen or fif-
teen fellows, all running down to the ship to lay
their hands upon them ; four got under each trunk,
the rest surrounded, and held the hasps ; and in
this manner our little baggage was conducted with
a kind of funeral solemnity, till it was safely lodg-
ed at the custom-house. We were well enough
pleased with the people's civility, till they came to
be paid. Every creature that had the happiness
of but touching our trunks with their finger, ex-
pected sixpence ; and they had so pretty a ci\il
manner of demanding it, that there was no refus-
ing them. When we had done with the porters, wo
had next to speak with the custom-house officers,
who had their pretty civil way too. We were di-
rected to the Hotel d'Angleterie, where a valet de
place came to offer his services ; and spoke to me
ten minutes before I once found out that he wag
speaking English. We had no occasion for his
services, so we gave him a httle money because he
spoke English, and because he wanted it. I can
not help mentioning another circumstance ; I bought
a new ribbon for my wig at Canterbury, and the
barber at Calais broke it, in order to gain sixpence
by buying me a new one."
About this period, the Royal Academy of paint-
ing was established, and Sir Joshua seized the op-
portunity it afi'ordcd him of testifying his regard and
partiality for Goldsmith, by procuring for him the
appointment of Professor of Ancient History.
Though unattended with either cmoluincnt or
trouble, itconferred some respectability, and entitled
him to a seat at tlie occasional meetings of the aca-
demicians, as well as at their annual dinner. He
himself properly considered it a more complimenta-
ry distinction, and from a passage in the following
letter to his brother Maurice, it is evident he would
have prized his new office much more highly had
it been coupled with that unpoctical accompani-
ment, a salary. Maurice was the poet's youngest
brother. Not having been bred to any business,
he, upon some occasion, complained to Oliver, that
he found it difficult to live like a gentlemen. On
44
LIFE AND WRITINGS
which the poet begged he would without delay
quit so unprofitable a pursuit, and betake him-
self to a trade. Maurice wisely took the hint, and
bound himself apprentice to a cabinet-maker. He
had a shop in Dublin when the Dulie of Rutland
was Lord Lieutenant; and his grace, at the in-
stance of Mr. Orde (afterwards Lord Bolton,)
made him an inspector of the licenses in that city,
out of regard for his brother's memory. He was
also appointed mace-bearer on the erection of the
Royal Irish Academy; both of them places very
compatible with his business. In the former, he
gave proofs of his integrity, by detecting several
frauds in the revenue in his department, by which
he himself might have profited, if he had not been
a man of principle. He died without issue.
The letter is dated January, 1770.
"Dear Brother, — I should have answered
your letter sooner, but in truth I am not fond of
thinking of the necessities of those I love, when it
is so very little in my power to help them. I am
sorry to find you are still every way unprovided
for; and what adds to my uneasiness is, that I have
received a letter from my sister Johnson,* by whicli
I learn that she is pretty much in the same circum-
stances. As to myself, I believe I could get both
you and my poor brother-in-law something like
that which you desire, but I am determined never
to ask for little things, nor exhaust any little inter-
est I may have, until I can serve you, him, and
myself more effectually. As yet, no opportunity
has offered, but I believe you are pretty well con-
vinced that I will not be remiss when it arrives.
The king has lately been pleased to make me Pro-
fessor of Ancient History in a Royal Academy of
Painting, which he has just established, but there
is no salary annexed ; and I took it rather as a com-
pliment to the institution, than any benefit to my-
felf. Honours to one in my situation are something
like ruffles to a man that wants a shirt. You tell
me that there are fourteen or fifteen pounds left me
In the hands of my cousin Lawder, and you ask
me what I would have done with them. My dear
brother, I would by no means give any directions to
my dear virorthy relations at Kilmore how to dis-
pose of money, which is, properly speaking, more
theirs than mine. All that I can say, is, that I en-
tirely, and this letter will serve to witness, give up
any right and title to it; and 1 am sure they will
dispose of it to the best advantage. To them 1 en-
tirely leave it, whether they or you may think the
whole necessary to fit you out, or whether our poor
sister Johnson may not want the half, I leave en-
tirely to their and your discretion. The kindness
of that good couple to our poor shattered family,
demands our sincerest gratitude : and though they
have almost forgot me, yet, if good things at last ar-
• His r^jngest sister, who had made an unfortunate marriage.
rive, I hope one day to return, and increase theii
good-humour by adding to my own. I have sent
my cousin Jenny a miniature picture of myself, as I
believe it is the most acceptable present I can offer.
I have ordered it to be left for her at George Faulk-
ner's, folded in a letter. The face, you well kni;>w,
is ugly enough, but it is finely painted. I ^\'ill short-
ly also send my friends over the Shannon some
mezzotinto prints of myself, and some more of my
friends here, such as Burke, Johnson, Reynolds,
and Colman. I believe I have written a hundred
letters to different friends in your country, and
never received an answer from any of them. I do
not know how to account for this, or why they are
unvsdlling to keep up for me those regards which I
must ever retain for them. If then you have a mind
to obhge me, you will write often, whether I an-
swer you or not. Let me particularly have the riews
of our family and old acquaintances. For instance,
you may begin by telling me about the family
where you reside, how they spend their time, and
whether they ever make mention of me. Tell me
about my mother, my brother Hodson, and his son,
my brother Harry's son and daughter, my sister
Johnson, the family of Ballyoughter, what is be-
come of them, where they Uve, and how they do.
You talked of being my only brother; I don't un-
derstand you : Where is Charles? A sheet of pa-
per occasionally filled with news of this kind would
make me very happy, and would keep you nearer
my mind. As it is, my dear brother, believe me to
be yours most affectionately."*
The lives of Lord Bolingbroke and Dr. Parnell,
undertaken for the booksellers, were the next pro-
ductions that came from his pen. They were pre-
fixed to the respective works of these writers, pub-
lished about 1770 or 1771. Both performances are
executed with his wonted taste and felicity of ex-
pression ; and, in his memoir of Parnell, the pover-
ty of incident peculiar to the life of a scholar is in-
geniously supplied by the author's own reflections.
When Dr. Johnson afterwards undertook to write
the " Lives of the Poets," he concluded the series
with that of Parnell, and seized the opportunity it
afforded liim of paying an elegant compliment to
the memory of his deceased friend. " The life of
Dr. Parnell," said he, " is a task which I should
very willingly decline, since it has lately been writ-
ten by Goldsmith; a man of such variety of powers,
and such felicity of pcrfomiance, that he always
seemed to do best that which he was doing; a man
who had the art of being minute without tedious-
ness, and general without confusion; whose lan-
guage was copious without exuberance, exact Avith-
out constraint, and easy without weakness.
• To the oriiinal of this letter there is annexed a receipt,
which shows the siiin of 15/. was paid to Maurice Goldsmitli,
for a legacy bequeathed to Oliver Goldsmith by the late Rev.
Thomas Coniarine, da'ed 4th February, 1770.
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
45
•' What such an author told, who would tell it
again? I have made an abstract from his larger nar-
ration; and have this gratification from my attempt,
that it gives me an opportunity of paying due tri-
bute to the memory of Goldsmith."
Amongst his various undertakings for the book-
eellers at this period, there was one, however, in
which Goldsmith was peculiarly unfortunate. He
had been employed by Griffin to make a selection
of elegant poems from the best English classics, for
the use of boarding-schools, and to prefix to it one
of his captivating prefaces. In noting the selections
for the printer, Goldsmith unluckily marked off one
of the most indecent tales in Prior, — a circumstance
that effectually ruined the reputation and the sale
of the work at the same time. It has been said,
that the error in this instance must have arisen
from inadvertency or carelessness; but the inadver-
tency must have been excessive, as the tale is actu-
ally introduced with a criticism.
Goldsmith, when conversing on the subject of his
labours at this time as a compiler, used to refer to
the " Selection of English Poetry," as a striking
instance of the facility with which such work might
sometimes be performed. He remarked " that of
all his compilations, tliis showed most the art of the
profession." To furnish copy for it required no in-
vention, and but little thought: he had only to
mark with a pencil the particular passages for the
printer, so that he easily acquired two hundred
pomids; "but then," said he, "lest the premium
should be deemed more than a compensation for the
labour, a man shows his judgment in these selec-
tions, and he may be often twenty years of his life
cultivating that judgment."
In 1771, Goldsmith was in^•ited by Mr. Bennet
Langton and liis lady, the Countess of Rothes, to
spend some part of the autumn with them at their
seat in Lincolnshire. Sir Joshua Reynolds, it
would seem, had promised to accompany him on
this visit; but, from the following letter to Mr.
Langton, neither he nor Sir Joshua were able at
that time to avail themselves of the invitation. The
letter is dated Temple, Brick-court, September 7,
1771.
"My Dear Sir, — Since I had the pleasure of
seeing you last, I have been almost wholly in the
country at a farmer's house quite alone, trying to
write a comedy. It is now finished , but when, or
how it will be acted, or whether it will be acted at
all, are questions I can not resolve. I am therefore
so much employed upon tliat, that I am under the
necessity of putting olf my intended visit to Lin-
colnshire for tliis senson. — Reynolds is just return-
ed from Paris, and finds himself now in the case of
a truant, that must make up for his idle time by
diligence. We have therefore agreed to postpone
our journey till next summer, when we hope to
have the honour of waiting upon Lady Rotlies and
you, and staying double the time of our late intend-
ed visit. We often meet, and never without re-
membering you. I see Mr. Beauclerk very often,
both in town and country. He is now going di-
rectly forward to become a second Boyle : deep in
chemistry and j)hysics. Johnson has been down
upon a visit to a country parson, Dr. Taylor, and
is returned to his old haunts at Mrs Thrale's.
Burke is a farmer, en attendant a better place ; but
visiting about too. Every soul is visiting about,
and merry, but myself: and that is hard, too, as I
have been trying these three months to do some,
thing to make people laugh. There have I been
strolling about the hedges, studying jests, with a
most tragical countenance. The ' Natural Histo-
ry' is about half finished, and I will shortly finish
the rest. God knows I am tired of this kind of
finishing, which is but bungling work ; and that
not so much my fault as the fault of my scur-
vy circumstances. They begin to talk in town of
the Opposition's gaining ground; the cry of liberty
is still as loud as ever. I have published, or Davies
has published for me, ' An Abridgment of the His-
tory of England,' for which I have been a good
deal abused in the newspapers for betraying the
liberties of the people. God knows I had no thought
for or against liberty in my head; my whole aim
being to make up a book of a decent size, that, as
Squire Richard says, ' would do no harm to nobo-
dy.' However, they set me down as an arrant
Tory, and consequently an honest man. When
you come to look at any part of it, you will say that
I am a sour Whig. God bless you; and, with my
most respectful compliments to her ladyship, I re-
main, dear sir, your most affectionate humble ser-
vant."
Goldsmith's residence at the farmer's house men-
tioned in this letter, appears to have been continu-
ed for a considerable time. It was situated near to
the six-mile stone on the Edgeware-road ; and Mr.
Boswell mentions that he and Mr. Mickle, transla-
tor of " The Lusiad," paid him a visit there, in
April, 1112. Unfortunately they did not find him
at home ; but having some curiosity to see his apart-
ment, they went in, and found curious scraps of
descriptions of animals scrawled upon the wall,
with a black lead pencil. He had carried down his
books thither, that he might pursue his labours
with less interruption. According to the testimo-
ny of a literary friend, who had close intercourse
with him for the last ten vears of his life, the fol-
lowintT was his mode or study and living, while in
the country. He first read in a morning from this
original works requisite for the compilation he had
in hand, as nnich as he designed for one letter or
chapter marking down the passages referred to on
a sheet of paper, with remarks. He then rode or
walked out with a friend or two, returned to dinner,
spent the day generally conviviaUy, without much
46
LIFE AND WRITINGS
drinking, to which he was never addicted ; and besides a critic of acknowledged taste and acumen.
when he retired to his bed-chamber, took up his
books and papers with him, where he generally
wrote the chapter, or the best part of it, before he
went to rest. This latter exercise, he said, cost
him very little trouble ; for having all his materi-
als duly preiiared, he wrote it with as much ease as
a common letter. The mode of life and study thus
described. Goldsmith, however, only pursued by
fits. He loved the gaieties, amusements, and so-
ciety of London ; and amongst these he would oc-
casionally lose himself for months together. To
make up for his lost time he would again retire to
the farm-house, and there devote himself to his la-
bours with such intense application, that, for weeks
successively, he would remain in his apartments
without taking exercise. This desultory system is
supposed to have injured his health, and to have
brought on those fits of the strangury to which he
was subject in tlie latter part of his life. He used
to say, that " he believed the farmer's family with
whom he lodged thought him an odd character, simi-
lar to that in which the Spectator appeared to his
landlady and herchildren : he was The Gentleman."
About this period he was concerned in a work
called "The Gentleman's Journal," published once
a fortnight. It was conducted under the joint ma-
nagement of Kenrick, Bickerstaff, and others; but
Was soon discontinued. When a friend was talk-
ing to our author one day on the subject of this
work, he concluded his remarks by observing,
what an extraordinary sudden death it had. "Not
at all, sir," said Goldsmith; "a very conunoncase;
it died of too many doctors."
His next performance was his second attempt
as a dramatist. Not discouraged by tlie cold re-
ception which his first play had met with, he re-
solved to try his fate with a second, and, maugre a
host of adverse critics, succeeded. In his letter to
Mr. Langton he mentions, that he had been occu-
pied in writing a comedy, "trying these three
months to do something to make the people laugh,"
and "strolling about the hedges, studying jests,
with a most tragical countenance." This was the
drama-which he afterwards christened "She Stoops
to Conquer; or, The Mistakes of a Night." Al-
though then just finished, its publication was de-
layed till it should be acted at one of the theatres;
and from the various obstacles and delays which
arc there thrown in an author's way, it was not
produced till March, 1773. Much difference of
opinion existed as to the probability of its success.
The majority of critics to whom it had been sub-
mitted were apprehensive of a total failure; and it
was not till after great solicitation, that Mr. Col-
aian, the manager of Covent Garden theatre, con-
sented to put it in rehearsal. That gentleman had
himself given incontestable proofs of dramatic ge-
oius, in the production of various pieces, and was
His reluctance to accept of our author's play,
therefore, and his decided condemnation of it at its
last rehearsal, was almost considered decisive of its
fate. Goldsmith, however, did not despair of it
himself; and the opinion of Dr. Johnson, without
being sanguine, leaned to the favourable side. In
a letter to Mr. Boswell he says, " Dr. Goldsmith
has a new comedy, which is expected in the spring.
No name is yet given to it. The chief diversion
arises from a stratagem, by which a lovt t is made
to mistalce his future father-in-law's house for an
inn. This, you see, borders upon farce. The di-
alogue is quick and gay, and the incidents are so
prepared as not to seem improbable." And after-
wards, when Colman had actually consented to
bring it out, Johnson wrote thus to the Rev. Mr.
White : " Dr. Goldsmith has a new comedy in re-
hearsal at Covent Garden, to which the manager
predicts ill success. I hope he will be mistaken :
I think it deserves a very kind reception." Others
of Goldsmith's friends also entertained favourable
opinions of the piece ; and a few of them even pro-
phetically anticipated a triumph over the judgment
of the manager. Perhaps, however, the strong and
decided interest taken by these friends in the fate
of the play was one great cause of its success. A
large party of them, with Johnson at their head,
attended to witness the representation, and a scheme
to lead the plaudits of the house, which had been
preconcerted with much address, was carried into
execution with triumphant effect. This contri-
vance, and the circumstances which led to it are .
detailed by Mr. Cumberland in his Memoirs. " It
was now," says Mr. Cumberland, "that I first met
him at the British Coffee-house. He dined with
us as a visiter, introduced, as I think, by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, and we held a consultation upon the
naming of his comedy, which some of the company
had read, and which he detailed to the rest after
his manner with a great deal of good humour.
Somebody suggested — She Stoops to Conquer; and
that title was agreed upon. When I perceived an
embarrassment in his manner towards me, which
I could readily account for, I lost no time to put
him at his ease ; and I flatter myself I was success-
ful. As my heart was ever warm towards my con-
temporaries, I did not counterfeit, but really felt a
cordial interest in his behalf; and I had soon the
pleasure to perceive, that he credited me for my
sincerity. — 'You and I,' said he, 'have very diflcr-
ent motives for resorting to the stage. I write for
money, and care little about fame." — I was touched
by this melancholy confession, and from that mo-
ment busied myself assiduously amongst all my
connexions in his cause. The whole company
pledged themselves to the support of the ingenu-
ous poet, and faithfully kej)t their promise to him.
In fact, he needed all that could be done for him,
OP DR. GOLDSMITH.
47
Rs Mr. Colman, then manager of Covent Garden grossed by his person and performances, that the
theatre, protested against the comedy, when as yet ! progress of the play seemed likely to become a se
he had not struck upon a name for it. Johnson condary object, and I found it prudent to insinuate
at length stood forth in all his terrors as champion
for the piece, and backed by us, his clients and re-
tainers, demanded a foir trial. Colman again pro-
tested ; but, with that salvo for his own reputation,
liberally lent his stage to one of the most eccentric
productions that ever found its vray to it ; and
' She Stoops to Conquer' was put into rehearsal.
" We were not over sanguine of success, but
perfectly determined to struggle hard for our au-
thor: we accordingly assembled our strength at the
Shakspeare Tavern in a considerable body for an
early dinner, where Samuel Johnson took the
chair at the head of a long table, and was the life
and soul of the corps : the poet took post silently
by his side, with the Burkes, Sir Joshua Reynolds,
Fitzherbcrt, Caleb Wliitefoord, and a phalanx of
North British predetermined applauders, under
the banner of Major Mills, all good men and true.
Our illustrious president was in inimitable glee:
and poor Goldsmith that day took all his raillery
as patiently and complacently as my friend Bos-
well would have done any day, or every day of liis
life. In the mean time we did not forget our du-
ty; and though we had a better comedy going, in
which Johnson was chief actor, we betook our-
selves in good time to our separate and allotted
posts, and waited the awful drawing up of the cur-
tain. As our stations were preconcerted, so were
our signals for plaudits arranged and determined
upon in a manner that gave every one his cue
where to look for them, and how to follow them up.
" We had amongst us a very worthy and efficient
member, long since lost to his friends and the
•world at large, Adam Drummond, of amiable me-
mory, who was gifted by nature with the most so-
norous, and at the same time the most contagious,
laugh that ever echoed from the human lungs.
The neighing of the horse of the son of Hystaspes
was a v/hisper to it ; the whole thunder of the thea-
tre could not drowii it. This kind and ingenu-
ous friend fairly forewarned us, that he knew no
more when to give his fire than the cannon did
that was planted on a battery. He desired, there-
fore, to have a flapper at his elbow, and I had the
honour to be deputed to that office. 1 planted him
in an upper box, pretty _nearly over the stage, in
full view of the pit and galleries, and perfectly well
situated to give the echo all its play through the
hollows and recesses of the theatre. The success
of our manoeuvres was complete. All eyes were
upon Johnson, who sat in a front row of a side
box; and when he lau^rhod, every body thought
themselves warranted to roar. In the mean time
mv friend followed signals with a rattle so irresisti-
to him that he might halt his music without any
prejudice to the author; but, alas! it was now too
late to rein him in : he had laughed upon my sig-
nal where he found no joke, and now unluckily he
fancied that he found a joke in almost every thing
that was said ; so that nothing in nature could be
more mal-a-propos than some of his bursts every
now and then were. These were dangerous mo-
ments, for the pit began to take umbrage ; but we
carried our point through, and triumphed not only
over Colman's judgment but our own."
The victory thus achieved was a source of infi-
nite exultation to Goldsmith, not more from the
pride of success, than from the mortification he
imagined it caused to the manager, at whom he
was not a little piqued in consequence of the fol-
lowing circumstance. " .
On the first night of performance he did not
come to the house till towards the close of the re-
presentation, having rambled into St. James's
Park to ruminate on the probable fate of liis piece ;
and such was his anxiety and apprehension, that
he was with much difficulty prevailed on to repair
to the theatre, on the suggestion of a friend, who
pointed out the necessity of his presence, in order
to mark any objectionable passages, for the purpose
of omission or alteration in the repetition of the
performance. With expectation suspended be*
tween hope and fear, he had scarcely entered the
passage that leads to the stage, when his ears were
shocked with a hiss, which came from the audience
as a token of their disapprobation of the farcical
supposition of Mrs. Hardcastle being so deluded
as to suppose herself at a distance of fifty miles
from home while she was actually not distant fitly
yards. Such was our poor author's tremor and
agitation on this unwelcome salute, that running
up to the manager, he exclaimed, "What's thaf}
what's thaf]" — "Pshaw, doctor!" replied Colman,
in a sarcastic tone, "don't be terrified at squibs,
when we have been sitting these two hours upon
a barrel of gunpoirder." The pride of Goldsmith
was so mortified by tliis remark, that the friendship
which had before subsisted between him and the
manager was from that moment dissolved.
The play of " She Stoops to Conquer" is found-
ed upon the incident already related, -r hich befel
the author in his younger days, when he mistook
a gentleman's house for an inn. Although, from
the extravagance of the plot, and drollery of the
incidents, we must admit that the piece is very
nearly allied to farce, yet the dialogue is carried on
in such pure and elegant language, and the strokes
of wit and humour are so easy and natural, that
oly comic, that, when he had rojieated it several 'few productions of the drama aflbrd more pleasure
times, the attention of the spectators was so en- in the representation. It still keeps possession ci
48
LIFE AND WRITINGS
the stage as a stock play, and is frequently acted ;
a circumstance which proves the accuracy of the
opinion expressed by Dr. Johnson, "that he knew
of no comedy for many years that had so much
exhilarated an audience; that had answered so
much the great end of comedy — that of making an
audience merry." In publishing this play, Gold-
smith paid his friend Johnson the compliment of
a dedication, and expressed in the strongest man-
ner the high regard he entertained for him. "By
inscribing this slight performance to you," said he,
" I do not mean so much to compliment you as
myself It may do me some honour to inform the
public, that I have lived many years in intimacy
with you. It may serve the interests of mankind
also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be
found in a character without impairing the most
unaffected piety."
The good fortune which attended this drama
was productive of its usual concomitants — a mixed
portion of applause and censure, with instances of
fulsome flattery and furious detraction. While
from less fortunate bards, whose poverty induced
them to solicit his bounty, he received the incense
of adulation in a torrent of congratulatory address-
es; from others, more independent, who were
jealous of his reputation, and envied his success,
he experienced all the virulence of malignant cri-
ticism and scurrilous invective. A single instance
of each may gratify the curiosity of our readers.
•' ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S COMEDY
'she stoops to CONaUER.'
" Quite sick in her bed Thalia was laid,
A sentiment puke had quite kill'd the sweet maid,
Her bright eyes lost all of their fire ;
When a regular doctor, one Goldsmith by name^
Found out her disorder as soon as he came,
And has made her (for ever 'twill crown all his fame)
As lively as one can desire.
•' Oh ! doctor, a-ssist a poor bard who lies ill,
Without e'er a nurse, e'er a potion, or pill :
From your kindness he hopes for some ease.
You're a 'good-natured man' all tlie world does allow,
O would your good-nature but sliine forth just now,
In a manner — I'm sure your good sense will tell how,
Your servant most humbly 'twould please !
" The bearer is the author's wife, and an an-
swer from Dr. Goldsmith by her, will be ever grate-
fully acknowledged by lus humble servant,
'John Oakman.'
" Saturday, March 27, 1773."
The Other instance exhibits an attempt to check
the author'= triumph on the ninth niglit after the
representation of his play. It was a most illiberal
personal attack, in the form of a letter (supposed
to be written by Dr. Kenrick.) addressed to Gold
Packet" of the 24th March, 1773, published by
Mr. Thomas Evans, bookseller in Paternoster-
row. Both the manner and the matter are un-
worthy of Kenrick, who was a man of talents. It
was probably the work of a more obscure hand.
" FOR THE LONDON PACKET. ,
" to dr. goldsmith.
" Voua V0U8 noyez par vaniti.
" Sin, — The happy knack which you have
learnt of puffing your own compositions, provokes
me to come forth. You have not been the eilitor
of newspapers and magazines, not to discover the
trick of literary humbug: but the gauze is so thin,
that the very foolish part of the world see through
it, and discover the doctor's monkey face, and
cloven foot. Your poetic vanity is as unpardona-
ble as your personal. Would man believe it, and
will woman bear it, to be told, that for hours the
great Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque
orang-outang's figure in a pier glass? Was but the
lovely H k as much enamoured, you would not
sigh, my gentle swain, in vain. But your vanity ia
preposterous. How will this same bard of Bedlam
ring the changes in the praise of Goldy ! But what
has he to be either proud or vain of? ' The Trav-
eller' is a flimsy poem, built upon false principles —
principles diametrically opposite to hberty. What is
' The Good-natured Man' but a poor, water-gruel,
dramatic dose? What is the ' Deserted Village'
but a pretty poem, of easy nmnbers, without fancy, .
dignity, genius, or fire? And pray what may be
the last speaking pantomime, so praised by the
doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of stuffi
the figure of a wo^ian with a fish's tail, without
plot, incident, or intrigue? We are made to laugh
at stale dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry
for wit, and grimace for humour ; wherein every
scene is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules,
the laws of nature, and of the drama : viz. two
gentlemen come to a man of fortune's house, eat,
drink, etc. and take it for an inn. The one is in-
tended as a lover for the daughter : he talks with
her for some hours : and when he sees her again in
a diflferent dress, he treats her as a bar-girl, and
swears she squinted. He abuses the master of the
house, and threatens to kick him out of his own
doors. The 'squire, whom we are told is to be a
fool, proves the most sensible being of the piece ;
and he makes out a whole act, by bidding his mo-
ther lie close behind a bush, persuading her that
his father, her own husban;], is a highwayman,
and that he has come to cut their throats, and, to
give his cousin an opportunity to go off", he drives
his mother over hedges, ditches, and through ponds.
There is not, sweet sucking Johnson, a natural
Bioith himself, and inserted in "The London 1 stroke in the whole play, but the you?ig fellow's
OP DR. GOLDSMITH.
49
giving the stolen jewels to the mother, supposing
her to be the landlady. That Mr. Colinan did no
justice to this piece, I honestly allow; that he told
his friends it would be damned, 1 positively aver ;
and, from such ungenerous insinuations, without a
dramatic merit, it rose to public notice ; and it is
now the ton to go and see it, though I never saw
a person that either liked it, or approved it, any
more than the absurd plot of Home's tragedy of
' Alonzo.' Mr. Goldsmith, correct your arrogance,
reduce your vanity : and endeavour to believe, as a
man, you are of the plainest sort ; and, as an au-
thor, but a mortal piece of mediocrity.
" Brise le miroir le infidele,
" Qui vous cache la verity.
"Tom Tickle."
Indignant at the wanton scurrility of this letter,
which was pointed out to him by the officious kind-
ness of a friend, and enraged at the indelicacy of in-
troducing the name of a lady with whom he was ac-
quainted. Goldsmith, acccompanied by one of his
countrymen, waited on Mr. Evans, and remonstrat-
ed with him on the malignity and cruelty of such an
unmerited attack upon private character. After ar-
guing upon the subject, Evans, who had really no
concern in the paper, except as publisher, went to
examine the file ; and while stooping down for it, the
author was rashly advised by his friend to take that
opportunity of using liis cane, which he imme-
diately proceeded to do, and appUed it to the pub-
lisher's shoulders. The latter, however, unexpect-
edly made a powerful resistance, and being a stout,
high-blooded Welshman, very soon returned the
blows with interest. Perceiving the turn that mat-
ters were taking, Goldsmith's hot-headed friend
fled out of the shop, leaving him in a sad plight,
and nearly overpowered by the fierce Welshman.
In the mean time. Dr. Kenrick, who happened to
be in a private room of the publisher's, came forward
on hearing the noise, and interposed between the
combatants, so as to put an end to the fight. The
author, sorely bruised and battered, was then con-
veyed to a coach ; and Kenrick, though suspected
to be the writer of the libel, affecting great com-
passion for his condition, conducted him home.
This ridiculous quarrel afforded considerable sport
for the newspapers before it was finally made up.
An action was threatened by Evans for the assault,
but it was at length compromised. Many para-
graphs appeared, however, reflecting severely on
the impropriety of Goldsmith's attempting to beat
a person in his own house; and to these he con-
ceived it incumbent on him to make a reply. Ac-
cordingly the following justificatory address ap-
peared in " The Daily Advertiser" of Wednesday,
March 31, 1773.
" TO THE PUBLIC.
" Lest it may be supposed, that I have been wil-
hng to correct in others an abuse of what 1 have
been guilty myself, I beg leave to declare, that in
all my life I never wrote or dictated a single para-
graph, letter, or essay in a newspaper, except a few
moral essays, under the character of a Chinese,
about ten years ago, in the 'Ledger;' and a letter,
to wliich I signed my name, in the ' St. James's
Chronicle.' If the hberty of the press, therefore,
has been abused, 1 have had no hand in it.
" I have always considered the press as the pro-
tector of our freedom; — as a watchful guardian,
capable of uniting the weak against the encroach-
ments of power. What concerns the public most
properly admits of a public discussion. But, of
late, the press has turned from defending public
interest to making inroads upon private life ; from
combating the strong to overwhelming the feeble.
No condition is now too obscure for its abuse ; and
the protector is become the tyrant of the people. In
this manner, the freedom of the press is beginmng
to sow its own dissolution; the great must oppose
it from principle, and the weak from fear; till at
last every rank of mankind shall be found to give
up its benefits, content with security from its in-
sults.
"How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by
which all are indiscriminately abused, and by which
vice consequently escapes in the general censure,
I am unable to teU. All I could wish is, that as
the law gives us no protection against the injury,
so it should give calumniators no shelter after
having provoked correction. The insults wliich
we receive before the pubUc, by being more open,
arc the more distressing. By treating them with
silent contempt, we do not pay a sufficient defer-
ence to the opinion of the world. By recurring to
legal redress, we too often expose the weakness of
the law, wliich only serves to increase our morti
fication by failing to relieve us. In short, every
man should singly consider himself as a guardian
of the liberty of the press; and, as far as his influ»
ence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its li»
centiousness becoming at last the grave of its free-
dom.
"Oliver Goldsmith."
The composition of this address is so much in
the style of Dr. Johnson, that it was at first gener-
ally believed to be the production of his pen. John-
son, however, always disclaimed any participation
m 11 ; and his disavowal has since been recorded in
the volumes of Mr. Boswcll. "On Saturday,
April 3," says that gentleman, "the day after my
arrival in London this year, I went to his (Dr.
Johnson's) house late in the evening, and sat with
Mrs. Williams till he came home, I found, in th«
50
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
' London Chronicle,' Dr. Goldsmith's apology to
the public for beating Evans, a bookseller, on ac-
count of a paragraph in a newspaper published by
him, which Goldsmith thought impertinent to him
and to a lady of his acquaintance. The apology
was written so much in Dr. Johnson's manner,
that both Mrs. Williams and I supposed it to be
liis; but when he came home he soon undeceived
us when he said to Mrs. Williams, ' Well, Dr.
Goldsmith's manifesto has got into your paper,' I
asked him if Dr. Goldsmith had written it, with an
air that made him see I suspected it was his, though
subscribed by Goldsmith. — Johnson, 'Sir, Dr.
Goldsmith would no more have asked me to write
such a thing as that for him, than he would have
asked me to feed him with a spoon, or to do any
thing else that denoted his imbecility. I as much
believe that he wrote it, as if I had seen him do it.
Sir, had he shown it to any one friend, he would
not have been allowed to publish it. He has, in-
deed, done it very well ; but it is a foolish thing well
done. I suppose he has been so much elated with the
success of his new comedy, that he has thought
every thing that concerned him must be of imj)or-
tance to the XJublic' BoswcU ; ' I fancy, sir, this is the
first time that he has been engaged in such an ad-
venture.' Johnson ; ' Why, sir, I believe it is the
first time he has heat; he may have been beaten be-
fore. This, sir, is a new plume to him.' "
Had it not been for the painful and ludicrous
circumstances attending this unlucky squabble.
Goldsmith, in all probability, would have felt more
than sufficiently elated with the success of his new
comedy. Independent of the literary triumph it
afforded him over the judgments of Colman and
others as critics, the pecuniary advanteiges he reap-
ed from it were equally satisfactory. He cleared,
by this performance alone, upwards of eight hun-
dred pounds. Indeed, the emolument which at
this period Goldsmith derived from his various pro-
ductions was considerable. In less than two years,
it is computed that he realised not less than eighteen
hundred pounds. This comprises the profits of
both his comedies, various sums received on ac-
count of his "Animated Nature," which was still
in progress, and the copy-money of his lives of
Bolingbroke and Parnell. Nevertheless, within
little more than a year after the receipt of these
sums, his circumstances were by no means in a
prosperous condition. The profuse liberality with
which he assisted indigent authors was one of the
causes which led to such a state of things. Pur-
don, Pilkington, HifTernan, and others, but parti-
cularly some of his own countrymen, hung per-
petually about hiiin, played upon his credulity, and,
under pretence of borrowing, literally robbed him
of his money. Though duped again and again
by some of these artful men, he never could steel
his heart against their applications. A story of
distress always awakened his sensibility, and emp«
tied his purse. But what contributed more than
any other cause to exhaust his means and embar-
rass his affairs, was the return of his passion for
gaming. The command of money had unfortu-
nately drawn him again into that pernicious habit,
and he became the easy prey of the more knowing
and experienced in the art. Notwithstanding the
amount of his receipts, therefore, poor Goldsmith,
from the goodness of his heart, and his indiscretion
at play, instead of being able to look forward to
affluence, was involved in all the perplexities of
debt.
It is remarkable that alwut this time he attempt-
ed to discard the ordinary address by which he
had been long recognised; rejecting the title of
Doctor, and assuming that of plain Mr. Gold-
smith. The motives that induced this innovation
have never been properly explained. Some have
supposed that it was owing to a resolution never
more to engage as a practical professor in the heal-
ing art; while others have imagined that it was
prompted by his dislike to the constraint imposed
by the grave deportment necessary to support the
appellation and character of Doctor, or perhaps
from ambition to be thought a man of fashion ra-
ther than a mere man of letters. Whatever were
the motives, he found it impossible to throw off a
designation by which he had been so long and gene-
rally known ; the world continued to call him Doc-
tor (though he was only Bachelor of Medicine)
till the day of his death, and posterity has perpetu-
ated the title.
"The History of the Earth and Animated Na-
ture," on which he had been engaged about four
years, at fength made its appearance in the begin-
ning of 1774, and finally closed the literary labours
of Goldsmith. During the progress of this under-
taking, he is said to have received from the publish-
er eigiit hundred and fifty pounds of cojjy-money.
Its character, as a work of literature and science,
we have already noticed.
The unfinished poem of "Retaliation," the only
performance that remains to be noticed, owed its
birth to some circumstances of festive merriment
that occurred at one of the meetings in St. James's
Coffee-house. The occasion that produced it is
thus adverted to by Mr. Cumberland in his Me-
moirs: "It was upon a proposal started by Edmund
Burke, that a j)arty of friends, who had dined to-
gether at Sir Joshua Reynolds' and my house,
should meet at the St. James's Coffee-house;
which accordingly took place, and was occasion-
ally repeated with much festivity and good fellow-
ship. Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry, a very amia-
ble and old friend of mine. Dr. Douglas, since
bishop of Salisbury, Johnson, David Garrick, Sir
Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith, Edmund and
Richard Burke, Hickey, with two or three others
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
51
tonstituted our party. At one of these meetings,
an idea was suggested of extemporary epitaphs upon
the parties present ; pen and ink were called for,
and Garrick otf hand wrote an epitaph with a good
deal of humour upon poor Goldsmith, who was the
first in jest, as he proved to be in reality, that we
committed to the grave. The dean also gave him
an epitaph, and Sir Joshua illuminated the dean's
verses with a sketch of his bust in pen and ink,
inimitably caricatured. Neither .Tohnson nor Burke
wrote any thing ; and wlien I perceived Oliver was
rather sore, and seemed to watch me with that kind
of attention which indicated his expectation of
something in the same kind of burlesque with
theirs, I thought it time to press the joke no far-
ther, and wrote a few couplets at a side-table ;
which, when I had finished, and was called upon
by the company to exhibit, Goldsmith, with much
agitation, besought me to spare him ; and I was
about to tear them, when Johnson wrested them
out of my hand, and in a loud voice read them at
the table. I have now lost all recollection of them,
and in fact they were little worth remembering;
but as they were serious and complimentary, the
effect they had upon Goldsmith was the more pleas-
ing for being so entirely unexpected. The con-
cluding line, which is the only one I can call to
mind, was —
' All mourn the poet, I lament the man.'
This I recollect, because he repeated it several
times, and seemed much gratified by it. At our
next meeting, he produced his epitaphs as they
stand in the little posthumous poem abovemen-
tioned ; and this was the last time he ever enjoyed
the company of his friends."
The delicacy with which Mr. Cumberland acted
on this occasion, and the compliment he paid to
our author, were not thrown away. In drawing
the character of Cumberland in return. Goldsmith,
while he demonstrated his judgment as a critic,
proved his gratitude and friendship at the same
time, in designating him, ;. .
" The Terence of England, the mender of hearts."
Other members of the club, however, were hit off
with a much smaller portion of complunent, and
for the most part with more truth than flattery ;
yet the wit and humour with which he discrimi-
nated their various shades of character, is hap})ily
free from the slightest tincture of ill-nature. His
epitaph on Mr. Burke proves him to have been in-
timately acquainted with the disposition and quali-
ties of that celebrated orator. The characteristics
of Mr. Burke's brother are humorously delineated,
and were highly appropriate ; the portrait of Dr.
Douglas is critically true ; but the most masterly
sketch in the piece is undoubtedly the character of
Grarrick, who had been pecuUarly severe in liis
epitaph on Goldsmith.
On the evening that Goldsmith produced " Re-
taliation" he read it in full club, and the members
were afterwards called on for their opinions. Some
expatiated largely in its praise, and others seemed
to be delighted with it; yet, when its pubUcation
was suggested, the prevailing sentiment was de-
cidedly hostile to such a measure. Goldsmith hence
discovered, that a little sprinkling of fear was not
an unnecessary ingredient in the friendship of the
world ; and though he meant not immediately to
publish his poem, he determined to keep it, as he
expressed himself to a friend, " as a rod in pickle
for any future occasion that might occur." But
this occasion never presented itself: a more awful
period was now approaching.
A short time previous to this, he had projected
an important literary work, under the title of " A
Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences." In
this undertaking he is said to have engaged all his
literary friends, including most of the members of
the Literary Club, particularly Johnson, Reynolds,
and Burke, who promised to promote the design
with all their interest, and to furnish liim with
original articles on various subjects to be embraced
by the work. So much had he this project at
heart, — so sanguine was he of its success, — and so
little doubt did he entertain of encouragement from
the booksellers, that without previous concert with
any one of the trade, he actually printed and pub-
lished the Prospectus at his own expense. These
gentlemen, however, were not, at that time, dis-
posed to enter upon so heavy an undertalving, and
of course received his proposals so coldly, that he
found himself obliged to abandon the design. It is
supposed that he had fondly promised himself re-
lief from his pecuniary difficulties by this scheme,
and consequently his chagrin at the disappointment
was the more keenly felt. He frequently lamented
the circumstance to his friends ; and there is little
doubt that it contributed, with other vexations, to
aggravate the disease wliich ended in Ms dissolu-
tion.
Goldsmith had been, for some years, occasionally
afflicted with a strangury. The attacks of this
disease had latterly become more frequent and vio-
lent; and these, combined with anxiety of mind on
the subject of his accvnnulating delits, embittered
his days, and brought on almost habitual despon-
dency. While in this unhappy condition, he was
attacked by a nervous fever in the spring ot 1774.
On Friday, tlie 25th of March, that year, finding
himself extremely ill, he sent at eleven o'clock at
night for Mr. Havves, an apothecary, to whom he
complained of a violent pain extending all over the
fore-part of his head ; his tongue was moist, he had
a cold sliivering, and his pulse boat about ninety
strokes in a minute. Ho said he had taken two
ounces of ipecacuanlia wine as a vomit, and that it
was nis intention to take Dr. James's fever pew-
52
LIFE AND WRITINGS
ders, which he desired might be sent him. Mr.
Hawes replied, that in his opiiiion this medicine
Was very improper at that time, and begged he
would not think of it; but every argument used
seemed only to render him more determined in his
own opinion.
Mr. Hawes knowing that on former occasions
Goldsmith had always consulted Dr. Fordyce, and
that he entertained the highest opinion of his abili-
ties as a physician, requested permission to send
for him. To this, with great reluctance, he gave
consent, as the taking of Dr. James's powders, ap-
peared to be the only object that employed his at-
tention ; and even after he had given his consent,
he endeavoured to throw an obstacle in the way,
by saying, that Dr. Fordyce was gone to spend the
evening in Gerrard-street, "where," added he, "I
should also have been myself, if I had not been indis-
posed." Mr. Hawes immediately dispatched a mes-
senger for Dr. Fordyce, whom he found at home,
and who instantly waited upon Goldsmith.
Dr. Fordyce, on perceiving the symptoms of the
disease, was of the same opinion with Mr. Hawes
respecting Dr. James's powders; and strongly re-
presented to the patient the impropriety of liis tak-
ing that medicine in his present situation. Un-
happily, however, he was deaf to all remonstrances,
and persevered in his own resolution.
On the following morning Mr. Hawes visited
his patient, and found him very much reduced;
Iiis voice feeble, and his pulse very quick and small.
When he inquired of him how he did, Goldsmith
sighed deeply, and in a very low and languid tone
said, " he wished he had taken his friendly advice
last night."
Dr. Fordyce arrived soon after Mr. Hawes, and
saw v.dth alarm the danger of their patient's situa-
tion. He therefore proposed to send for Dr. Tur-
ton, of whose talents and skill he knew Goldsmith
had a great opinion : to this proposal the patient
readily consented, and ordered his servanrt to go di-
rectly. Doctors Fordyce and Turton accordingly
met at the time appointed, and had a consultation.
This they continued twice a day till the 4th of
April, 1774, when the disorder terminated in the
death of tlie poet, in the forty-fifth year of his age.
Goldsmith's suJden and unexpected dissolution
created a general feeling of regret among the litera-
ry circles of that period. The newspapers and pe-
riodical publications teemed with tributary verses
to his memory ; and perhaps no poet was ever more
lamented in every possible variety of sonnet, elegy,
epitaph, and dirge. I^lr. Woty's hues on the oc-
casion we select from the general mass of eulogy.
Another's woe thy heart could always melt ;
None gave more free, — for none more deeply felJ.
Sweet bard, adieu ! tliy own harmonious lays
Have sculptured out thy monument of praise;
Yes, — these survive to time's remotest day,
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay.
Reader, if number'd in the Muses' train,
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ;
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan,
Depart in peace, and imitate the man."
'•' Allien, sw^et bnrd ! to each fine feeling true,
Thy virtu-^ manv, and thy foibles few;
Tliose i'jr;:i'd to ohanii e'en vicious minds — and these
With harmlesa mirth the social soul to please.
" Of poor Dr. Goldsmith," said Johnson, in an-
swer to a query of Boswell's, "there is little to be
told more than the papers have made public. He
died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by
uneasiness of mind. His debts began to be heavy,
and all his resources were exhausted. Sir Joshua
is of opinion, that he owed no less than two thou-
sand pounds.* Was ever poet so trusted before?"
The extraordinary sum thus owing by Gold-
smith excited general surprise after his death, and
gave rise to some ill-natured and injurious reflec-
tions. To those, however, who were intimately
acquainted with his careless disposition and habits,
the wonder was not, that he should be so much in
debt, but, as Johnson remarks, that he should have
been so much trusted. He was so liberal in his
donations, and profuse in his general disburse-
ments ; so unsettled in his mode of living, and im-
prudent in gaming; and altogether so little accus-
tomed to regulate his expenses by any system of
economy, that at last his debts greatly exceeded hia
resources ; and their accumulation towards the close
of his hfe was by no means matter of astonishment.
These debts, however, consisted chiefly of sums
that he had taken up in advance, from the mana-
gers of the two theaters, for comedies which he had
engaged to furnish to each ; and from the booksel-
lers for publications which he was to finish for the
press; — all which engagements he fully intended,
and would probably have been able to fulfil, as he
had done on former occasions in similar exigencies;
but his premature death unhappily prevented the
execution of his plans.
The friends of Goldsmith, literary as well as per-
sonal, were exceedingly numerous, and so attach-
ed to his memory, that they determined to honour
his rcmams with a public funeral, and to bury hiiij
in Westminster Abbey. His pall was to have
been supported by Lord Shelburne, Lord Louth,
Sir Joshua Reynolds, the Hon. Mr. Beauclerk,
Mr. Edmund Burke, and Mr. Garrick. Some cir-
cumstances, which have never been explained, oc-
ccurred to prevent this resolution from being carri-
ed into effect. It is generally believed that the chief
reason was a feeling of delicacy, suggested by the
disclosure of his embarrassed affairs, and the extra-
ordinary amount of his debts. He was, therefore,
privately interred in the Temple burying-ground,
'4000/. — Campbell's Biography of Goldsmith.
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
53
X few select friends paying the last sad offices to
his remains. A short time afterwards, however,
the members of the Literary Club suggested, and
zealously promoted, a subscription to defray the ex-
pense of a monument to his memory. The neces-
sary funds were soon realized, and the chisel of
NoUekens was employed to do honour to the poet.
The design and workmanship of this memorial
were purposely simple and inexpensive. It was
erected in Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey,
b<?tween the monument of Gay and that of the
Duke of Argyll. On this occasion, the statuary
IS admitted to have produced a good likeness of the
person commemorated. The bust of tioldsmith is
exhibited in a large medallion, embellished with
literary ornaments, underneath which is a tablet of
white marble, with the following Latin inscription
by Dr. Johnson.
OLIVARH GOLDSINnTH,
Poelae, Physici, Historic!,
Qui nullum fere scribendi genua
non teiigit,
Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit: ' . ^ j
Sive risus eseent movendi, , "
Sive lacrymae,
AfTectuum potens at lenisdominator:
Ingenio sublimis, vividus, ver&jiilis,
Oratione grandis, nitidus, venusius:
Hoc laonumento memoriara coluit
Sodalium amor,
Aniicorum fides,
Leciorum vencratio.
Natus in Hibernia Foraiae Longfordiensis,
In lococui nomen Pallas,
Nov. xxix, MDCCXXXL
Eblanfe Uteris insiiiutus.
Obiit Londini, "• ■■
April, iv. MDCCLXXIV.*
* Tills Latin inscription having been undeit-iken at the svig-
gestionofa meeting which took place in the house of Mr.
Cumberland, when some members of the Literary Club were
present, .Johnson, either out of deference to them, or from the
carelessness and modesty whicli characterised liim as to his
own writings, submitted the composition to the revi-sal ofSir
Joshua Reynolds, with a request to show it afienvards to the
Club for their approval. "I have been kept away from you,"
says he, in a card to Sir .Joshua, "I know not well how; and
of these vexatious hindrances I know not when there will be
an end. I therefore send you the poor dear Doctor's epitaph.
Read it first yourself; and, if you then think it right, show it to
the ('lub. I am, you know, willing to be corrected. If you think
any thing much amiss, keep it to yourself till we come to-
gether." The epitaph was accordingly laid before the Club
Boon afterwards, and though no altciai'on was made, yet it
gave rise to a great deal of discu.ssion, and was proiiuctive of
a curious literary jeu d'espril, not only singular in itself, but
remarkable for tiie celebrated names connected with it,
"'l'h\s jeu d'esprit," says Sir William Forbes, in a letter to
Mr. Boswell, " took its rise one day at dinner at our friend Sir
Joshua Reynolds's. All the company present, except myself,
were friends and acquaintance of I>r. Goldsmith. The epi-
taph, written for him by Dr. .Johnson, became the subject of
conversation, and various emendations were suggested, which
it was agreed should be submitted to the Toctor's considera-
tion. But the question was, Who should have the comase to
In addition to this eulogium on the literary qua-
lities of hi.s friend, Jolm.son afterwards honoured
his memory with the following tetrastick in Greek.
Tof Tsi^ov iWopaa( tcu Oy^tCup:cio, kovihv
A<ffici<n [J.H a-iiAVWf Zavi, wo/ia-fl-; TrttTit
K/.a.itTi Troiri'THV, i^Topix,cv, tfua-iKov.
"Thou beholdest the tomb of Oliver.' press not, O stranger,
■with the foot of folly, the venerable dust. Ye who care for
nature, for the charms of song, for die deeds of ancient days^
weep for the historian, the naturalist, the poet."
The general cast of Goldsmith's figure and phy-
siognomy was not engaging, and the impression
made by his writings, on the mind of a stranger,
propose them to himl At last it was hinted, that there could
be no way so good as that of a Round Robin, as the sailora
call it, which they make use of when they enter into a conspi-
racy', so as not to let it be known who puts his name first or
last to the paper. This proposition was instantly a.<i.=ented to;
anil Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry, now bishop of KiUaloe, drew
up an address to Dr. Johnson on the occasion, replete with wit
and humour, but which, it was feared, the Doctor might think
treated the subject with too much levity. Mr. Burke then pro-
posed the address as it stands in the paper in writing [the pa-
per was enclosed,] to which I had the honour to officiate aa
clerk.
" Sir Joshua agreed to carry it to Dr. Johnson, who received
it with much good-humnur, and desired Sir Joshua to tell the
gentlemen that he wo'ild alter the epitaph in any manner they
pleased, as to the sense of it; but he would never consent to
disgrace the tcalls of Westminster Abbey icith an English
inscription. I consider this Round Robin," continues Sir
William, " as a species of literary curiosity worth preserving,
as it marks, in a certain degree. Dr. Joha'^on's character."
The lollowing transcript of it, as given by Mr. Boswell, may
gratify such of our readers as are curious in literary anecdote.
We, the circumscribers, having read with great pleastu-e all
intended epitaph for the monument of Dr. Goldsmith, which,
considered abstractedly, appeafe to be, for elegant composi-
tion and masterly style, in every respect worthy of the pen
of its learned author, are yet of opinion, that tlie character
of the deceased, as a writer, particularly as a pix't, is per •
haps not delineated with all the exactness which Dr. John-
son is capable of giving it. We, therefore, with deference
to his superior judgment, humbly request that he would at
least take the trouble of revising it, and of making such ad-
ditions and alterations as he shall think proper, upon a fur-
ther perusal But if we might venture to express our wishes,
they would lead us to request, that he would write the epi-
taph in English, rather than in Latin; as we think that the
memory of so eminent an English writer ought to be perpetu-
ated in the language to which his works are likely to be so
la;<tiiig an ornament, which we also know to have been the
opinion of the late Doctor himself.
The circumscribers to this curious remonstrance, agreeably
to llieir n^spective signatures, were as follows: viz — Edni.
Burke, Tho. Franklin, Ant. Chamier, G. Colman, Wm. Vack-
ell, J. Reynolds, W. Forbe.s, T. Barnard, R. B. Sheridan, P.
Metcalfe, E. Gibbon, Jos. Warton. This hasty composition,
as remarked by Mr. Boswell, is one of the thousand instances
which evince the extraordinary promptitude of Mr. Burke,
wlio, while he was equal to the greatest things, could adorn
tlie least; could with equal facility embrace the vast and com-
plicated speculations of politics, or the ingenious topics of
literary investigation. It is also an envnent proof of the re-
verence with which Jolmson was regarded by some of tb«
B4
LIFE AND WRITINGS
was not confirmed by the external graces of their
author. In stature he was somewhat under the
midddle size; his body was strongly built, and his
limbs, as one of his biographers expresses it, were
more sturdy than elegant. His forehead was low.
and more prominent than is usual ; his complexion
pallid ; his face almost round, and pitted with the
small-pox. His first appearance was therefore by
no me^s captivating : yet the general lineaments
of his countenance bore the stamp of intellect, and
exhibited traces of deep thinking; and when he
grew easy and cheerful in company, he relaxed in-
to such a display of benevolent good-humour, as
soon removed every unfavourable impression. His
pleasantry in company, however, sometimes de-
generated into bufibonery; and this circumstance,
coupled with the inelegance of his person and de-
portment, often prevented him from appearing to
so much advantage as might have been expected
from his learning and genius.
The aptitude of Goldsmith to blunder in conver-
sation has excited considerable surprise when con-
trasted with his powers as a writer. His literary
associates used to be struck with the disparity, and
some of them puzzled themselves to account for it.
Sir Joshua Reynolds once mentioned that he had
frequently heard Goldsmith talk warmly of the
pleasure of being liked, and observe how hard it
would be if literary excellence should preclude a
man from that satisfaction, wliich he perceived it
often did, from the envy that attended it. " I am,
therefore, convinced," said Sir Joshua, "that he
was often intentionally absurd in conversation, in
order to lessen himself in social intercourse, trust-
ing that his character would be sufficiently sup-
ported by his works." But this appears to be the
excess of refinement in conjecture; and Mr. Bos-
well's reason, which ascribed it to Goldsmith's
"vanity, and an eager desire to be conspicuous
wherever he was," though less charitable, is more
ablest men of his time, in various departments, and even by
such of them as lived most with liim.
Altliough .lolmson was in great good-humour with tlie pro-
duction as ajeu <V esprit, yet, on seeing Dr. Warton's name to
the suggestion that llie epitaph should be in English, he ob-
served to Sir .Toshua, " I wonder that Joe Waiton, a scholar by
profession, should be such a fool." He said too, " I should
have tliought Mund Burke would have had move sense." Mr.
Langton, who was one of the company at Sir .Joshua's, like a
sturdy scliolar, resolutely refused to sign the Round Robin.
On another occasion, when somebody endeavoured to argue
in favour of its being in English, Johnson said, "The lan-
guage of the country of which a learned man was a native, is
not the language fit for his epitaph, which should be in ancient
and penujinent language. Consider, sir, how you should feel
were Jnu to find at Uoiterdam an epitaph on Erasmus in
Dutcli:" Perhaps on this subject Mr. Boswell's suggestion is
the best " For my part," says he, " I think it would be pro-
per to havp epitaphs written both in a learned language and in
the language of the country, so that they might have the ad-
vantage of being more universally understood, and, at the
oaiUK tnuo, be secured of classicaj stability."
consistent with probability. The truth, however,
may have been, that Goldsntith, having constant-
ly before him the example of extraordinary con-
versational abilities in Johnson, either from the
spirit of competition, or the ambition to excel in
such a fascinating talent, was tempted to a fre-
quent display of his own powers in the same line.
Our excessive anxiety to do any thing well, often
defeats the end we have in view ; and it is not un-
likely that, on such occasions, this was the fate of
Goldsmith. Yet, notwithstanding all his mistakes,
he had gleams of eloquence; and, although Mr.
Boswell studies to make him a foil to Johnson,
there are instances among the conversations re-
ported by that gentleman, where Goldsmith shines
as the most rational and elegant interlocutor of the
whole. Hence it is reasonable to conclude, that
the accounts which have been transmitted of the
weakness or absurdity of Goldsmith's conversation
are greatly overcharged. Be that as it may, if the
conversation of Goldsmith was so confused and
inaccurate as has been generally reported, it is an
eminent instance, among many others, in which
the conversation of literary men has been found
strikingly unequal to their works. It forms also
an illustration of the observation of Cicero, that it
is very possible for a man to think rightly, and yet
want the power of conveying his sentiments in be-
coming language: '■'■Fieri "potest ut recte quis seiir
tiat, sed id quod sentit polite eloqui non possit."
Perhaps the chief fault of Goldsmith in conversa-
tion, as has been remarked by one of his biogra-
phers, lay in his being always overhurried ; so that
he was too apt to speak without reflection, and
without a sufficient knowledge of the subject. He
himself humorously used to remark, that he always
arsned best when he argued alone. The same
circumstance was noticed by Johnson, and gave
rise to the observation, " that no man was more
foolish when he had not a pen in his hand, or more
wise when he had."
If it must be admitted that Goldsmith had no
talent for oral display, it will not be disputed that
in the solitude of the closet, "when he argued
alone," he was almost unrivalled. A celebrated
critic remarked of him, that " whatever he com-
posed, he did it better than any other man could."
It has been objected to the moral essays of Gold-
smith, that they present life under a gloomy as-
pect, and leave an impression of despondency on
the mind of the reader. Whether to paint Ufe as
it is, be a fault in a writer, is a question that wiU
admit of a considerable dispute ; but it will not be
denied, that when he pictures the woes and vani-
ties of existence, he only repeats the lessons of ex-
perience. It ought also to be recollected that an
author's writings are generally a transcript of hia
own feelings. If the moral productions of Gold-
smith are sometimes gloomy and despondent, w«
OF DR. GOLDSMITH.
55
ehould take into account the circumstances under
which they were written : — when he was obscure
and friendless, oppressed with want, sick of the
past, and almost despairing of the future. The
language of his prose works, in general, is admitted
to be a model of perfection. His very enemies
used to acknowledge the superiority of his taste in
composition, and the unrivalled excellence of his
style. It was not without reason, therefore, that
Johnson at one time exclaimed, " Where is there
now a man who can pen an essay with such ease
and elegance as Goldsmith'?" ' ■' ■ ■
In poetry Goldsmith confessedly shines with
great lustre. But, viewing him as a scholar, it is
surprising how Uttle of his imagery is drawn from
reminiscences of the classics. His verses are ut-
terly void of the macliinery of ancient polytheism,
and scarcely a single mythological person is ever
invoked by him. In truth, he seems to have had
no partiality for the family of gods, goddesses, and
demi-gods, and to have discarded as useless the
whole race of fauns, satyrs, dryads, and hamadry-
ads. He is one of those who seek to please chiefly
by an exhibition of nature in her simplest and
raost familiar views. From these he selects his
objects with equal taste and discretion ; and in no
instance does he ever represent what would excite
disgust, or cause pain. In the poetry of Goldsmith
there is nothing that strikes vis as merely ideal.
Every thing is clear, distinct, and palpable. His
very imagery is tangible. He draws it from ob-
jects that act at once upon the senses, and the
reader is never for a moment at a loss to discover
its application. It is this that makes Goldsmith so
easily understood, and so generally admired. His
poetical landscapes and portraits are so many tran-
scripts from living nature ; wliile every image, every
thought, and every sentiment connected with them,
have a corresponding expression of unaftected truth
and simplicity. It was said of him by Mr. Bos-
well, that " his mind resembled a fertile but thin
soil; there was a quick, but not a strong vegetation
of whatever chanced to be thrown upon it. No
deep root could be struck. The oak of the forest
did not grow there; but the elegant shrubbery,
and the fragrant parterre, appeared in gay suc-
cession." This is a poetical description, and, with
some limitation, may be admitted as an approach
to the truth. The characteristics of Goldsmith's
poetry are case, softness, and beauty. He can be
commended for the elegance of his imagery, the
depth of his pathos and the flow of his numbers.
He is uniformly tender and impressive, but rarely
subhme. The commendation which he hiiuscU"
has bestowed on the poetry of Paniell may justly
be applied to his own. " At the end of his course,"
says he, " the reader regrets that his way has been
60 sliort; he wonders that it gave him so Uttle
trouble; and so resolves to go the journey ov;r
again." A similar impression, or sometliing ana-
logous to it, is felt by every reader of the poetry
of Goldsmith. His course has been through a rich
and highly cultivated country, where sweet fruits
and fragrant flowers regaled his senses at every step;
where every object that he passed was bloomuig in
beauty, and pregnant with interest ; and where he
himself never for a moment felt any intermission
of enjoyment.
From the characteristics of the poet we turn to
the qualities of the man. Goldsmith was mild and
gentle in his marmers, warm in his friendships,
and active in his charity and benevolence. So
strongly did he use to be affected by compassion,
that he has been known at midnight to abandon
his rest in order to procure reUef and an asylum
for a poor dying object who was left destitute in
the streets. The humanity of his disposition was
manifested on every occasion that called for its ex-
ercise ; and so large was his liberality, that his last
guinea was the general boundary of his munifi-
cence. He had two or three poor authors always
as pensioners, besides several widows and poor
housekeepers; and when he happened to have no
money to give the latter, he sent them away with
shirts or old clothes, and sometimes with the con-
tents of his breakfast table, saying, with a smile of
satisfaction after they were gone, " Now let me
suppose I have eaten a heartier breakfast than
usual, and I am nothing out of pocket." His ge-
nerosity, it is true, used often to be carried to ex-
cess. He gave frequently on the mere impulse of
the moment, and without discrimination. If the
applicants for his bounty were poor and friendless,
it was all that he asked to know. Like his own
village pastor, he overflowed with benevolence, and
"Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began."
This profuse and undistinguishing liberality has
sometimes been imputed to him as a fault; but it
at least attested the excellence of his intentions
and the kindness of his heart. The humanity and
benevolence, however, that characterised the poet's
disposition, were unhapjjily contaminated by a
jealousy of the attainments and the reputation of
others. He was feehngly conscious of tliis faihng,
and often used to complain of the uneasiness it cost
him. In the minds of those who heard him on
such occasions, all sense of the evil passion was
lost in their amusement at the novelty and simpli-
city of his confessions. Vanity was another of the
weaknesses of Goldsmith ; but it was rather amus-
ing than offensive in its operation. He was vain
of his literary consequence, as was strongly disco-
vered in the complaint he once made with regard
to Lord Camden. — "I met him," said he, "at
Lord Clare's house in the countrj-, and he took no
more notice of me than if I had been an ordinary
man." ■ .
d6
LIFE AND WRITINGS &c.
He had also the foible of being ambitious of
ehining in such exterior accomplishments as nature
had denied him. This was whimsically illustrated
on one occasion, when he arrayed himself in a
bloom-coloured coat, and sported his ungainly
figure, with great self-complacency, in the sunshine
in the Temple gardens. He declared to his friends,
that his tailor was so confident of the impression
he should make, that he had entreated him to in-
form all inquirers of the name of the maker of the
coat.
Such is the amount of information which we
have procured concerning Goldsmith ; and we have
given it almost precisely in the words in which we
found it. From the general tenor of his biography,
it is evident that Goldsmith was one whose faults
were at the worst but negative, not positive wees,
wliile Ms merits were great and decided. He was
no one's enemy but his own, his errors inflicted
evil on none but himself, and were so blended with
humorous, and even affecting circumstances, as to
disarm anger and conciliate kindness. Where
eminent talent is united to spotless virtue, we ars
awed and dazzled into admiration, but our admira-
tion is apt to be cold ; while there is something in
the harmless infirmities of poor human nature that
pleads touchingly to the feeUngs, and the heart
yearns towards the object of our admiration, when
we find that, like ourselves, he is mortal, and is
frail. The epithet so often heard, and in such
kindly tones, of "poor Goldsmith," speaks volumes.
Few, who consider the rich compound of admira-
ble and whimsical qualities which form his charac-
ter, would wish to prune away its eccentricities,
trim its grotesque luxuriance, and clip it down to
the decent formaUties of rigid virtue. " Let not ■
liis frailties be remembered," said Johnson, "he
was a very great man." But, for our parts, we
rather say, "let them be remembered;" for we
question whether he himself would not feel grati-
fied in hearing his reader, after dwelling with ad-
miration on the proofs of his greatness, close the
volume with the kind hearted phrase, so fondly and
famiharly ejaculated, of " Poor Goldsmitu."
IS
'SUM mi^mMd^s^^'ss ws^ss
OF
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
■^5g©-
m\t Wimv of ^SJciltc^'cl^,
ADVERTISEMENT.
There are a hundred faults in this thing, and a
hundred things might be said to prove them beau-
ties. But it is needless. A book may be amusing
with numerous errors, orit maybe very dull without
a single absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in
himself the three greatest characters upon earth.
He is a priest, a husbandman, and the father of a
family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready
to obey ; as sunple in affluence, and majestic in
adversity. 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
Bunplicity of his country fire-side. Such as mis-
take ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his
harmless conversation; and such as have been
taught to deride religion, will laugh at one whose
chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity.
Oliver Goldsmith.
CHAPTER I.
The description of the family of Wakefield, in which a kin-
dred likeness prevails, as well of minds as of persons.
I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who
married and brought up a large family, did more
service than he who continued single and only
talked of a 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 wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy sur-
face, but for such qualities as would wear well.
To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable
woman ; and as for breeding, there were few coun-
try ladies wlio could show more. She could read
any English book without much spelling; but for
pickling, preservrig, and cookery, none could excel
her. She pridea herself also upon being an excel-
lent contriver in housekeeping; though I could
never find that we grew richer with all her con-
trivances. ■' " . •
However, we loved each other tenderly, and our
fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in
foot, nothing that could make us angry with the
world or each other. Wc had an elegant house
situated in a fine country, and a good neighbour-
hood. The year was spent in moral or rural
amusements, in visiting our rich neighbours, and
relie\ing such as were poor. We had no revolu-
tions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our ad-
ventures were by the fire-side, and'Call our migra-
tions from the blue bed to the brown.'
As we lived near the road, we often had the
traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry
wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I
profess with the veracity of an historian, that I
never knew one of tliem find fault with it. Our
cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all remem-
bered their aflinity, without any help from the
herald's office, and came very frequently to sec us.
Some of them diil us no great honour by these
claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maim
ed, and the halt amongst the number. However,
my wife always insisted, that as they were the
sAme Jlcsh and blood, they should sit with us at
the same table. So that if we had not very rich,
we o-cnerally had very happy friends about us; for
this remark will hold good through life, that the
poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with
being treated : and fis some men gaze with admira-
tion at the colours of a tulip, or the wings of a but
terfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy hu
man faces. ^ However, when any one of our rela
tions was found to be a person of very bad chaiac-
tor, a troublesome gue-st, or one we desired to get
rid of, upon his leaving my hou ', I ever took cara
to lead him a ridina-cuat, or a pair of boots or
S8
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Bometimes a 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
httle rubs which Providence sends to enhance the
value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed
by school boys, and my wife's custards plundered by
the cats or the children. The 'Squire would some-
times fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my
sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at
churcli with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon
got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents,
and usually in three or four days began to wonder
how they vexed us.
My children, the offspring of temperance, as
they were educated without softness, so they were
at once well formed and healthy ; my sons hardy
and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming.
When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which
promised to be the supports of my declining age,
I could not avoid repeating the famous story of
Count Abensbcrg, who in Henry Second's progress
through Germany, wliile 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 man-
ner, though I had but six, I considered them as a
very valuable.present made to my country, and con-
sequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest
son was named George, after his uncle, who left
us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl,
I intended to call after her aunt Grissel ; but my
wife, who during her pregnancy had been reading
romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia.
In less than another year we had another daughter,
and now I was determined that Grissel should be
her name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to
stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions,
called Sophia; so that we had two romantic names
in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had no
hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an in-
terval of twelve years we had two sons more.
It would be fruitless to deny exultation when I
saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and
the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than
mine. When our visiters would say, " Well, upon
my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest chil-
dren m the whole 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 handsome.
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 aoout
eighteen, had that luxuriancy 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 execu-
tion ; 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 fowncd
from the turn of her features, at least it was so with
my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers,
Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected
from too great a desire to please. Sopliia even re-
pressed excellence from her fears to offend. The
one entertained me with her vivacity when I was
gay, the other with her sense when I was serious.
But these qualities were never carried to excess in
either, and I have often seen them exchange cha-
racters, for a whole day together. A suit of mourn-
ing has transformed my coquette into a prude, and
a new set of ribands has given her younger sister
more than natural vivacity. My eldest son George
was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one
of the learned professions. My second boy Moses,
whom I designed for business, received a sort
of miscellaneous education at home. Bui it la
needless to attempt describing the particular char-
acters of young people that had seen but very utile
of the world. In short a family likeness nrevaued
through all, and properly speaking, they naa but
one character, that of being all equally generous,
credulous, simple, and inoffensive.
CHAPTER II.
Family Misfortunes. — The loss of fortune only servea to in-
crease the pride of the worthy.
The temporal concerns of our family were cnieflv
committed to my wife's management; as to the spi-
ritual, I took them entirely under my own direction.
The profits of my living, which amounted to but
thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the or-
phans and widows of the clergy of our diocese:
for having a fortune of my own, I was careiess of
temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing
my duty without reward. I also set a resolution
of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with
every man in the parish, exhorting the married
men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimo-
ny ; so that in a few years it was a common saying,
that there were three strange wants at Wakefield,
a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives,
and ale-houses wanting customers.
Matrimony was always one of my favourite
topics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its
happiness; but there was a peculiar tenet which 1
made a point of supporting ; for I maintained with
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD.
53
Wbiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the
cnurch 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 early initiated into tliis important dispute,
on which so many laborious volumes have been
written. I published some tracts upon the sub-
ject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the
consolation of thinking were read only by the hap-
py /ew. Some of my friends called this my weak
side; but alas! they had not Uke me made it the
eubject 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 Whis-
ton; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my ^vife,
though still Uving, in which I extolled her pru-
dence, economy, and obedience till death ; and hav-
ing got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it
Was placed over the chimney-piece, where it an-
swered several very useful purposes. In admon-
ishing 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 daugh-
ter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a digni-
tary in the church, and in circumstances to give
ner a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest
accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was
allowed by all (except my two daughters) to
be completely pretty. Her youth, health and in-
nocence, were still heightened by a complexion
so transparent, and such a happy sensibility of
look, as even age could not gaze on with in-
difference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could
make a very handsome settlement on my son, he
was not averse to the match ; so both families lived
together in all that harmony which generally pre-
cedes 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 amuse-
Xnents which the young couple every day shared in
each other's company seemed to increase their pas-
sion. We were generally awaked in the morning
by music, and on fine days rode a hunting. The
hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies de-
voted to dress and study : they usually read a page,
and then gazed at themselves in the glass, which
even philosophers might own often presented the
page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took
the lead; for as she always insisted upon carving
every thing herself, it being her mother's way, she
gave us upon these occasions the history of every
dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies
leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be re-
moved; and sometimes, with the music master's
assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable
concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country dances,
and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without
the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner ot
gaming, except backgammon, at which my old
friend and I sometimes took a two-penny 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 young couple, who seemed earnest-
ly to desire it. During the preparations for the
wedding, I need not describe the busy importance
of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters :
in fact, my attention was fixed on another object,
the completing a tract which I intended shortly to
publish in defence of my favourite principle. As
I looked upon this as a master-piece, both for ar-
gument and style, I could not in the pride of my
heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wil-
mot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approba-
tion ; 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 ac-
tually courting a fourth wife. This as may be ex-
pected, produced a dispute attended with some acri-
mony, which threatened to interrupt our intended
alliance : but the day before that appointed for the
ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large.
It was managed with proper spirit on both
sides : he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted
the charge; he replied and I rejoined. In the
mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was
called out by one of my relations, who with a face
of concern, ad^^sed me to give up the dispute, at
least till my son's wedding was over. "Flow!"
cried I, " relinquish the cause of truth, and let him
be a husband, already driven to the very verge ol
absurdity. You might as well advise me to give
up my fortune as my argument." "Your for-
tune," returned my friend, "I am now sorry to in*
form 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 until after the wedding : but now it
may serve to moderate your warmth in the argu-
ment; for, I supjwse your own prudence will enforce
the necessity of dissembling, at least till j'our son
has the young lady's fortune Lsecure." — "Well,"
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'll go this
moment and inform the company of my circum-
stances: and as for the argument, I even here r©-
«0
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
tract my former concessions in the old gentleman's
favour, nor will I allow him now to be a husband
in any sense of the expression."
It would be endless to describe the different sen-
sations 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. Wil-
mot, who seemed before sufficiently inchned to
break off the match, wiis by this blow soon deter-
mined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was
prudence, too often the only one that is left us at
seventy-two.
CHAPTER III.
A Migration.— The fortunate circumstances of our lives are
generally found at last to be of our own procuring.
The only hope of our family now was, that the
report of our misfortune might be malicious or pre-
mature ; liut a letter from my agent in town soon
came with a confirmation of every particular. The
loss of fortune to myself alone would have been
trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was for my fami-
ly, who were to be humble without an education
to render them callous to contempt.
Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted
to restrain their affliction; for premature consola-
tion is but the remembrance of sorrow. During
this interval, my thoughts were employed on some
future means of supporting them; and at last a
small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me
in a distant neighbourhood, where 1 could still en-
joy 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
pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My
chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down
the pride of my family to their circumstances ; for I
well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness
itself. " You can not be ignorant, my children,"
cried I, " that no prudence of ours could have pre-
vented 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 re-
pining, give up those splendours with which num-
bers are wretched, and seek in humbler circum-
stances that peace with which all may be happy.
The poor live pleasantly without our help, why
then should not we learn 'to live without theirs?
No, my children, let us from this moment give up
all pretensions lo 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 deter- ,
' mined to send him to town, where his abilities
might contribute to our support and nis own. The
separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one
of the most distressful circumstances attendant on
penury. The day soon arrived on which we were
to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking
leave of his mother and the rest, who mingled their
tears and their kisses, came to ask a blessing from
me. This I gave him from my heart, and which,
added to five guineas, was all the patrimony 1 had
now to bestow. " You are going, my boy," cried
I, "to London on foot, in the manner Hooker,
your great ancestor, travelled there before you.
Take from me the same horse that was given him
by the good Bishop Jewel, this staff, and this book
too, it will be your comfort on the way : these two
lines in it are worth a million, ' 1 have been young,
and now am old ; yet never saw I the righteous
man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.'
Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go,
my boy ; whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee
once a-year ; still keep a good heart, and farewell."
As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was
under no apprehensions from throwing him naked
into the amphitheatre of life; for 1 knew he 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 tranquillity, was not without a
tear which scarcely fortitude itself could suppress.
Besides, a journey 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 in-
crease 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 shown a room,
I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us
have his company, with which he complied, as
what he drank would increase the bill next morn-
ing. He knew, however, the whole neighbour-
hood 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 gentle-
man he described as one who desired 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 fanner's
daughter within ten miles round, but what had
found him successful and faithless. Though this
account gave me some pain, it had a very different
effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed
to brighten with the expectation of an approaching
triumph; nor was my wife less pleased and confi-
dent of their allurements and virtue. While our
thoughts were thus emploved the hostess entered
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
61
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 tliat was to be whipped
through the town for dog-stealing." The hostess,
however, still persisting in her first assertion, he
was preparing to leave tlie room, swearing that he
would be satisfied one way or another, when I beg-
ged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger
of so much charity as he described. With this he
complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to
be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were
laced. His person was well formed, and his face
marked with the lines of thinking. He had some-
thing short and dry in Iiis adch'ess, and seemed not
to understand ceremony, 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 offered
him my purse to satisfy the present demand. "I
take it with all my heart, sir," replied he, " and am
glad that a late oversight, in giving what money I
had about me, has shown me that there are still
some men like you. I must, however, previously
entreat being informed of the name and residence
of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as
possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not only
mentioning my name and late misfortunes, 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 tes-
tified the pleasure I should have in his company,
and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he
was prevailed upon to stay supper. The stranger's
conversation, which was at once pleasing and in-
structive, induced me to wish for a continuance of
it ; but it was now high time to retire and take re-
freshment against the fatigues of the following day.
The next morning we all set forward together :
my family on horseback, while Mr. Burciiei.l, our
new companion, walked along the foot-path by the
road-side, observing with a smile, that as we were
ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt
leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet
subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trot-
ted on before, Mr. Burchcll and I bringing up the
rear. We lightened tlie fatigues of the road with
philosophical disputes, which he seemed to under-
stand perfectly. But what surprised me most was,
that though, he was a money-borrower, he defend-
ed his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he
had been my patron. He now and then also in-
formed me to whom the dillbrent seats belonrred
tliat lay in our view as we travelled the road.
" That," cried he, pouiting to a very magnificent
house which stood at some distance, " belongs to
Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a
large fortune, though entirely dependent on the
will of his uncle, Sir WilUam Thornhill, a gentle-
man who, content with a little himself, pcnnits his
nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in
town." " What!" cried I, " is my young landlord
then the nephew of a man, whose virtues, gene-
rosity, and singularities are so universally knownl
I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented
as one of the most generous yet whimsical men in
the kingdom; a man of consummate benevolence."-
" Something, perhaps, too much so," rephed 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 vir-
tue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He ear-
ly began to aim at the quahfications of the soldier
and scholar ; was soon distinguished in the array,
and had some reputation among men of learning.
Adulation ever follows the ambitious; for such alone
receive most pleasure from flattery. He was sur-
rounded with crowds, who showed him only one
side of their character: so that he began to lose a
regard for private interest in universal sympathy.
He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him
from knowing that 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 thus suffered in their per-
sons, this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest
distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to
the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly sen-
sibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed
to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found
numbers disposed to soUcit; liis profusions began
to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature; that,
indeed, was seen to increase as the other seemed to
decay: he grew improvident as he grew poor; and
though he talked like a man of sense, his actions
were those of a fool. Still, however, being sur-
rounded with importunity, and no longer able to
satisfy every request that was made him, instead of
7noney he gave promises. They were all he had
to bestow, and he had not resolution enoagh to
give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew
round him crowds of dependents, whojn he was sure
to disappoint, yet he wished to reheve. These
hung upon him for a time, and left liim with merit-
ed 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 mor»
62
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
frientlly form of advice, and advice, v^hen rejected,
produced their reproaches. He now therefore found,
that such friends as benefits had gathered round
him, were Httle estimable : he now found that a
man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of
another. I now found, that — that — I forget what
I was going to observe : in short, sir, he resolved to
respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring
his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own
whimsical manner, he travelled through Europe
on foot, and now, though he has scarcely attained
the age of thirty, his circumstances are more afflu-
ent than ever. At present, his bounties are more
rational and moderate than before; but still he pre-
serves the character of a humorist, and finds most
pleasure in eccentric virtues."
My attention was so much taken up by Mr.
Burchell's account, that I scarcely looked forward
as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries
of my family, when turning, I perceived my young-
est daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown
from her horse, and struggling with the torrent.
She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to
disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My
sensations were even too violent to permit my at-
tempting her rescue: she must have certainly
perished had not my companion, perceiving her
danger, instantly plunged in to her reUef, and, with
some difficulty, brought her in safety to the oppo-
site shore. By taking the current a little farther
up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we
had an opportunity of joining our acknowledg-
ments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readi-
ly imagined than described : she thanked her de-
liverer 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. Burchell was
going to a different part of the country, he took
leave; and we pursued our journey; my wife ob-
serving as he went, that she lilted hun extremely,
and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to
entitle him to match into such a family as our's,
she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I
could not but smile to hear her taUc in this lofty
strain ; but I was never much displeased with those
harmless delusions that tend to make us more
happy.
CHAPTER IV.
A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness,
which depends not on circumstances but constitutioa
The place of our retreat was in a little neigh-
Courhood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their
own grounds, and were equal strangers to opu-
lence and poverty. As they had almost all the
conveniencies of life within themselves, they sel-
dom visited towns or cities, in search of superflui-
ty. Remote from the polite, they still retained the
primeval simplicity of manners; and frugal by habit,
they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue.
They wrought with cheerfulness on days of la-
bour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness
and pleasure. They kept up the Christinas carol,
sent true love-knots on Valentine morning, ate
pancakes on Shrove-tide, showed their wit on the
first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Mi-
chaelmas eve. Being apprised of our approach, the
whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minis-
ter, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by
a pipe and tabor. A feast also was provided for
our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down;
and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made
up in laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of
a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood
behind, and a prattling river before : on one side a
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted
of about twenty acres of excellent land, having
given a hundred pounds for my predecessor's good-
will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my
little enclosures ; the elms and hedge-rows appear-
ing with inexpressible beauty. My house con-
sisted of but one story, and was covered with
thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness ; the
walls on the inside were nicely white-washed, and
my daughters undertook to adorn them with pic-
tures of their own designing. Though the same
room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only
made it the 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 reliev-
ed, and did not want richer furniture. There were
three other apartments, one for my wife and me,
another for our two daughters, within our own,
and the third, with two beds, for the rest of 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 ; 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 mechani-
cal forms of goed-breeding, without which freedom
ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to
that Being, who gave us another day. This duty
being performed, my son and I went to pursue our
usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters
employed themselves in providing breakfast, which
was always ready at a certain time. I allowed
half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner;
which time was taken up in iimocent mirth be-
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
G3
tween my wife and daughters, and in philosophical
arguments between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued
our labours after it was gone down, but returned
home to the expecting family ; where smiling looks,
1 neat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for
our reception. Nor were we without guests:
sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative
neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us
a visit, and taste our gooseberry-wine ; for the mak-
ing of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the
reputation. These harmless people had several
ways of being good company ; wliile one played, the
other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny
Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of Bar-
bara Allen. The night was concluded in the man-
ner we began the morning, ray youngest boys being
appointed to read the lessons of the day ; and he
that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have
a halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor's box.
When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of
finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not
restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures
against pride had conquered the vanity of my
daughters; yet I found them still secretly attached
to all their former finery: they still loved laces, ri-
bands, bugles, and catgut ; my vsdfe herself retained
a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I for-
merly happened to say it became her.
The first Sunday in particular their beliaviour
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 be-
fore the rest of the congregation. They punctually
obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assem-
ble in the morning at breakfast, down came my
wife and daughters dressed out in all their former
splendour : their hair plastered up with pomatum,
their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up
in a heap beliind, and rustling at every motion. I
could not lielp smiling at their vanity, particularly
that of my wife, from whom I expected more dis-
cretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only re-
source was to order my son, with an important air,
to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the
command ; but I repeated it with more solemnity
than before — "Surely, my dear, you jest," cried
my wife, " we can walk it perfectly well : we want
no coach to carry us now." " You mistake, child,"
returned I, " we do want a coach ; for if wo walk to
church in this trim, the very children in the parish
will hoot after us." — " Indeed," replied my wife, " 1
always imagined that my Charles was fond of see-
ing his cliildren neat and handsome about him." —
" You may be as neat as you please," interrupted
I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but all
this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings,
and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us
hated by all the wives of all our neiglibours. No,
my children," continued I, more gravely, " those
gowns may be altered into something of a plainer
cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want
the means of decency. I do not know whether such
flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the
rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation,
that the nakedness of the indigent world might b*
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 sa-
tisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own re-
quest, 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 curtaihng.
CHAPTER V.
A new and great acquaintance introduced.— -What we plac«
most hopes upon, generaUy'proves most fatal.
At a small distance from the house, my prede-
cessor had made a seat, overshadowed by a hedge
of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Hero, when the
weather was fine and our labour soon linished, we
usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive land-
scape in the calm of the evening. Here too we
drank tea, which was now become an occasionaJ
banquet ; and as we had it but seldom, it difiused a
new joy, the preparations for it being made with no
small share of bustle and ceremony. On these oc-
casions 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 girls sang to the guitar ; and while they thug
formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll
down the sloping field, that was embellished with
blue-bells and centaury, talk of our children with
rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both
health and harmony.
In this manner we began to find that every situa-
tion in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures :
every morning awaked us to a repetition of toil ;
but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.
It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holi-
day, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from
labour, that 1 had drawn out my family to our usual
place of amusement, and our young musicians be-
gan their usual concert. As we were thus en-
gaged, we saw a stag bound nhnbly by, within
about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and
by its pantijig it seemed pressed by the hunters.
We had not much time to reflect upon the pool
animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and
horsemen come sweeping along at some distance
behind, and making the verj' path it had taken. ]
was instantly for returning in with my family ; but
either curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden
64
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats.
The huntsman, who rode foremost, passed us with
great swiftness, followed by four or five persons
more who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young
gentleman of a more genteel appearance than the
rest came forward, and for a while regarding us,
instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and
giving his horse to a servant who attended, ap-
proached 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 re-
ception ; but they had early learned the lesson of
looking presumption out of countenance, i 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 confi-
dent, was easy, we soon became more familiar ; and
perceiving musical instruments lying near, he beg-
ged to be favoured with a song. As I did not ap-
prove of such disproportioned acquaintances, I
winked upon my daughters in order to prevent
their compliance ; but my hint was counteracted by
one from their mother ; so that, with a cheerful air,
they gave us a favourite song of Dryden's. Mr.
Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their per-
formance and choice, and then took up the guitar
himself. He played but very indifferently ; how-
ever, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause
with mtcrest, and assured him that his tones were
louder than even those of her master. At this com-
• pliment he bowed, which she returned with a cour-
tesy. 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 earnest to please him : my
girls attempted to entertain him with topics they
thought most modern, while Moses, on the con-
trary, gave him a question or two from the an-
cients, for which he had the satisfaction of being
laughed at : my little ones were no less busy, and
fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endea-
vours could scarcely keep their dirty fingers from
handling and tarnisliing 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 coun-
cil on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion,
that it was a most fortunate hit ; for that she had
knovni even stranger things at last brought to bear.
eluded, she protested she could see no reason why
the two Miss Wrinkles should marry great for-
tunes, and her children get none. As this last ar-
gument was directed to me, I protested 1 could see
no reason for it neither, nor why Mr. Simkins got
the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and
we sat down with a blank. " 1 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
visiter? Don't you think he seemed to be good-
natured 7" — " Immensely so indeed, mamma," re-
plied 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 enough for a man;
but for my part, I don't much Uke him, he is so
extremely impudent and familiar ; but on the guitar
he is shocking." These two last speeches I inter-
preted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia
internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly ad-
mired him. — " Whatever may be your opinions of
him, my children," cried I, " to confess the truth,
he has not prepossessed me in his favour. Dis-
proportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust;
and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he
seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between
us. Let us keep to companions of our own rank.
There is no character more contemptible than a
man that is a fortune-hunter ; and I can see no
reason why fortune-hunting women should not bo
contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be con-
temptible if Ills views be honourable ; but if they be
otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that
It is true I have no apprehensions from the con-
duct 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 veni-
son, and a promise to dine with us some days after.
This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully
in Ms favour, than any tiling I had to say could ob-
viate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with
just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to
their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which C
requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the \
sentinel.
CHAPTER VI.
The Happiness, of a Country Fire-side.
As we carried on the former dispute with some
degree of warmth, in order to accommodate mat-
ters, it was universally agreed, that we should have
a part of the venison for supper; and the girts
undertook the task with alacrity. "I am soiTy,"
She hoped again to see the day in which we might i cried I, " that we have no neighbour or stranger to
hold up our heads with the best of them j and con- 1 take a part in this good cheer ; feasts of tliis kind
4
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
65
acquire a double relish from hospitality." — "Bless
me," cried my wife, "here comes our good friend
Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run
you down fairly in the argument." — "Confute me
in argument, child!" cried I. "You mistake there,
my dear : I believe there are but few that can do
that : I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-
pie, and I beg you'll leave argument to me." — As
I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the house, and
was welcomed by the family, who shook him heart-
ily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reach-
ed him a chair.
I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for
two reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine,
and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was
able. He was known in our neighbourhood by
the character of the poor gentleman that would do
n J good when he was young, though he was not yet
tliirty. He would at intervals talk with great good
sense ; but in general he was fondest of the com-
pany of children, whom he used to call harmless
little men. He was famous, I found, for singing
them ballads, and telling them stories; and sel-
dom went out without something in his pockets
for them; a piece of gingerbread, or a halfpenny
whistle. He generally came for a few days into
our neighbourhood once a-year, and lived upon
the neighbours' hospitality. He sat down to sup-
per among us, and my wife was not sparing of her
gooscberry-vdne. The tale went round ; he sang
ns old songs, and gave the cliildren the story of the
Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient
Grissel, the adventures of Catskin, and then Fair
Rosamond's Bower. Our cock, which always crew
at eleven, now told us it was time for repose ; but
an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the
stranger — all our beds were already taken up, and
it was too late to send him to the next ale-house.
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 will 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 bird 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 a house, as if wilhng to see what hos-
pitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah,
my dear," cried 1 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 fami-
ly to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and
our guest olTering his assistance, he was accepted
among the number. Our labours went on Uglitly ;
we turned the swath to the wind. I went fore-
most, and the rest followed in due succession. I
5
could not avoid, however, observmg the assiduity
of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia
in her part of the task. When he had finished
?iis own, he would join in her's, and enter into a
close conversation : but I had too good an opinion
of Sophia's understanding, and was too well con-
vinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasinesd
from a man of broken fortune. When we were
finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited
as on the night before ; but he refusetl, as he was
to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child i
he was carrying a whistle. When gone, our
conversation at supper turned upon our late unfor-
tune 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
felly. Poor forlorn creature, where are now tho
revellers, the flatterers, that he could qnce inspire
and command ! Gone, perhaps, to attend the bag-
nio pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They
once praised him, and now they applaud the pan-
der ; their former raptures at his wit are now con
verted 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 use-
ful." Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons,
I delivered this obsen'ation with too much acri-
mony, which my Sophia gently reproved. "What-
soever his former conduct may have been, papa,
his circumstances should exempt him frojn censure
now. His present indigence is a sufficient pun-
ishment for former folly; and I have heard my
papa himself say, that we should never strike an
unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Provi-
dence holds the scourge of its resentment." — "You
are right, Sophy," cried my son Moses, "and ono
of the ancients finely represents so malicious a
conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Mar-
syas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been whol-
ly 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 apart-"
ment sufficiently lightsome.^ And to confess a
truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his sta-
tion : for I never heard any one moi'e 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
"■entleman. The readiness with which she under-
took to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were
s3nnptoms 1 did not internally approve; but I lo-
pressed my suspicions. -> .
66
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
As wc expected our landlord the next day, my
wife went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat
reading, while I taught the little ones : my daugh-
ters seemed equally busy with the rest; and I ob-
Berved them for a good while cooking something
over the fire. I at first supposed they were assist-
ing 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 antipa-
thy to; for 1 knew that instead of mending the
complexion, they spoiled it. 1 therefore approach-
ed my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasp-
ing the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly
by accident overturned the whole composition, and
it was too late to begin another.
CHAPTER VII.
A Town-wit described— The dullest fellows may learn to be
comical foi a night or two.
Whkn' the morning arrived on which we were
to entertain our young landlord, it may be easily
supposed what provisions were exhausted to make
an appearance. It may also be conjectured that
my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plu-
mage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came
with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder.
The servants, who were numerous, he politely or-
dered to the next ale-house, but my wife, in the
triumph of aer heart, insisted on entertaining them
all; for which, by the by, our family was pinched
for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hint-
ed to us the day before, that he was making some
proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son
George's former mistress, tliis a good deal damped
the heartiness of his reception : but accident in some
measure relieved our embarrassment ; for one of the
company happening to mention her name, Mr.
Thornhill observed with an oath, that he never
knew any thing more absurd than calling such a
fright a beauty : " For strike me ugly," continued
he, " if I should not find as much pleasure in choos-
ing my mistress by the information of a lamp un-
der the clock at St. Dunstan's." At this he laugh-
ed, and so did we:— rthe jests of the rich are ever
successful Olivia too could not avoid whispering
loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite
fund of humour.
After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the
Church; for this 1 was thanked by the chaplain,
as he said the Church was the only mistress of his
affections. — " Come, tell us honestly, Frank," said
the 'Squire, with his usual archness, "suppose the
Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn
sleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no
lawn about lier, on the other, which would you be
for?" — "For both, to be sure," cried the chaplam.
♦' Bight, Frank," cried the 'Squire, " for may this
glass suffocate me but a fine girl is worth all the
priestcraft in the creation. For what are tithes
and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded im-
posture, and I can prove it." — " I wish you would,"
cried my son Moses ; " and I think," continued he,
"that I should be able to answer you." — "Very
well, sir," cried the 'Squire, who immediately
smoked him, and winking on the rest of the compa-
ny to prepare us for the sport, " if you are for a
cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to ac-
cept the challenge. And first, whether are you for
managing it analogically or dialogically 7" "I am
for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite hap-
py at being permitted to dispute. "Good agfiin,"
cried the 'Squire, "and firstly, of the first: I hope
you'll not deny, that whatever is, is. If you don't
grant me that, I can go no farther." — " Why," re-
turned Moses, " I think 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 Moses, " it is
but just and reasonable." — "I hope," cried the
'Squire, "you will not deny, that the two angles
of a triangle are equal to two right ones."' — " No-
thing can be plainer," returned t' other, and looked
round with his usual importance. — " Very well,"
cried the 'Squire, speaking very quick, "the pre-
mises being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that
the concatenation of self-existence, proceeding in a
reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a proh-
lematical 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 'Squire, as if in a passion, "not sub-
mit ! Answer me one plain question : Do you think
Aristotle right when he says, that relatives are re-
lated 7" " 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 en-
thymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad mi-
nus, and give me your reasons : give me your rea-
sons, I say, directly." — " I protest," cried Moses,
" I don't rightly comprehend the force of your rea-
soning; but if it be reduced to one simple proposi-
tion, 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 pro-
test you are too hard for me." Tins effectually
raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sat tlie
only dismal figure in a group of merry faces; nor
did he offer a single syllable more during the whole
entertainment.
But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had
a very different effect upon Olivia, wno mistook it
for humour, though but a mere act of the memorv.
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD.
67
She thought him therefore a very fine geiitlenian ;
and such as consider what jwvverful ingredients a
good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that
character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill,
notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with
ease, and coultl expatiate upon the common to[)ics
of conversation with fluency. It is hot surprising
then, that such talents should win the atlections of
a girl, who by education was taught to value an
a|)i»earance in herself, and consequently to set a
value ujjon it in another.
Upon his departure, we again entered into a de-
bate u|ion the merits of our young landlord. As
he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it
was no longer doubled but that she was the object
that induced him to be our visiter. Nor did she
seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery
of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even
Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the
day, and exulted in her daughter's victory as if it
were her own. " And now, my dear," cried she
to me, "I'll fairly own, that it was I that instructed
my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. I
had always some ambition, and you now see that I
was right; for who knows how this may end?"
"Ay, who knows that indeed!" answered I, with a
groan : " For my part, I don't much like it: and I
could have been better pleased with one that vvas
poor ant^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 docs. 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 his 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 aflord
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 ofler. So that, though our erroneous
opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we
have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent m
forming them, we deserve punislmient for our vice,
or contempt for our folly."
My wife now kept up the conversation, though
not the argument : she observed, that several very
prudent men of our acquaintance were free-think-
ers, and made very good huslmnds ; and she knew
some sensible girls that had skill enough to make
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 controversy."
" Why, my dear, what controversy can she have
read?" cried 1: "It does not occur to me that I
ever put sucii books into her hands : you certainly
overrate her merit." " Indeed, j)apa," replied Oli- ■
via, " 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 am
now employed in reading the controversy in Reli-
gious Courtship." " Very well," cried I, " that's
a good girl, I find you are perfectly qualified for
making converts ; and so go help your mother to
make the gooseberry-pie."
CHAPTEl VIII. •• .
.\n amour, wliich promises little good fortime, yet may be
productive of much.
TiiK next morning we were again visited by Mr.
Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be
disjileased with the frequency of his return ; but I
could not refuse him my com})any and my fire-side.
It is true, his labour more than requited his enter-
tainment ; for he wrought among us with vigour,
and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put
himself foremost. Besides, he had always some-
thing amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was
at once so out of the way, and yet so sensil>le, that
I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dis-
like arose from an attachment he discovered to my
daughter : he would, in a jesting manner, call hei
his little mistress, and when he bouglit each of the
girls a set of ribands, her's was the finest. 1 knew
not how, but he every day seemed to become more
amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to
assume the superior airs of wisdom.
Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or ra-
ther reclined round a temperate repast, our cloth
spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave
cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satis-
faction, 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. " 1 never sit
thus," says Sophia, " but I think of the two lovers
so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck
dead in each other's arms. There is something so
])athetic in the description, that I have read it a
hundred times with new rapture." — " In my opin-
ion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in thai de-
scription are much below those in the Acis and
Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands
the use of contrast better; and upon that figura
converts of their spouses: "And who knows, my j artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic d
68
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
pends." — " It is remarkable," cried Mr. Burchell,
" that both the poets you mention have equally
contributed to introduce a false taste into their re-
spective countries, by loading all their lines witli
epithet. Men of httle genius found them most
easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry,
like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing
at present but a combination of luxuriant images,
without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that
improve the sound, without carrying on the sense.
But perhaps, madam, wliile I thus reprehend others,
you'll think it just that I should give them an op-
portunity 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.
" Turn, gentle heiftit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper ciieers the vale
With hospitable ray.
" For here forlorn and lost 1 tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread.
Seem length' ning as I go."
" Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
" To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
" Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still ;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
" Tiien turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare.
My blessing and repose.
pNo flocks that range the valley free,
1 To slaughter I condemn ;
\Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them :
" But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast 1 bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied.
And water from the spring.
" Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ;
All earth born cares are wrong ;
iTVIan wants but little here below,''.
Nor wants that little long."
^
* We have introchiced this beautiful poem in thi? place, be-
czuse it ajipears to be too intimately connected with the story
to be nraiued willi any proiiriety, though it is inserted among
the raa of tlie doctor's poetical Droduct-ioiis.
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell :
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheefd his pensive guest:.
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smiled;
And, skill' d in legendary lore.
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic rtiirth
Its tricks the kitten tries.
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart 9
To soothe the stranger's woe ;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care oppress'd :
" And whence, unhappy youth," he crieo
" The sorrows of thy breast?
" From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove 1
Or grieve for friendship unretum'd.
Or unregarded love 7
" Alas! the joys that fortime brings,
Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things.
More trifling still than they.
" And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame^
But leaves the wretch to weep?
"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
69
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view ;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confest ' I,
A maid in all her charms. - . / .
" And ah ! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
" Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
" But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
"My father lived 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;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd a flame.
" Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow.'d.
But never talk'd of love.
" In humble, simplest habit clad.
No wealth nor power had he ;
W isdom and worth were all he 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 the gale,
And music to the grove.
" The blossom opening to the day.
The dews of Heaven refined, '
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
" The dew, the blossom on the tree.
With charms inconstant sliine ;
Their charms were his, but woe to me !
Their constancy was mine.
" For still I tried each fickle art.
Importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touch'd my hear*,
I triumphed in his pain :
" Till quite dejected with my scorn.
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought.
And stretch me where he lay.
" And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did.
And so for him will I."
" Forbid it, Heaven !" the Hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast;
Tlie wondering fair one turned to chid
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. , • ...■
" Turn, Angelina, ever dear, ' .
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here.
Restored to love and thee.
" Thus let me hold thee to my heart.
And every care resign;
And shall we never, never part.
My life — my all that's mine?
" No, never from this hour to part.
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed
to mix an air of tenderness with her approbatioii.
But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the re-
port of a gun just by us, and immediately after a
man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take
up the game he had killed. This sportsman was
the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the
blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So
loud a report and so near, startled my daughters;
and I could perceive that Sophia in her fright had
thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protec-
tion. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon
for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ig-
norant of our being so near. He therefore sat
down by my youngest daughter, and sportsman-
like, offered her what he had killed that morning.
She was going to refuse, but a private look from
her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake,
and accept his present, though with some reluc-
tance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in
a whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a con-
quest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of
the 'Squire. I suspected, however, with more pro-
bability, that her affections were placed ui)on a dif-
ferent object. The chaplain's errand was to m-
form 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 1 deny," continued
he, " but 1 have an interest in being first to deliver
this message, as I expect for my reward to be hon-
ro
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
oured with Miss Sopliy's hand as a partner." To
this my girl repiiod, that she should have no oVyec-
tion if she could do it with honour : " But here," con-
tinued she, "is a gentleman," looking at Mr. Bur-
chcll, '• who has licen my companion in the task
for the day, and it is lit he should share in its
amusements." Mr. Burchell returned her a com-
pliment for her intentions : but resigned her up to
the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night
five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His
refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary; nor
could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my
youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken for-
tunes to one whose expectations were much greater.
But as men are most capable of distinguishing
merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest
judgment of us. The two sexes seem placed as
spies upon each other, and are furnished with dif-
ferent abilities, adapted for mutual inspection.
CHAPTER IX.
Two Ladies of great distinction introduced— Superior finery
ever seems to confer superior breeding.
Mr. BuncHELL had scarcely taken leave, and
Bophia consented to dance with the chaplain, when
my little ones came running out to tell us, that the
'Squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon
our return, we found our landlord, with a couple
of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly
dressed, whom he introduced as women of very
great distinction and fashion from town. We hap-
pened not to have chairs enough for the whole
company; but Mr. Thornhill immediately propos-
ed, that every gentleman should sit in a lady's lap.
This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a
look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was
therefore despatched to borrow a couple of chairs :
and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set
at country dances, the two gentlemen went with
him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and
partners were soon provided. The gentleman re-
turned with my neighbour Flamborough's rosy
daughters, flaunting with red top-knots ; but an un-
lucky circumstance was not adverted to — though
the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very
best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig
and round-about to perfection, yet they were total-
ly unacquainted with country dances. This at
first discomposed us: however, after a little shov-
ing and dragging, they at last went merrily on.
Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and
tabor. The moon shone bright, Mr. Thornhill
and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the great
delight of the spectators ; for the neighbours, hear-
Lig what was going forward, came flocking about
us. My girl moved with so much grace and vivati-
ty, that my wife could not avoid discovering the
pride of her heart, by assuring me, that though the
little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen
from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard
to be equally easy, but without success. They
swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked; 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 all of a
muck of sxoeat. Upon our return to the house, we
found a very elegant cold supper, which Mr.
Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him.
The conversation at this time was more reserved
than before. The two ladies threw my girls quite
into the shade; for they would talk of nothing but
high Ufe, and high-lived company; with other
fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shaks-
peare, and the musical glasses. /'Tis true they once
or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an
oath ; but that appeared to me as the surest symp-
tom of their distinction (though I am since inform-
ed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable.) Their
finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in
their conversation. My daughters seemed to re-
gard their superior accomplishments with envy;
and wiiat 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 observed, that had Mis9
Ohvia seen a httle 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 as-
sented to both ; adding, that there was nothing she
more ardently wished than to give her girls a single
winter's polishing. To this I could not help re-
plying, that their breeding was already sujierior
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. Thorn-
hill, "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 favour I would ask in return would be to
add myself to the benefit." I was not such a stran-
ger 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 wiiicii
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
71
you now condpsrend to favour with your company,
has been bred with as nice a sense of honour as you.
Any attempts to injure that, may be attended with
very dangerous consequences. Honour, sir, is our
only possession at present, and of that last treasure
we must be particularly careful." — I was soon sorry
for the warmth with which I had spoken tliis, when
the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore
he commanded my spirit, though he disapproved
my suspicions. "As to your present hint," con-
tinued he, "I protest nothing was farther from my
heart than such a thought. No, by all that's
tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular siege
was never to my taste ; for all my amours are car-
ried by a coup-de-main."
The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of
the rest, seemed highly displeased with tliis last
stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and
serious dialogue upon virtue ; in this my wife, the
chaplam, and I, soon joined: and the 'Squire him-
self 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 simshine in
the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well
pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond
the usual time to be edified by so much good con-
versation. 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 the night was passed in a most com-
fortable wa}^, till at last the company began to think
of returning. The ladies seemed very unwilling
to part with my daughters, for whom they had con-
ceived a particular affection, and joined in a re-
quest 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 me 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; for which we had no-
thing but sullen looks and short answers the whole
day ensuing.
CHAPTER X.
The family endeavours to cope with their betters. — The mise-
ries of the poor wlien they attempt to appear above tlieir
circumstances.
I NOW began to find, that all my long and pain-
ful lectures upon temperance, simplicity and con-
tentment, were entirely disregarded. The dis-
tinctions 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,
aiid the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within.
My wife observed, that rising too early would hurt
her daughters' eyes, that working after dinner
would redden their noses, and she convinced ma
that the hands never looked so white as when they
did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George's
shirts, we now had them new-modelling their old
gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss
Flaraboroughs, their former gay companions, were
cast-off as mean acquaintance, and the whole con-
versation ran upon high life and high-lived com-
pany, with pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the
musical glasses.
But we could have borne all this, had not a for-
tune-teUing gipsy come to raise us into perfect sub-
limity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than
my girls came running to me for a shilling a-piece
to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth,
I was tired of being always wise, and could not •
help gratifying their request, because I lo\ ed to see
them happy. I gave each of them a shilling;
though for the honour of the family it must be ob-
served, that they never went without money them-
selves, 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
&ome time, I knew by their looks, upon their re-
turning, that they had been promised sometliing
great. — "Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell
me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given thee a penny-
worth?" — "I protest, papa," says the girl, "I be-
lieve she deals with somebody that's not right ; for
she positively declared, that I am to be married 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?" "Sir," replied she,
"I am to have a lord soon after my sister has mar-
ried the 'squire." "How!" cried I, "is that all
you are to have for your two shilhngs? 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 exalt-
ed, and already anticipated our future grandeur.
It has been a thousand times observed, and I
must obsei-ve 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 upon our fcrr-
tunes as once more rising; 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
linterval, my wife had the most lucky dreams in the
73
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
World, which she took care to tell us every morning
with great solemnity and exactness. It was one
night a cofFm and cross-bones, the sign of an ap-
proaching wedding ; at another time she imagined
her daughters' pockets filled with farthings, a cer-
tain sign of their being shortly stuffed with gold.
The girls themselves had their omens. They fell
strange kisses on their lips; they saw rings in the
candle, purses bounced from the fire, and, true
love-knots lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup.
Towards the end of the week we received a card
from the town ladies ; in which with their compli-
ments, they hoped to see all our family at church
the Sunday following. All 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 suspi
cions that some absurd proposal was preparing for
appearing with splendour the next day. In the
evening they began their operations in a very regu
lar 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 uneasi-
ness about that, you shall have a sermon whether
there be or not." — " That is what I expect," re-
turned she; "but I think, my dear, we ought to
appear there as decently as possible, for who knows
what may happen?" " Your precautions," replied
1, " are highly commendable. A decent behaviour
and appearance in church is what charms me. We
r.hould be devout and humble, cheerful and serene."
"Yes," cried she, "1 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 dur fanaily these nine years, and his com-
panion Blackberry, that has scarcely done an earth-
ly thing for this month past. They are both grown
fat and lazy. Why should not they do something
as well as wel And let me tell you, when Moses
has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very tole-
rable figure."
To this proposal I objected, that wallong would
be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry
conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyod, and the
colt wanted a tail : that they had never been broke
to the rein, but had a hundred 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 found it would be a busi-
ness of time, I walked on to the church before, and
they promised speedily to follow. I waited near
an hour in the reading-desk for their arrival ; but
not finiUng them come as expected, I was obliged
to begin, and went through the service, not without
some uneasiness at finding them absent. This was
increased when all was finished, and no appear-
ance of the family. I therefore walked back by
the horse-way, which was five miles round, though
the foot-way 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 upon one
horse, and my two daughters upon the other. I
demanded the cause of their delay; but I soon found
by their looks they had met with a thousand mis-
fortunes 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
hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps
of my wife's pillion 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 en-
treaties could prevail with him to proceed. He was
just recovering from this dismal situation when I
found them; but perceiving everything safe, I own
their present mortification did not much displease
me, as it would give me many opportunities of fu-
ture triumph, and teach my daughters more hu-
mility.
CHAPTER XI.
The family still resolve to hold up their heads.
Michaelmas eve happening on the next day,
we were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at
neighbour Flamborough's. Our late mortifica-
tions had humbled us a little, or it is probable we
might have rejected such an invitation with con-
tempt: however, we suffered ourselves to be happy.
Our honest neighbour's goose and dumplings were
fine, and the lamb's wool, even in the opinion of my
wife, who was a connoisseur, was excellent. It ia
true, his manner 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
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
73
times before : however, we were kind enough to
laugh at them once more.
Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always
fond of seeing some innocent amusement going
torward, and set the boys and girls to blind man's
buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the
diversion, and it give me pleasure to think she was
not j'et 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
followed that, and last of all, they sat down to hunt
the slipper. As every person may not be acquaint-
ed with this primeval pastime, it may be necessa-
ry to observe, that the company at this play plant
themeslves in a ring upon the ground, all, except
one who stands in the middle, whose business it is
to catch a shoe, which 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 great beauty of the play lies
in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on
that side least capable of maldng a defence. It
was in this manner that my eldest daughter was
hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in
spirits, and bawling for fair play, with a voice that
might deafen a ballad-singer, when, confusion on
confusion! who should enter the room but our
two great acquaintances from town, Lady Blarney
and Miss Carolina WUhelmina Amelia Skcggs !
— Description would but beggar, therefore it is
unnecessary to describe this new mortification.
Death ! to be seen by ladies of such high breeding
in such vulgar attitudes ! Nothing better could en-
sue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's
proposing. We seemed struck to the ground for
some time, as if actually petrified with amazement.
The two ladies had been at our 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 church the day before. Olivia
undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the
whole in a summary way, only saving, "We were
thrown from cur 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 coidd exceed their complais-
ance to my daughters ; their 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 at-
tached to OU\ia; Miss Carolina Wilhelniina Ame-
lia Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) took a
greater fancy to her sister. They supported the
conversation b«itwccn themselves, wliile mv daugh-
ters sat silent, admiring their exalted lireetling.
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 tlie matter," cried Miss
Skeggs, "is this, that it may be true, oi^t may not
be true: but this I can assure your ladyship, that
the whole rout was in amaze : his lordsliip turned
all manner of colours, my lady fell into a sound,
but Sir Tomk}'!!, drawing his sword, swore he was
hers to the last drop of his blood.",
"WeD," replied our peeress, "this I can say,
that the dutchess never told me a syllable of the-
matter, and I believe her grace would keep nothing
a secret from me. This you may depend upon as
fact, that the next morning my lord duke cried out
three times to his valet cle chavibre, Jernigan, Jer-
nigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters."
But previously I should have mentioned the very
impolite behaviour of Mr. Burchell, who, duruig
this discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire,
and at the conclusion of every sentence would
cry out fudge! an exprcssipn which displeased us
all, and in some measure damped the rising spirit
of the conversation.
"Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our
peeress, "there is notliing of this in tlie copy of
verses that Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion."
Fudge!
"I am surprised at that," cried Miss Skeggs;
" for ho seldom leaves any thing out, as he writes
only for his own anuisement. But can your lady-
ship favour me with a sight of themi" Fudge!
"My dear creature," replied our peeress, "do
you think I carry such things about me? Though
they are very fine to be sure, and I think myself
something of a judge ; at least I know what pleases
myself. Indeed I was ever an admirer of all Dr.
Burdock's little pieces ; for, except what he does,
and our dear countess at Hanover-Square, there's
nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in na-
ture; not a bit of high life among them." Fudge!
"Your ladyship should except," says t'other,
"your own things in the Lady's Magazine. I
hope you'll say there's nothing low-lived therel
But I sup})ose \\'e are to have no more from that
quarter?" Fudge!
" Why, my dear," says the ladj', "j-ou know my
reader nnd comi)anion has left me, to be married to
Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer
me to write myself, I have been for some time
looking out for another. A proper person is no
ea.sy matter to find, and to be sure thirty pounds
a-year is a small stipend for a well-l)rcd girl of
character, that can read, write, and behave in com-
pany : as for the chits about tov\ii, there is no bear-
ing them about one." Fudge!
74
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
" That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, "by expe-
rience. For of the three companions I had this
last half-year, one of them refused to do plain-work
an hour in a day; another thought twenty-five
guineas a-year too small a salary, and I was oblig-
ed to send away the third, because I suspected an
intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear La-
dy Blarnejj, 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 poimds and twenty-five
guineas a-year, made fifty-six pounds five shillings
English money, all which was in a manner going
a-begging, and might easily be secured in the fami-
ly. She for a moment studied my looks for appro-
bation; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that
two such places would fit our two daughters ex-
actly. Besides, if the 'Squire had any real affec-
tion for my eldest daughter, this would be the way
to make her every way qualified for her fortune.
My wife therefore was resolved that we should not
be deprived of such advantages for want of assur-
ance, and undertook to harangue for the family-
*' 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 natu-
ral 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 show better. They can
read, write, and cast accounts; they understand
their needle, broadstitch, cross and change, and all
manner of plain -work; they can pink, point, and
irill, and know something of music; they can do
up small clothes; work upon catgut: my eldst can
cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty man-
ner of telling fortunes upon the cards." Fudge!
When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo-
quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few
minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and import-
ance. At last Miss Carolina Wilhelmina AmeUa
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, "re-
quires a thorough examination into characters, and
a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not,
madam," continued she, " that I in the least sus-
pect the young ladies' virtue, prudence and discre-
ti(;n ; but there is a form in these things, madam,
there is a form."
My wife approved her suspicions very much, ob-
serving that she was very apt to be suspicious her-
self; but referrftd her to all the neighbours for a
character: but this our peeress declined as unne-
cessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill's re-
commendation would be sufficient; and upon thM
we rested our petition.
CHAPTER XII.
Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield—
Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities.
When we were returned home, the night was
dedicated to schemes of future conquest. Debo-
rah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which
of the two girls was likely to have the best place,
and most opportunities of seeing good company.
The only obstacle to our preferment was in ob-
taining the 'Squire's recommendation: but he had
already shown us too many instances of his friend-
ship 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 knowing what to say. — " What! only
pretty well!" returned she. " I think it is very
well. Suppose the girls should come to make ac-
quaintances of taste in town! This I am as-
sured of, that London is the only place in the world
for all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear,
stranger things happen every day : and as ladies of
quality are so taken with mv daughters, what will
not men of quality be? — Entrc nous, I protest I
like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging.
However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia
Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, when 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," re-
turned Ij not knowing well what to think of the
matter, f Heaven grant they may be both the bet-V
ter for it this day three months!"'' This was one^
of those observations 1 usually made to imi)ress my
wife with an opinion of my sagacity : for if the
girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ;
but if any thing unfortunate ensued, then it might
be looked upon as a prophecy. All this conversa-
tion, however, was only preparatory to another
scheme, and indeed 1 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 a horse that would
carry single or double upon an occasion, and make a
pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. This
at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly de-
fended. However, as 1 weakened, my antagonist
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 myself; liut my wife persuaticd
THE ViCAR OF "WAKEFIELD.
75
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: you
know all our great bargains 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 wilUng enough to intrust him with this com-
mission; and the next morning I perceived his sis-
ters mighty busy m fitting out Moses for the fair;
trimming his hair, brushing hisbucldes, and cocking
his hat with pins. The business of the toilet be-
ing over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing
him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before
him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat
made of that cloth they call tliunder and lightning,
which, though grown too short, was much too good
to be thrown away. His waistcoat was 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 him good luck, good
luck, till we could see him no longer.
He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Thornhill's
butler came to congratulate us upon our good for-
tune, saying, that he overheard his young master
mention our names with great commendation.
Good 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 pleasing 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 sec it is no easy mat-
ter to get into the families of the great; but when
one once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go
to sleep." To this piece of humour, for she intend-
ed it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud
laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satis-
faction at this message, that she actually put her
hand in her pocket, and gave the messenger seven-
pence halfpenny.
This was to be our visiting day. The next that
came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair.
He brought my little ones a pennyworth of ginger-
bread each, which my wife undertook to keep for
them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought
my daughters also a couj)Ie of boxes, in which they
mif^ht keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money,
when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a wea-
sel-skin purse, as being the most lucky ; but this by
the by. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell,
though his late rude behaviour was in some mea-
sure displeasing ; nor could we now avoid commu-
nicating our happiness to him, and asking his ad-
\-ice : although we seldom followed advice, we were
all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note
from the two ladies, he sliook his head, and observ-
ed, that an affair of tliis sort demanded the utmost
circumspection. — This air of diffidence highly dis-
pleased my wife. " I never doubted, sir," cried she,
" Your readiness to be against my daughters and
me. You have more circumspection than is want-
ed. However, I fancy when we come to ask ad-
vice, we will apply to persons who seem to have
made use of it themselves." — "Whatever my own
conduct may have been, madam," replied he, " is
not the present question ; though as I have made
no use of advice myself, I should in conscience
give it to those that will." — As I was apprehensive
this answer might draw on a repartee, maliing up
by abuse what it wanted in wit, I clianged the sub-
ject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our
son so long at the fair, as it was now almost night-
fall. — "Never mind our son," cried my wife, "de-
pend upon it he knows what he is about. I'll war-
rant we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day.
I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze
one. I'U tell you a good story about that, that will
make you split your sides with laughing. — But as
I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and
the box at his back."
As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and
sweating under the deal box, which he had strapped
round his shoulders like a pedler. — " Welcome,
welcome, 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 horse 1" " I
have sold liim," cried Moses, "for three pounds
five shillings and twopence." — "Well done, my
good boy," returned she; "I knew you woidd
touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds
five shillings and two pence is no bad day's work.
Come let us have it then." — " I have brought back
no money," cried Moses again. " I have laid it all
out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bun-
dle 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 hsten to reason 1 I had
them a dead bargain, or I should not have 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
under no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the
rims, for they are not worth sixpence ; for I per-
ceive they are only copper varnished over."- •
" What," cried my wife, " not silver ! the rims not
silver!" "No," cried I, "no more silver than your
saucepan." — " And so," returned she, " we h.-jve
[parted with the colt, and have only got a gross cf
76
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen
Cjises! A murrain take such trumpery. The
blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have
known his company better." — " There, my dear,"
cried I, " you are wrong, he should not have known
tiiem at all." — " Marry, hang the idiot," returned
she, " to bring me such stuif ; if I had them I would
throw them in the fire." " There again you are
wrong, my dear," cried I; " for though they be cop-
per, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles,
you know, are better than nothing."
By this time the unfortunate Moses was unde-
ceived. He now saw that he had been imposed
upon by a prowhng sharper, who, observing his
figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I there-
fore asked the circumstance of his deception. He
sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in
search of another. A reverend looking man brought
him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell.
"Here," continued Moses, "we met another man,
very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty
pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money,
and would dispose of them for a third of the value.
The first gentleman, who pretended to be my
friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned
me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr.
Flamborough, 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. Burchell is found to be an enemy ; for he has the confi-
dence to give disagreeable advice.
Our 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
the pleasure, and the poor the inconveniencies that
result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and
repeat the fable that you were reading to-day, for
the good of the company."
" Once upon a tune," cried the child, " a giant
and a dwarf were friends, and kept together.
They made a bargain that they would never for-
sake each other, 'jut go seek adventures. The first
battle they fought was with two Saracens, and the
dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the
s'larapions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen
very Uttle injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly
struck off the poor dwarf's arm. He was now in
a woful pUght; but the giant coming to liis assist-
ance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on
the plain, and the dwarf cut off the dead man's
head out of spite. They then travelled on to ano-
ther adventure. This was against three bloody-
minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel
in distress. The dwarf was not quite so fierce now
as before; but for all that struck the first blow,
which was returned by another, that knocked out
his eye ; but the giant was soon up with them, and
had they not fled, would certainly have killed them
every one. They were all very joyful for this vic-
tory, and the damsel who was relieved fell in love
with the giant, and married him. They now tra-
velled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met
with a company of robbers.. The giant, for the
first time was foremost now; but the dwarf was
not far behind. The battle was stout and long.
Wherever the giant came, all fell before him; but
the dwarf had hke to have been killed more than
once. At last the victory declared for the two ad-
venturers; but the dwarf lost his leg. The dwarf
was now without an arm, a leg, and an eye, while
the giant 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 vic-
tory 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 the 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' in-
tended expedition to town. My wife very stren-
uously insisted upon the advantages that would re-
sult from it; Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dis-
suaded 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 ha-
rangue, however, was highly displeasing to us ail :
"she knew," she said, " of some who had their own
secret reasons for what they advised ; but, for her
part, she wished such to stay away from her house
for the future." — " Madam," cried Burchell, with
looks of great composui-e, wliich tended to inflame
her the more, " as for secret reasons, you are right:
I have secret reasons, which I forbear to m'intionj
because you are not able to answer those of which
I make no secret : but I find my visits here are be-
come troublesome ; I'll take my leave therefore now,
and perhaps come once more to take a final fare*
well when I am quitting the country." Thus say
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
77
ing, he took up his hat nor couid the attempts of
Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his pre-
cipitancy, prevent his going.
When gone, we all regarded each other for some
minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew her-
self to be the cause, strove to hide her concern
with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which
1 was willing to reprove: " How, woman," cried I
to her, "is it thus we treat strangers? Is it thus we
return their kindness! Be assured, my dear, that
these were the harshest words, and to me the most
unpleasing that ever escaped your lips!" — " Why
would he provoke me then?" replied 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 youngest daugh-
ter's company here at home. But whatever hap-
pens, she shall choose better company than such
low-lived fellows as he." — " Low-hved, my dear, do The opinion a man forms of his own prudence ia
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," re])lied my daugh-
ter, " has ever lieen sensible, modest, and pleasing.
As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I re-
member to have heard him say, he never knew a
woman who could find merit in a man that seemed
poor." " Such, my dear," cried I, " is the com-
mon 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 who has been so very
bad an economist of his own. Your mother and I
have now better prospects for you. The next win-
ter, which you will probably spend in town, will
give you opportunities of making a more prudent
choice."
What Sophia's reflections were upon this occa-
sion I can't pretend to determine; but I was not
displeased at the bottom, that we were rid of a guest
from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of
hospitality went to my conscience a little; but I
quickly silenced that monitor by two or three spe •
cious reasons, which served to satisfy and reconcile
me to myself. The pain which conscience gives
the man who has already done wrong, is soon got
over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it
has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom has
justice enough to accuse,
' ed to inspect their conduct himself, and inform U3
by letter of their behaviour. But it was thought in-
dispensably necessary that their appearance should
equal the greatness of their expectations; which
could not be done without expense. We debated
therefore in full council what were the easiest
methods of raising money, or more properly speak-
ing, what we could most conveniently sell. The
deliberation was soon finished ; it was found that
our remaining horse was utterly useless for the
plough without his companion, and equally unfit
for the road, as wanting an eye ; it was therefore
determined that we should dispose of him for the
purposes above mentioned, at the neighbouring
fair, 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.
CHAPTER XIV.
Freah Mortifications or a demcnstration that seeming Calami-
ties may be real Blessings.
The journey of my daughters to town was now
resolved upon, Mr, Thornhill having kindly proniis-
mcasured by that of the company he keeps i)and as
mine was mostly in the family way, I had conceiv-
ed no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly wis-
dom. My wife, however, next morning, at part-
ing, after I had got some paces from the door,
called me back, to advise me in a whisper, to have
all my eyes about me.
I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the
fair, put my horse through all bis paces; but for
some time had no bidders. At \ar>t a chapman ap-
proached, and after he had for a good while examin-
ed the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he
would have nothing to say to him: a second came
up, but observing he had a spavin, declared he
would not take him for the driving home: a third
perceived he had a windgall, and would bid no
money : a fourth knew by liis eye that he had the
botts : a fifth wondered what a plague 1 could do
at the fair with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that
was only fit to be cut up for a dog-kennel. By
this time 1 began to have a most hearty contempt
for the poor animal myself, and was almost a.sham-
ed at the approach of every customer; for thouo-li I
did not entirely believe all the fellows told me, yet
I reflected that the number of witnesses was a
strong presumption they were right; and St. Grego-
ry upon Good Works, professes himself to be of
the same opinion.
I was in this mortifying situation, when a bro-
ther clergyman, an old acquaintance, who had also
business at the fair, came up, and shaking me by
the hnnd, proposed adjourning to a public-house,
and taking a glass of whatever we could get. I
readily closed with the offer, and entering an ale •
house we were shown into a little back room
where there was only a venerable old man, who sat
wholly intent over a large book, which he was
reading. I never in my life saw a figure that pre-
possessed me mure favourably. His locks of silver
gray venerably shaded liis temples, and his greoa
78
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
old age seemed to be the result of health and benevo-
lence. However, his presence did not interrupt our
conversation : my friend and I discoursed on the va-
rious 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 the room,
respectfully said something softly to the old stranger.
" Make no apologies, my child." said the old man,
" to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow-
creatures; take this, I wish it were more; but five
pounds wdli relieve your distress, and you are wel-
come." The modest youth shed tears of gratitude,
and yet his gratitude was scarcely equal to mine.
1 could have hugged the good old man in my arms,
his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to
read, and we resumed our conversation, until my
companion, after some time, recollecting that he
had business to transact in the fair, promised to be
soon back, adding, that he always desired to have
as much of Dr. Primrose's company as possible.
The old gentleman hearing my name mentioned,
seemed to look at me with attention for some time,
and when 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 sincercr rapture than 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 already excited.
You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the
monogamist, whom you have been pleased to call
great. You here see that unfortunate divine, who
has so long, and it would ill become me to say suc-
cessfully, fought against the deuterogomy of the
age." — "Sir," cried the stranger, struck with awe,
" I fear I have been too familiar; but you'll forgive
my curiosity, sir: I beg pardon." — " Sir," cried I,
grasping his hand, "you are so far from displeas-
ing me by your familiarity, that I must beg you'll
accept my friendship, as you already have my es-
teem." — " Then with gratitude 1 accept the offer,"
cried he, squeezing me by the hand, " thou glorious
pillar of unshaken orthodoxy! and do I behold — "
1 here interrupted what he was going to say; for
though, 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 ce-
mented 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 d-octrines as dross.
Yet this no way lessened him in my esteem; for 1
had lor some time begun privately to harbour such
an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to
observe, that the world in genera! began to be
olamably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and fol-
lowed human speculations too much. — " Ay sir,"
replied he, as if lie had reserved all his learning to
that moment, "ay, sir, the world is in its dotage,
and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world ha»
puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medley
of opinions have they not broached upon the crea-
tion of the world I.Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Be-
rosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it
in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon
ara kai atelutaion to pan, which imply that all
things have neither beginning nor end Manetho
also, who lived about the time of Ncbuchadon-
Asser, — Asser being a Syriac word usually appli
ed as a surname to the kings of that country, as
Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser, — he, I say,
formed a conjecture equally absurd ; for as we usu-
ally say, ek to hiblion kubernetes, which implies
that books will never teach the world; so he at-
tempted to investigate But, sir, I ask pardon, I
ara straying from the question." — That he actual-
ly was; nor could I for my life see how the crea-
tion of the world had any thing to do with the
business I was talking of; but it was sufficient to
show me that he was a man of letters, and I now
reverenced him the more. I was resolved therefore
to bring him to the touchstone; but he was too
mild and too gentle to contend for victory. When-
ever I made an observation that looked like a
challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake
his head, and say nothing; by which I understood
he could say much, if he thought proper. The
subject therefore insensibly changed from the
business of antiquity to that wliich brought us
both to the fair: mine, I told him, was to sell a
horse, and very luckily indeed, his was to buy one
for one of his tenants. My horse was soon pro-
duced, and in fine we struck a bargain. Nothing
now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly
pulled out 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 upk
who made his appearance in a very genteel livery,
" Here, Abraham," cried he, "go and get gold fo/
this; you'll do it at neighbour Jackson's or any
where." W^hile the fellow was gone, he enter-
tained me with a pathetic 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 he had offi?red half a crown for doing it.
This was a very great disappointment to us all;
but the old gentleman, having paused a little, ask-
ed me if I knew one Solomon Flamborough in my
part of the country 7 Upon replying that he was
my next door neighbour; "If that be the case
then," returned he, " I believe we shall deal. You
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
79
shall have a draft uponliim, payable at sight; 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 remem-
ber 1 always beat Mm at three jumps; but he could
hop on one leg farther than I." A draft upon my
neighbour was t > me tlie same as money ; for I was
sufficiently con- i need of his ability. The draft was
signed, and put into my hands, and Mr. Jenliin-
Eon, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and
my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off 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 draft 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 draft
changed into money at my friend's as fast as pos-
sible. I found my honest neighbour smoking his
pipe at his own door, and informing him that I had
a small bill upon hiin, he read it twice over. "You
can read the name, I suppose," cried I, "Ephraim
Jenkinson." "Yes," returned he, "the name is
written 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 spec-
tacles. Was he not a venerable looking man, with
gray hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes 1 And
did he not talk a long string of learning about
Greek, and cosmogony, and the world 2" To this
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 scho-
lar in company ; but I know the rogue, and will
catch him yet."
Though 1 was already sufficiently mortified, my
greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife
and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid
of returning to school, there to behold the master's
\isage, than I was of going home. I was deter-
mined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first
falUng into a. passion myself.
But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no
way disposed for battle. My 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 re-
ports of us from some malicious person about us,
were that day set out for London. He could nei-
ther discover the tendency, nor the author of these ;
but whatever th- sj might lie, or whoever might have
broached them, he continued to assure our family
of his friendship and protection. I found, there-
fore, that they bore my disappointment with great
resignation, as it was eclipsed in the greatness of
their own. But what per[)lexed us most, was to
think who could be .so base as to asperse the cha-
lacter of a family so harmless as ours, too humble
to excite envy, and too inofTensive to create dis-
gust.
CHAPTER XV.
All Mr. Burchell's villany at once detected. — The folly of being
over-wise.
That evening, and a part of the following day,
was employed in fruitless attempts to discover our
enemies : scarcely a family in the neighbourhood
but incuri'ed our suspicions, and each of us had
reasons for our opinion best known to ourselves.
As we were in this perplexity, 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. Burchell, with whom it
had been seen, and, upon examination, contained
some hints upon diflferent subjects ; but what par-
ticularly engaged our attention was a sealed note
superscribed, The copy of a letter to be sent to the
two ladies at Thornhill-castle. It instantly occur-
red that he was the base informer, and we delibe-
rated wliether the note should not be broke open.
I was against it ; but Sophia, who said she was
sure tliat of all men he would be the last to be
guilty of so much baseness, insisted upoji its being
read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the
family, and at their joint sohcitation I read as fol-
lows ; . -. \ . ■
"Ladies,
" The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to
the person from whom this comes : one at least the
friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its being
seduced. I am informed for a truth that you have
some intention of bringing two young ladies to
town, whom I have some knowledge of, under the
character of companions. As I would neither have
simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated,
I must ofl!er it as my opinion, that the impropriety
of such a step will be attended with dangerous
consequences. It has never been my 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 something applicable to both sides in tins
letter, and its censures might as well be referred to
those to whom it was written, as to us ; but the
malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no
farther. My wife had scarcely patience to hear
me to the end, but railed at the writer with unre-
strained resentment. Olivia was equailv savnra.
80
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his base-
ness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the
vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had met
with ; nor could I account for it in any other man-
ner, than by imputing it to his desire of detaining
my youngest daugliter in the country, to have the
more frequent opportunities of an interview. In
this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes
of vengeance, when our other little boy came run-
ning in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approach-
ing at the other end of the field. It is easier to
conceive than describe the complicated sensations
which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and
the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though
our intentions were only to upbraid him with hi^
ingratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a man-
ner that would be perfectly cutting. For this pur-
pose we agreed 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 a sense
of his own baseness. This being resolved upon,
my wife undertook to manage the business herself,
as she really had some talents for such an under-
taking. We saw him approach ; he entered, drevi'
a chair, and sat down. — " A fine day, Mr. Burch-
ell." — " A very fine day, doctor ; though I fancy
we shall have some rain by the shooting of my
corns." — " The shooting of your horns !" cried my
wife in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked par-
don 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." — "Perhaps not, sir," cried my wife,
winking at us ; " and yet I dare say you can tell us
how many jokes go to an ounce." — " I fancy, ma-
dam," returned Burchell, "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 halfan ounce of understanding." — " I believe you
might," cried my wife, still smiling at us, though
the laugh was against her ; " and yet I have seen
some men pretend to understanding that have very
little." — " And no doubt," returned her antagonist,
" you have known ladies set up for wit that had
none." I quickly began to find that my wife was
likely to gain but little at tliis business ; so I re-
solved to treat him in a style of more severity my-
self. " Both wit and understanding," cried I, "are
trifles without integrity ; it is that which gives value
to every character. The ignorant peasant without
fault, is greater than the philosopher with many ;
for what is genius or courage vrithout a heart?
/An honest m.an is the noblest work of God.'"
" I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,"
retiu-ned Mr. Burchell, "as very unvyorthy a mjiii
^ of genius, and a base desertion of his owii superi-<
^ ©rity. As the reputation of books is raised, not by
their freedom from defect, but the greatness of thCir \
beauties ; so should that of men be prized, not for
their exemption from fault, but the size of those
virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may
want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and
trte champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these
the low mechanic, who laboriously plods through
life without censure or applause 7 We might as
well prefer the tame correct paintings of the Flem-
ish school to the erroneous but sublime animations
of the Roman pencil."
"Sir," replied I, "your present observation is
just, when there are shining virtues and minvite
defects ; but when it appears that great vices are
opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary vir-
tues, such a character deserves contempt."
" Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such
monsters as you describe, of great vices joined *o
great virtues ; yet in my progress through life. I
never yet found one instance of their existence : on
the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the
mind was capacious, the aficctions were good." And
indeed Providence seems kindly our friend in this
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 animals : the little
vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cow-
ardly, 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
out a man," and I fixed my eye steadfastly upon
him, " whose head and heart form a most detesta-
ble contrast. Ay, sir," continued I, raising my
voice, " and I am gl;.d to have this opportunity of
detecting him in the midst of his fancied security.
Do you know tliis, sir, this pocket-book?" — " Yes,
sir, returned he, with a face of impenetrable as-
surance, " that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad
you have found it." — " And do you know," cried
I, "this letter? Nay, never falter, man; but look
me full in the face : I say, do you know this 1 -tter?"
"That letter," returned he: "yes, it was I that
wrote that letter."—" And how could you," said
I, "sobaselj'j so ungratefully presume to write
this letter?" — "And how came you," replied he
with looks of unparalleled efTrontery, "so basely to
presume to break open this letter? Don't you know,
now, I could hang you all for this? All that I
have to do is to swear at the next justice's, that
you have been guilty of breaking open the lock ot
my pocket-book, and so hang you all up at this
door." This piece of unexpected insolence raised
me to such a pitch, that I could scarce govern my
passion. " Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and no
longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness! be-
gone, and never let me see thee again! Go from
my door, and the only punishment I wish tliee is
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD.
81
an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient
tormentor!" So saying, I threw him his pocket-
oook, which he took up with a smile, and shutting
ihe clasps with the utmost composure, left us quite
astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My
wife was p;irticularly enraged that nothing coyld
make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of
his villanies. " 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 allegory, were at
first companions, and in the beginning of their
journe\', inseparably kept together. But their
union was soon found to be disagreeable and in-
convenient to both : Guilt gave Shame frequent un-
easiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret con-
spiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement there-
fore, they at length consented to part for ever.
Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake
Fate, that went before in the shape of an execu-
tioner; but Shame being naturally timorous, re-
turned back to keep company with Virtue, which
in the beginning of their journey they had left
behind. Thus, my children, after men have tra-
velled through a few stages in vice, shame forsakes
them, and returns back to wait upon the few vir-
tues they have still remaining." • •
CHAPTER XVI.
The family use Art, which is opposed witli still greater.
Whatever might have been Sophia's sensa-
tions, the rest of the family was easily consoled for
Mr. Burchell's absence by the company of our
landlord, whose visits now became more frequent,
and longer. Though he had been disappointed in
procuring my daughters the amusements of the
town as he designed, he took every opportunity of
supplying them with those little recreations which
our retirement ■ /ould admit of. He usually came
in the morning, and while my son and I followed
our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at
home, and amused them by describing the town,
with every pari, of which he was partit-ularly ac-
quainted. He could repeat all the observations
that were retailed in the atmosphere of the ]>lay-
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 picjuet, or
sometimes in setting my two little ones to box, to
make them sharp, as he called it: but the hojics
of having him fir a son-in-law, in some measure
blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be
owned, that mv wife laid a thousand schemes to
6
entrap him; or, to speak more tenderly, used every
art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the
cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by
Olivia; if the gooseberry -wine was well knit, the
gooseberries were of her gathering: it was her
fingers which 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 both stand up to see which was
tallest. These instances of cunning, which she
thought impenetrable, yet which every body saw
through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who
gave every day some new proofs of his passion,
which, though they had not arisen to proposals of
marriage, yet we thought fell but httle short of it ;
and his slowness was attributed sometimes to na-
tive bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of offend-
ing his uncle. An occurrence, however, which
happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he
designed to become one of our family ; my wife
even regarded it as an absolute promise.
My wife and daughters happening to return a
visit to neighbour Flamborough's, found that family
had lately got their pictures drawn by a limner,
who travelled the country, and took likenesses for
fifteen shillings a-head. As this family and ours
had long a sort of rivalry 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. Ha\'ing, therefore, engaged the limner, —
for what could I dol our next dehberation was, to
show the superiority of our taste in the attitudes.
As for our neighbour'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
comj)osition in the world. We desired to have
something in a brighter style, and, after many de-
bates, at length came to an unanimous resolution
of being drawn together in one large 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 inde-
pendent historical figures. My wife desired to be
re})respntpd as Venus, and the painter was desired
not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomach-
er and hair. Her two little ones were to be as
Cupids by her side, while I, in my gown and band,
was to present her w it!i my books on the Whis-
tonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an
Amazon sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in
a green Joseph, richly l.iced with gold, and a whip
in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess^
with as many sheep as the painter could put m
82
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
for nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out with
a hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased
the 'Squire, that he insisted as 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 en-
comiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with
his performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance
had not occurred 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 vye 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 Robinson 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 ef-
fectually raised more malicious suggestions in ma-
ny. The 'Squire's portrait being found united with
ours, was an honour too great to escape envy.
Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our ex-
pense, and our tranquillity was continually dis-
turbed by persons who came as friends to tell us
what was said of us by enemies. These reports
we always resented with becoming spirit; but scan-
dal ever improves by opposition.
We once again therefore entered into a consul-
tation upon obviating the malice of our 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 a husband for her eldest
daughter. If this was not found sufficient to in-
duce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to
terrify him with a rival. To this last step, how-
ever, I would by no means give my consent, till
Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that
she would marry 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
retired to the next room, whence they could over-
hear the whole conversation. My wife artfully in-
troduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss
Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match
of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 'Squire assent-
ing, she proceeded to remark, that they who had
warm fortunes were always sure of getting good
husbands: "But heaven help," continued 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 all the cry."
" Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the
justice, as well as the novelty of your remarks, and
if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should
then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without
fortunes : our two young ladies should be the first
for whom I would provide."
"Ah, sir," returned my wife, "you are pleased
to be fiicctious: but I wish I were a queen, and
then I know where my eldest daughter should look
for a husband. But, now that you have put it into
my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't you re-
commend me a proper husband for her? she is now
nineteen years old, well grov?n and well educated,
and, in my humble opinion, does not want for
parts."
"Madam," replied he, "if I were to choose, I
would find out a person possessed of every accom-
plishment that can make an angel happy. One
with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such,
madam, would bo, in my opinion, the proper hus-
band." " Ay, sir," said she, "but do you know
of any such person?" — "No, madam," returned
he, " it is impossible to know any person that de-
serves to be her husband : she's too great a treasuie
for one man's possession; she's a goddess! Upon
my soul, I speak v/\v\t I think, she's an angel." —
"Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor
girl : but we have been thinking of marrying her
to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead,
and who wants a manager : you know whom I
mean. Farmer Williams ; a warm man, Mr. Thorn-
hill, able to give her good bread ; and who has se-
veral times made her proposals (which was actually
the case): but, sir," concluded she, "I should be
triad 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 goodness,
to a creature insensible of the blessing ! Excuse me,
I can never approve of such a piece of injustice!
And I have my reasons." — "Indeed, sir," cried
Deborah, "if you have your reasons, that's ano-
ther afiTair; but 1 should be glad to know those
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
83?,
J) "Excuse me, madam," returned he, nor can you in the least say that I have constrained
reasons.
" they lie too deep for discovery (laying his hand
upon his bosom); they remain buried, riveted here."
After he was gone, upon a general consultation,
we could not tell what to make of these fine senti-
ments. Olivia considered them as instances of the
most exalted passion; but I was not quite so san-
guine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had
more of love than matrimony in them: yet, what-
ever they might portend, it was resolved to prose-
cute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from
my daughter's first appearance in the country, had
paid her his addresses.
CHAPTER XVII. .
Scarcely any Virtue found to resist tlie power of long 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 each
other for some time with looks of anger; but Wil-
liams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded
his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the co-
quette to perfection, if that might be called acting
which was her real character, pretending to lavish
all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thorn-
hill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and
with a pensive air took leave, though I own it puz-
zled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared
to be, when he had it in his power so easily to re-
move the cause, by declaring an honourable pas-
sion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to en-
dure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's an-
guish was still greater. After any of these inter-
views between her lovers, of which there were se-
veral, she usually retired to solitude, and there in-
dulged 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. Thornhill's passion was all a dream: he per-
mits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior,
though he knows it lies in his power to secure you
to himself by a candid declaration." — "Yes, papa,"
returned she, " but he has his reasons for this de-
lay : I know he has. The sincerity of his looks
and words convinces me of liis real esteem. A
(short time, I ho[)e, will discover the generosity of
his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion
of him has been more just than yours." — " Olivia,
my darling," returned I, "every scheme that has
been hitherto pursued to compel liim to a declara-
tion, has been proposed and planned by yourself
you. But you must not suppose, my dear, that I
will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest
rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion.
Whatever time you require to bring your fancied
admirer to an explanation, shall be granted ; but at
the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless,
I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams
shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character
which I liave 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 meantime, 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 wiU 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 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. Thornhill's presence, that day month was
fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival.
Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble
Mr. Thornhill's anxiety: but what OHvia 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 sjwnt in tears. One week passed away ;
but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her
nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assi-
duous; but not more open. On the third he dis-
continued his visits entirely, and instead of my
daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected,
she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which
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 resolution, in preferring happhiess to ostenta-
tion.
It was within about four days of her intended
nuptials, that my little family at night were gather-
ed round a charming fire, telling stories of the past,
and laying schemes for the future; busied in form-
iniT 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 generall" — "My opinion, father, is, that all
thin<''s go on very well; and I was just now think-
ing, that when sister Livy is married to Fannei
Williams, we shall then have the loan of his cidci
press and brewing tubs for nothing." — " That we
shall, Moses," cried I, " and he will sing us Death,
and the Lady, to raise our spirits, into the !)argiiin."
" lie has taught that song to our Dick," cried Mo"
84
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ses, "and 1 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 I; " 1 never
heard that yet; and Deborah, my lite, grief you
know is dry, let us have a bottle of the best goose-
berry-wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept
80 much at all sorts of elegies of late, that, without
an enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome
me ; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum
in with the boy a little."
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OP A MAD DOG.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song.
And if you find it wondrous short,
It can not hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad.
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be.
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man,
Around from all the neighbouring streets,
The wondering neighbours ran.
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every christian eye ;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light.
That show'd the rogues they lied, —
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
" A very good boy. Bill, 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 bishi;\"'
" With all my heart," cried my wife; " and if he
but preaches as well as he singg, 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 say-
ing in our country, that the family of the Blenkin-
sops could never look straight before them, nor the
Hugginsons blow out a candle; that there were
none of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of
Marjorums but could tell a story." — " However
that be," cried I, "the most vulgar ballad of them
all generally pleases me better than the fine modern
odes, and tilings tb.at petrify us in a single stanza;
productions 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 Ranelagh songs that
come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast
in the same mould : Colin meets Dolty, and they
hold a dialogue together; he gives her a fairing to
put in her hair, and she presents him with a nose-
gay; and then they go together to church, 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 ; 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 sup-
plied with it when wanting."
" Yes, sir," returned Moses, " and I know but
of two such markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh
in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Span-
ish 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 foi
husbands to get wives." — " And for wives to man-
age their husbands," interrupted I. " It is a pro-
verb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the
sea, all the ladies of the continent would come over
to take pattern from ours; for there are no such
wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one
bottle more, Deborah, my life; and Moses, give us
a good song. What 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. He has no such
fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. YeSj
Debiy~ih, we are now growing old ; but the evening
of our life is likely to be happy. We are descend-
ed from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall
leave a good and virtuous race of children behind
us. While we live, they wiU be our support and our
pleasure here; and when we die, they will transmit
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD.
85
our honour untainted to posterity. Come, my
son, we wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But
where is my darling Olivial 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." — "Gone, child!"
" Yes, she is gone oil' with two gentlemen in a post-
chaise, and one of them kissed her, and said he
would die for her : and she cried very 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 lam 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 child was possessed of! — But all our earthly
happiness is now over! Go, my children, go and
be miserable and infamous ; for my heart is broken
within me!" — "Father," cried ray son, "is this
your fortitude T' — "Fortitude, child! Yes, he
shall see I have fortitude ! Bring me my pistols.
I'll pursue the traitor: while he is on earth I'll
pursue him. 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, cauglit me in her arms. " I\Iy dearest,
dearest husband," cried she, " the Bible is the only
weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open
that, my love, and read our anguish mto patience,
for she has vilely deceived us." — " Indeed, sir,"' re-
sumed my son, after a pause, "your rage is too vio-
lent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's
comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill 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 curse him, child,
did 17" — "Indeed, sir, you did; you cursed hhn
twice." — " Then may Heaven forgive me and him
if I did! And now, my son, 1 see it was more
than hmnan benevolence 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 dis-
tress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that
have not w([)t for so many years. My child! —
To undo my darling ! — May confusion seize —
Heaven forgi\'c me, what am I about to say ! — You
may rememlwr, my love, how good she was, and
how charming; (ill 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 heie. But, my child, you saw them go off:
perhaps he forced her awayl If he forced her,
she may yet be innocent." — "Ah no, sir," 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
ungrateful creature," cried my wife, who could
scarcely speak for weeping, "to use us thus. She
never had the least constraint put upon her affec-
tions. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her
parents without any provocation — thus to bring
your gray hairs to the grave, and I must shortly
follow." m
In this manner that night, the first of our real
misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of com-
plaint, and ill-supported salUes of enthusiasm. I
determined, however, to find out our betrayer,
wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The
next morning we missed our wretched child at
breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerful-
ness to us aU. My wife, as before, attempted to
ease her heart by reproaches. " Never," cried she,
"shall that vilest stain of our family again darken
these harmless doors. I will never call her daugh-
ter more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile
seducer : she may bring us to shajjie, but she shall
never more deceive us."
" Wife," said 1, " 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 returning repentant sinner. The sooner she
returns from her transgression, the more welcome
shall slie be to me. For the first time the very
best may err ; art may ]>ersuade, and novelty spread
out its charm. The first fault is the child of sim-
plicity, but every other the offspring of guilt. Yes,
the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart
and this house, though stained with ten thousand
vices. I will again hearken to tho 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 can not save her from sham^
I may prevent the continuance of iniquity."
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a lost Child to Virtue.
Though the child could not describe the gentle-
man's person who handed his sister into the post-
chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our
young landlord, whose character for such intrigues
was but too v/ell known. I therefore directed my
steps towards Thornhill-castle, resolving to upbraid
him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter :
but before I had reached his scat, 1 was met by one
of my parishioners, who said he saw a young lady,
resembling my daughter, in a post-chaise with a
gentleman, whom, by the description, 1 cr>uld only
i»6
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
guess to be Mr. BurchcU, and that they drove very than the philanthropic bookseller in St. Pool's
fast. This information, however, did by no means Church-yard, who has written so many httle book8
Batisfy ine. I therefore went to the young 'Squire's, for children : he called himself their friend ; but he
and though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner
him immediately. He soon appeared with the alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he
most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly ama-
zed 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 on Mr. Burchell, who I
recollected had of late several pri^e conferences
with her : but the appearance of another witness
left me no room to doubt his villany, who averred,
that he and my daughter 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 purposely placed in my way
to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter
and her 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
course. The company made a very brilliant ap-
pearance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit,
that of pleasure : how diti'erent from mine, that of
reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I thought 1 per-
ceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me; but,
as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approach-
ing him, he mixed among a crowd, and 1 saw him
no more. I now reflected that it would be to no
purpose to continue ray 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 oft' the course. This was another unexpected
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, 1 laid me dowTi patiently
to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here
for nearly three weeks ; but at last my constitution
prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to
defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is
possible the anxiety from this last circumstance
alone might have brought on a relapSe, had I not
been suppUcd by a traveller, who stopped to take a
cursory refreshment. This person was no other
was ever on business of the utmost importance, and
was at that time actually compiling materials for
the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I immedi-
ately recollected this good-natured man's red pim-
pled face ; for he had published for me against the
Deuterogamists of the age, and from him I bor-
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 journeys of ten miles a-day.
My health and usual tranquillity were almost re-
stored, 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 shows us some new and
gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment ; 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 attentive to its
own amusement, finds, as we descend, something
to flatter and to please. Still, as we approach, the
darkest objects appear to brighten, and the mental
eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation.
I now proceeded forward, and had walked about
two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a
distance like a wagon, which I was resolved to
overtake ; but when I came up with it, found it to
be a strofling company's cart, that was carrying their
scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next vil-
lage, 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 jjlayers were to
follow the 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 v/i'iters in vogue, who
the Drydens and Otways of the day ? — " I fancy,
sir," cried the player, " few of our modern dra-
matists would think themselves much honoured by
being compared to the writers you mention. Dry-
den's and Rowe's manner, sir, are quite out of
fashion ; our taste has gone back a whole century;
Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shaks
peare, are the only things that go down." — "How,"
cried I, " is it possible the present age can be pleasei
with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humour,
those overcharged characters, which abound in the
works you mention"?" — "Sir," returned my cot n-
panion, " the pubhc tliink nothing about dialect, (ht
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
87
humour, or character, for tliat is none of their bu-
siness ; they only go to be amused, and find them-
selves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime,
under the sanction of Jonson's or Shakspcare's
name." — " So then, I suppose," cried I, "that our
modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shaks-
peare than of nature." — " To say the truth," re-
turned my companion, " I don't know that they
imitate any thing at all ; nor indeed does the pub-
lic require it of them : it is not the composition of
the piece, but the number of starts and attitudes
that may be introduced 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 throwing in a fit of the gripes. No,
sir, the works of Congreve and Farqnliar have too
much wit in them for the present taste; our modern
dialect is much more natural."
By this time the equipage of the strolling com-
pany was arrived at the village, which, it seems,
had been apprized of our ajiproach, and was come
out to gaze at us : for my companion obsei-ved, that
strollers always have more spectators without doors
than within. 1 did not consider the impropriety of
my being in such company, till I saw a mob gather
about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as pos-
sible, in the first ale-house that offered, and being
shown into the common room, was accosted by a
very well dressed gentleman, who demanded whe-
ther I was the real chaplain of the company, or
whether it was only to be my masquerade charac-
ter in the l)lay. Upon my informing him of the
truth, and tliat 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 conjec-
tures, when, upon asking what there was in the
house for supper, he insisted that the player and I
should sup with him at his house; with which re-
quest, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on
to comply.
CHAPTER XIX.
The description of a Person discontsntetl with the present
Government and apprehensive of the loss of our Liberties.
The house where we were to be entertained
lying at a small distance from the village, our in-
viter observed, that as the coach was not ready, he
would conduct us on foot; and we soon arrived at
one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen
in that part of the country. The apartment into
which we were shown was })erfcctly elegant and
Biodcrn : he went to give orders for supper, while
the player with a wink, observed that we were
perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon return-
ed; an elegant supper was brought in, two or
three ladies in easy dishabille were introduced,
and the conversation began with some sprightli-
ness. Politics, however, was the subject on which
our entertainer chiefly expatiated; for he asserted
that liberty was at once his boast and his terror.
After the cloth was removed, he asked me 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, the Whitehall Evening, the sev-
enteen Magazines, and the two Reviews; and
though they hate each other, I love them all. Lib-
erty, 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 reve-
rence the king."—" Yes," returned my entertainer,
"when he does what we would have him; but if
he goes on as he has done of late, I'll never trouble
myself more with his matters. I say nothing. 1
think, only, I could have directed somethings better.
I don't think there has been a sufficient number of
advisers : he should advise with every person wil-
hng 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 con-
stitution, that sacred power which has for some
years been every day declining, and losing its due
share of influence in the state. But these igno-
rants still continue the same cry of liberty ; and if
they have any weight, basely tlirow it into the sub-
siding scale."
" How," cried one of the ladies, "do I live to seo
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
privilege of Britons? Can any, sir, be so abject?"
" No, sir," replied I, " I am for liberty, that at-
tribute of God! Glorious liberty! that theme of
modern declamation. I would have all men kings.
I would be a king myself. We have all naturally
an equal right to the throne: we are all originally
equal. This is my opinion, and was once the
opinion of a sot of honest men who were called
Levellers. They tried to erect themselves into
a community where all would 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 sure as your groom rides your horses, because be
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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 en-
tailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born
to command, and others to obey, the question is, as
there must be tyrants, whether it is better to have
them in the same house with us, or in the same
village, or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now,
sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the face
of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me,
the better pleased am I. The generality of man-
kind also are of my way of thinking, 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 ty-
rants 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 themselves ; and all they have
to do in the state, is to undermine the single ty-
rant, by which they resume their primeval authori-
ty. 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 opulent 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 com-
merce, than arise from internal industry; for ex
ternal commerce can only be managed to ad-
vantage by the 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 all such have hitherto
in time become aristocratlcal. Again, the very
laws also of this country may contribute to the ac-
cumulation of wealth ; as when, by their means,
the natural ties 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 unqualified to serve their country as counsel-
lors, merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth
is thus made the object of a wise man's ambition ;
by these means, I say, and such means as these,
riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of ac-
cumulated wealth, when furnished with the neces-
sarie:? and pleasures of life, has no other method to
empluy the superfluity of his fortune but in pur-
chasing power. That is, differently speaking, in
making dependants, by purchasing the liberty of
the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to
bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for
bread. Thus each very opulent man generally
gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the
people; and the polity abounding in accumulated
wealth, may be compared to a Cartesian system,
each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, how-
ever, who are willing to move in a great man's
vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the rabble
of mankind, whose souls and whose education are
adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of lib-
erty except the name. But there must still 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 tyran-
ny themselves. In this middle order of mankind
are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and
virtues of society. This order alone is known to
be the true preserver of freedom, and may lie 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 affail's be ten tihies less than was judged suf-
ficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident
that greater numbers of the rabble will be thus in-
troduced 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 go-
vernor with the most sacred circumspection. For
he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the
great from falling with tenfold weight on the mid-
dle order placed beneath them. The middle order
may be compared 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, and amuse
them with privileges ; but 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, Genoa, 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 war, or in peace, is an
infringement upon the real liberties of tiio 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 doivig
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
89^
more. I have known many of those pretended
champions for hberty in my time, yet do I not re-
member one that was not in his heart and in his
family a tyrant."
My warmth I found had lengthened this ha-
rangue beyond the rules of goood breeding: but
the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove
to interrupt it, could be restrained no longer.
"What," cried he, "then I have been all this
while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's clothes! but
by all the coal-mines of Cornwall, out he shall
pack, if ray 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 liberty, pro-
perty, and, the Gazetteer says, lie down to he sad-
dled with wooden shoes! sir, I insist upon your
marching out of this house immediately, to prevent
worse consequences : sir, I insist upon it." I was go-
ing to repeat my remonstrances; but just then Vi'e
heard a footman's rap at the door, and the two
iadies cried out, " As sure as death there is our
master and mistress come home." It seems my
entertainer was all this wMle only the butler, who,
in his master's absence, had a mind to cue 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 ex-
ceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and
his lady enter; nor was their surprise at finding
such company and good cheer less than ours.
"Gentlemen," cried the real master of the house
to me and my companion," my wife and I are
your most humble servants ; but I protest this
is so unexpected a favour, that we almost sink
under the obligation." However unexpected our
company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was
still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with
the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when
whom should I next see enter the room but my
dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly de-
signed to be married to my son George, but whose
match was broken oflTas already related. As soon
as she saw me, she flew to my arms with the ut-
most joy. — "My dear sir," cried she, " to what
happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a
visit? I am sure my uncle and aunt will be in rap-
tures when they find they have the good Dr. Prim-
rose for their guest." Upon hearing my name,
the old gentleman and lady very politely stepped
up, and welcomed me with the most cordial hospi-
tality. Nor could they forbear smiling, upon being
informed of the nature of my present visit ; but the
anfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed dis-
posed to turn away, was at my intercession for-
given.
Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house be-
longed, now insisted upon having (he 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 instructions, joined in
their entreaties, I complied. That night I was
shown to a magnificent chamber, and the next
morning early Miss Wilmot desired to walk with
me in the garden, which was decorated in the mo-
dern manner. After some time spent in pointing
out the beauties of the place, she inquired, with,
seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from
my son George? "Alas, madam," cried I, "he has
now been nearly three years absent, wilhout ever
writing 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 very fast, and poverty has brought not
only want, but infamy upon us." The good-na-
tured girl let fall a tear at this account; but as I
saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I fore-
bore a more minute detail of our sufferings. 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 a»id ar-
liours, 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 I'ound
the manager of the strolling company that 1 m.en
tioned before, who was come to disjiose of tickets
for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that
evening, the part of Horatio by a young gentle-
man who had never appeared on any stage. He
seemed to be very warm 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 he, "seems born to tread the stai^e. tlis
voice, his figure, and attitudes, areall admirable. We
caught him up accidentidly in our journey down."
This account, in some measure, excited our curiosi-
ty, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed
upon to accompany them to the play-house, which
was no other than a barn. As the company with
which I went was incontestably the chief of the
place, we were received with the greatest respect,
and placed in the front scat of the theatre ; where
we sat for some time with no small impatience to
see Horatio make his appearance. The|new per-
fonner advanced at last; and let jtarcnts think of
my sensations by their own, when 1 fouml it was
my unfortunate son. He was going to begin,
when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he per-
ceived Miss Wil'iiot and me, and stood ;tt once
speechless and immovable. The actors liehJi-d the
90
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
scene, who ascribed this cause to his natural timidi-
ty, attempted to encourage him; but instead af go-
ing on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired
oft' the stage. I don't know what were my feeUngs
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 extra-
ordinary behaviour, being informed that the new
performer was my son, sent his coach and an in-
vitation for him: and as he persisted in his refusal
to appear again upon the stage, the players put an-
other 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 counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot'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
eaid 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 questions without giv-
ing any manner of attention to the answers.
CHAPTER XX.
The History of a Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty,
but losing Content.
After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely of-
fered to send a couple of her footmen for my son's
batrffacre, which he at first seemed to decline ; but
upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to
inform her, that a stick and a wallet were all the
moveable things upon this earth that he could boast
of " Why, ay, my son," cried I, "you left me but
poor, and poor I find you are come back; and yet I
make no doubt you have seen a great deal of the
world." — " Yes, sir," replied my son, " but travel-
ling 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 ac-
count 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," replied
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 ac-
count is rather of 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. '-^^o person ever had a better knack
nt hoping than I. j The less kind I found fortune
.at one time, the more I expected from her another, ■j'
and being now at the bottom of her wheel, every ;
pew 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 caroled by the road, and
comforted myself with reflecting, that London was
the mart where abihties of every kind were sure of
meeting distinction and reward.
" Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was
to deliver your letter of recommendation to our
cousin, who was himself in little better circum-
stances than I. My first scheme, you know, sir,
was to be usher at an academy, and I asked his ad-
vice on the affair. Our cousin received the propo-
sal 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 neck-
j lace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey in New-
gate. I was up early and late : I was browbeat 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 arc you sure
you are fit for a schooH Let me examine you a
little. Have you been bred apprentice to the busi-
ness? No. Then you won't do for a school. Can
you dress the boys' hair7 No. Then you won't do
for a school. Have you had the small-poxl 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, 1 see you are a lad of s])irit 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
present I'll show you forty very dull fellows about
town that live by it in opulence; all honest jog-trot
men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write his-
tory and politics, and are praised : men, sir, who,
had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives
have only mended shoes, but never made them.
"Finding that there was no great degree of gen-
tility affixed to the character of an usher, 1 re-
solved to accept his proposal; and having the high-
est respect for literature, hailed the antiqua matcT
of Grub-street with leverence. 1 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 gi\'e us good
sense, the poverty she entailed 1 supposed to be the
nurse of genius! Big with these reflections, I sat
down, and finding that the best things remained to
be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write a bouk
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up
three paradoxes with some ingenuity. They were
false, indeed, but they were 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 every bit as well.
Witness, you powers, what fancied importance sat
perched upon my quill while I was writing! The
whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise
to O])pose my systems; but then I was prepared to
oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcu-
^^ine, I sat self-collected, witha quill pointed against
<every opposer."
" Well said, my boy," cried I, " and what sub-
ject did you treat upon? I hope you did not pass
over the importance of monogamy. But I inter-
rupt; go on: you published your paradoxes; well,
and what did the learned world say to your para-
doxes?"
" Sir," replied my son, " the learned world said
nothing to my paradoxes ; nothing at all, sir.
Every man of them was employed in praising his
friends and himself, or condemning his enemies :
and unfortunately, as I had neither, I suflered the
crudest 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 proposals,
begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was
going to give to the world of Propertius with notes.
This demand necessarily produced a reply that I
had no money; and that concession led him to in-
quire 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
proposals, — upon these very proposals I have sub-
sisted very comfortably for twelve years. The mo-
ment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Crco-
lian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her
country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first be-
siege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in
my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe
readily the first time, I renew 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, 1 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; Imt if
you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you suc-
ceed, and we divide the spoil."
" Bless us, George," cried I, " and is this the em-
ployment of poets now! Do men of their exalted
talents thus stooi>„o beggary! Can they so far dis-
grace their calling as to make a vile traffic of praise
for bread?"
" O 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 beg-
gars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every
hardslup for fame, so he is equally a coward to con-
tempt; and none but those who are unworthy pro-
tection, condescend to solicit it.
" Having a mind too proud to stoop to such in-
dignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a
second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take
a middle course, and write for bread. But I was
unqualified for a profession where mere industry
alone was to ensure success. I could not suppress
my lurking passion for applause; but usually con-
sumed that time in efforts after excellence which
takes up but little room, when it should have been
more advantageously employed in the diffusive pro-
ductions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece
would therefore come forth in the midst of periodi-
cal publications, unnoticed and unknown. The
public were more importantly employed than to
observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the har-
mony 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 Philautos, Philalethes,
Philehitheros and Philanthropos all wrote bette^
because they wrote faster than I.
" Now, therefore, I began to associate with none
but disappointed authors, like myself, who praised,
deplored, and despised each other. The satisfac-
tion we found in every celebrated writer's attempts,
was inversely as their merits. I found that no ge-
nius in another could please me. My unfortunate
paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of com-
fort. I could neither read nor write with satisfac-
tion; for excellence in another was my aversion,
and writing was my trade.
" In the mid.st of these gloomy reflections, as I
was one day sitting on a bench in St. James's parl^,
a young gentleman of distinction, who had been
my intimate acquaintance at the university, ap
preached me. We saluted each other with sonw
hesitation; he almost ashamed of beintr known to
one who made so shabby an appearance, and 1
afraid of a repulse. But my suspicions soon van-
ished; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very
good-natured fellow."
" What did you say, George?" interrupted I.^
" Thornhill, was not that his name? It can cer-
tainly 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 iiim shortly."
"My friend's first care," continued my son,
" was to alter my appearance by a very line suit of
97
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
his own clothes, and then I was admitted to his ta-
ble, upon the footing of lialf-fricnd, half-underling.
My business was to attend him at auctions, to put
him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take
the left hand in his chariot when not filled by ano-
ther, 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 things without
bidding; to carry the corkscrew; 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 this honourable post, however, I was not
without a rival. A captain of marines, 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 himself, 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 of flattery increased, so every hour being
better acquainted with his defects, I became more
unwilling to give it. Thus I was once more fair-
ly 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 laim, 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 with my conduct,
yet it was a debt indispensably due to friendship
I could not refuse. I undertook the aflair, dis-
anned my antagonist, and soon after had the plea-
sure 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 with the warmest
professions of gratitude: but as my friend was to
leave town in a few days, he knew no other me-
thod 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 govermnent. When he was gone, my
first care was to carry his recommendatory let-
ter to his uncle, a man whose character for every
virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by
his servants with the most hospitable smiles; for
the looks of the domestic ever transmit their mas-
ter's benevolence. Being shown into a grand apart-
ment, where Sir William soon came to me, I de-
livered 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 : hut I sup-
pose, sir, I guess your merits: you have fought for
him; and so you would expect a reward fiom me
for being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sin
cerely wish, that my present refusal 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, be-
cause I knew it was just. My whole expectations
now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man.
As the doors of the nobility are almost ever beset
with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition,
I found it no easy matter to gain admittance. How-
ever, after bribing the servants with half my world-
ly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious
apartment, my letter being previously sent up for
, his lordship's inspection. During this anxious in-
terval I had full time to look round 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 pos-
sessor 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 aw-
ful reflections, I heard a step come heavily forward.
Ah, this is the great man himself! No, it was only
a chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon af-
ter. This must be he! No, it was only the great
man's valet de chambre. At last his lordship ac-
tually made his appearance. 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 further notice, lie went
out of the room, and left me to digest my own hap-
piness at leisure ; I saw no more of him, till told
by a footman that his lordship was going to his
coach at the door. Down 1 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 u^, and was
gaining liis chariot door with large strides, when I
hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply.
He was by this time got in, and muttered an an-
swer, half of which only I heard, the other half was
lost in the rattling of liis chariot wheels. I stood
for some time with my neck stretched out, in the
posture of one that was listening to catch the glo-
rious sounds, till looking round me, I found myself
alone at his lordship's gate.
"My patience," continued my son, "was now
quite exhausted : stung with the thousand indigni-
ties 1 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 that na-
ture designed should be thrown by into her lumber-
room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, how-
ever, half a guinea left, and of that I thought for-
tune herself should not deprive me.- but in ordei t»
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
93
be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and
Spend it while I had it, and then trust to occurrences
for tho rest. As I was going along with this resolu-
tion it happened that Mr. Crispe's office seemed in-
vitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In
this office, Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his majesty's
subjects a generous promise of 301. a year, for
which promise all they give in return is their liber-
ty for life, and permission to let him transport them
to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a
a place where I could lose my fears in desperation,
and entered this cell (for it had the appearance of
one) with the devotion of a monastic. Here I
found a number of poor creatures, all in circum-
stances like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr.
Crispe, presenting a true epitome of English impa-
tience. Each untractable soul at variance with
fortune, wreaked 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 approoation, and indeed he
Was the first man who for a month past had talked
to me with smiles. After a few questions he found
I was fit for every thing in the world. He paus-
ed a while upon the properest means of providing
for me, and slapping his forehead as if he had found
it, assured me, that there was at that time an embas-
sy talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the
Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his in-
terest to get me made secretary. I knew in my
own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his promise
gave me pleasure, there was something so magni-
ficent in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my
half-guinea, one half of which went to be added to
his thirty thousand pounds, and with the other
half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there
more happy than he.
" As I was going out with that resolution, I was
met at the door by the captain 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 circimi-
stances, he assured me that I was upon the very
point of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper's pro-
mises; 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 Amsterdam. What if you
go in her as a passenger? The moment you land,
all you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen En-
glish, and I'll warrant you'll get pupils and money
enough. I suppose you understand English, add-
ed he, by this time, or the deuce is in it. I confi-
dently assured him of that; but expressed a doubt
whether the Dutch would be willing to learn En-
glish. He affirmed with an oath that they were
fond of it to distraction; and upon tliiit afllrmation
I agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next
day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The
wind was fair, our voyage short, and after having
paid my passage vnth half my moveables, I found
myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one
of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this
situation I was unwilling to let any time pass un-
employed in teaching. I addressed myself there-
fore to two or three of those I met, whose appear-
ance seemed most promising ; but it was impossible
to make ourselves mutually understood. It was
not till tl\is very moment I recollected, that in or-
der to teach the Dutchmen English, it was neces-
sary 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 returning from Louvain, our subject turning
upon topics of literature (for by the way it may be
observed, that I always forgot the meanness of my
circumstances when I could converse upon such
subjects,) from him I learned that there were not
two men in his whole university who understood
Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved to
travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching
Greek ; and in this design I was heartened by my
brother student, who threw out some hints that a
fortune might be got by it.
" I set boldly forward the next morning. Every
day lessened the burden of my moveables, like
^sop and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for
my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When
I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneak-
ing to the lower professors, but openly tendered my
talents to the principal himself. I went, had ad-
mittance, and offered him my ser\'ice as a master of
the Greek language, which I had been told was a
desideratum in his university. The principal seem-
ed at first to doubt of my abilities; but of these I
offered to convince him by turning a part of any
Greek author he should fix upon into Latin. Find-
ing mo pcifectly earnest in my proposal, he ad-
dressed me thus: You sec me, young man; I never
learned Greek and I don't find that I have ever
missed it. I have had a doctor's cap and govm
without Greek ; I have ten thousand florins a-3'ear
without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek; and
in short, continued he, as 1 don't know Greek, I
do not believe there is any good in it.
" I was now too far from home to think of re-
turning; so I resolved to go forward. I had some
knowledge of music, with a toleralile voice, and novs'
turned what was my amusement into a present
means of subsistence. I passed among the harm'
less peasants of Flanders, and among such of the
French as were poor enough to be very merry, for
I ever found them sjirightly in proportion to tneir
wants. Whenever I approaclicd a peasant's house
94
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
towards nightfall, 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 extraordinary, as whenever I used in bet-
ter days to play for company, when playing was my
amusement, my music never failed to throw them
into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it
was now my only means, it was received with con-
tempt — 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 ve-
nal hospitality, when passing through one of the
principal streets, whom should I meet but our cou-
sin, to whom you first recommended me. This
meeting was very agreeable to me, and I believe
not displeasing to him. He inquired into the na-
ture of my journey to Paris, and informed me of
his own business there, which was to collect pic-
tures, medals, intaglios, and antique* of all kinds
for a gentleman in London, who had just stepped
into taste and a large fortune. I was the more sur-
prised 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 cognoscente so very sudden-
ly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The
whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two
rules; the one, always to observe the picture might
have been better if the painter had taken more
pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro
Perugino. 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.
1 went therefore to his lodgings, improved my dress
by his assistance, and after some time accompanied
him to auctions of pictures, where the English gen-
try were expected to be purchasers. I was not a
little surprised at his intimacy with people of the
best fashion, who referred themselves to his judg-
ment upon every picture or medal, as to an uner-
ring 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 com-
pany that he could give no opinion upon an affair
oi so much importance. Yet there was sometimes
an occasion lor a more supported assurance. I re-
member to have seen him, after giving his opinion
that the colouring of a picture was not mellow
enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown
varnish, that was accidentally Ijnng 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 recommended 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, inorderto sethim forward on his tourthrough
Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's gover-
nor, 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 was heir to a fortune of
about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by
an uncle in the West Indies ; and his guardians, to
qualify him for the management of it, had bound
him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was
his prevailing passion ; all his questions on the road
were, how money might be saved ; which was the
least expensive course to travel ; whether any
thing could be bought that would turn to account
when disposed of again in London ? Such curio-
sities on the way as could 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 that he
had been told they were not worth seeing. He
never paid a bill that he would not observe how
amazingly expensive travelling was, and all tliis
though he was not yet twenty-one. When arrived
at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the port
and shi])ping, he inquired the expense of the pas-
sage by sea home to England. This he was in-
formed was but a trifle compared to his returning
by land; he was therefore unable to withstand the
temptation ; so paying me the small part of my sala-
ry 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; but by this time I had ac-
quired another talent which answered my purpose
as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all
the foreign universities and convents there are, upon
certain days, philosophical theses maintained against
every adventitious disputant; forwliich, ifthechara-
pion 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 picture. My re-
I marks, however, are but few ; 1 found thatmonarchv
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
95
was the best government for the poor to live in, and
commonwealths 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 him-
self, 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 volun-
teer in the first expedition that was going forward ;
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 dis-
approve of me for an associate. They all, however,
apprized me of the importance of the task at which
I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed mon-
ster, 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 ])re-
sence of the present company has happi'^ hindered
me from acting,"
told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence
and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep
it a secret : " For at best," cried he, " it is but di-
vulging one's own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy
may not be so guilty as we all imagine." We wer«
here interrupted by a servant, who came to ask th«
'Squire in, to stand up at country dances ; so that
he left me quite pleased with the interest he seem*
ed to take in my concerns. His addresses, how-
ever, to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mis-
taken : and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased,
but bore them rather in compliance to the will of
her aunt than from real inchnation. I had even
the satisfaction to see her lavish some kind looka
upon my unfortunate son, which the other could
neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr.
Thornhill's seeming composure, however, not a
little surprised me : we had now continued here a
week at the pressing instances of Mr. Arnold : but
each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot show-
ed my son, Mr. Thornhill's friendship seemed pro-
portionahly to increase for him.
He had formerly made us the most kind assu-
rances of using his interest to serve the family ; but
now his generosity was not confined to promises
alone. The morning I designed for my departure,
Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real plea-
sure, to inform me of a piece of service he had done
for his friend George. This was nothing less thaa
his having procured him an ensign's commissioii
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 sufficient to get
an abatement of the other two. " As for this tri-
fling piece of service," continued the young gentle-
man, " I desire no other reward but the pleasure
of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred
pounds to 1)0 paid, if you are unable to raise it
yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay
me at your leisure." This was a favour we want-
ed words to express our sense of: I readily there-
fore gave my bond for the money, and testified as
much gratitude as if 1 never intended to [)ay.
George was to depart for town the next day to
secure his commission, in pursuance of his gener-
ous patron's directions, who judged it highly expe-
dient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another
should stef) in with more advantageous projiosals.
The next morning therefore our young soldier was
early prepared for his departure, and seemed the
only person among us that was not affected by it.
Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to
encounter, nor the friends and mistress — for Miss
Wilmot actually loved liim — he was leaving be-
sed; adding, that he had been since frequently at hind, any way danqied his spirits. After he had
my house in order to comfort the rest of my family, | taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him
whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I all I had, my lilessing. "And now, my boy," cried
had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot I, " thou art gnmg to figlit for thy country, remem-
o-" my son ; and upon my replying that 1 had not bcr how tiiy brave grandfather fought for his sacred
CHAPTER XXI.
TTie short continuance of Fi-iemlship amongst the Vicious,
which is coeval only with mutual Satistaotion.
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 day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's
equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in the
general satisfaction. The butler, who was now
become my friend in the family, informed me with
a whisper, that the 'Squire had already made some
overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and
uncle seemed highly to ap])rovc the match. Upon
Mr. Thornhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my
son and me, to start back ; 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 inquire after my
daughter ; but upon my informing him that my in-
quiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surpri-
96
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue.
Go, my hoy, and imitate him in all but his misfor-
tunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk-
land. Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant,
exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the
most precious tears are those with which Heaven
bedews the unburied head of a soldier."
The next morning I took leave of the good fa-
mily, that had been kind enough to entertain me so
long, not without several expressions of gratitude
to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them
in the enjoyment of all that happiness which afflu-
ence and good-breeding procure, and returned to-
wards home, despairing of ever finding my daugh-
ter 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
Bat 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 coun-
try, was loved. He went on to observe, that he
made it his whole study to betray the daughters of
Buch 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, his wife,
who had been out to get change, returned, and per-
ceiving 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 ironical 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 busmess is left for me to do, and the
fourtli left unfinished ; while you do nothing but
soak with the guests all day long: whereas if a
epoonfulof 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
BO much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but
one can not help it when the house is going out of
the windows. If the customers or guests are to be
dunned, all the burden lies upon my back ; he'd as
lief eat that glass as budge after them himself.
There, now, above stairs, we have a young woman
who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I
don' believe she has got any money by her over
civility I am certain she is very slow of payment,
fjad 1 wish she were put in mind of it." — "What
signifies minding her," cried the host, "if she be
slow she is sure." — '•! don't know that," replied
the wife; " but I know that I am sure she has been
here a fortnight, 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 I am resolved we will this very night, or
out she tramps, bag and baggage." — "Consider,
my dear," cried the husband, " she is a gentlewo-
man, and deserves more respect." — "As for the
matter of that," returned the hostess, " gentle or
simple, out she shall pack with a sassarara. Gen-
try may be good things where they take: but for
my part, I never saw much good of them at the
sign of the Harrow." — Thus saying, she ran up a
narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen
to a room over-head ; and I soon perceived, by the
loudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her re-
proaches, that no money was to be had from her
lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very dis-
tinctly : " Out, I say; pack out this moment! tramp,
thou infamous strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark
thou won't be the better for these three months.
What! you trumpery, to come and take up an
honest house without cross or coin to bless your-
self with; come along, I say." — " O dear madam,"
cried the stranger, " pity me, pity a poor abandon-
ed creature for one night, and death will soon do
the rest." — I instantly knew the voice of my poor
ruined child Olivia; I flew to her rescue, while the
woman was dragging her along by the hair, and 1
caught the dearforlorn wretch inmy arms. — "Wei
come, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my
treasure, to your poor old father's bosom! Though
the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the
world that will never forsake thee; though thou
hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will
forget them all." — " O my own dear" — for minutes
she could say 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 can not." — "Yes, my child, from
my heart I do forgive thee ! Only repent, and wo
both shall yet be happy. We shall see many plea-
sant days yet, my Olivia!" — "Ah! never, sir,
never. The rest of my wretched hfe must be in-
famy 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 uneasiness T
Surely j'ou have too much wisdom to take the mise-
ries of my guilt upon yourself;" — " Our wisdom,
young woman," replied I — "Ah, why so cold a
name, papa?" cried she. " This is tne first 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 defenco
against trouble, though at last a sure one." The
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
9?
landlady now returned to know if we did not choose
a more genteel apartment; to which assenting, we
were shown a room where we could converse more
freely. After we had talked ourselves into some
degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring
some account of the gradations that led to her pre-
sent wretched situation. " That villain, sir," said
she, " from 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. Burch-
ell's good sense and seeming honour could be guilty
of such dehberate baseness, and thus step into a
family to undo it."
"My dear papa," returned 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 heV—
"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
remember would have certainly succeeded, but for
Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed those reproach-
es at them, which we all apphed to ourselves. How
he came to have so much influence as to defeat
their intentions, still remains a secret to me; hut I
am convinced he was ever our warmest, sincerest
friend."
"You amaze me, my dear," cried I; "but now
I find my first suspicions of Mr. Thornliill's base-
ness were too well grounded : but he can triumph
in security; 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 tri-
umph to the desire I had of making him, and not
myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our
marriage, which was privately performed by a po-
pish priest, was no way binding, and that I had
nothing to trust to but his honour." — "What!"
mterrupted I, " and were you indeed married by a
priest, and in ordersT' — "Indeed, sir, we were,"
replied she, " though we were both sworn to con-
ceal his name." — " Why, then, my child, come to
my arms again ; and now you are a thousand times
more welcome than before; for you are now his wife
to all intents and purposes; nor can all the laws of
man, though written upon tables of adamant, les-
sen the force of that sacred connexion."
"Alas, papa," repliert she, "you are but little
acquainted with his villanies; he has been married
olready by the same priest to six or eight wives
more, whom, like me, he has deceived and aban-
doned."
"Has he so?" cried I, "then we must hang the
priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow."
"But, sir," returned she, " will that be right, when
I am sworn to secrecy?" — " My dear," I replied^
" if you have made such a promise, I can not, nor
will I tempt you to break it. Even though it may
benefit the public, you must not inform against him.
In all human institutions a smaller evil is allowed
to procure a greater good; as in politics, a province
may be given away to secure a kingdom; in medi-
cine, a limb may be lopped off' to preserve the body :
but in religion, the law is written, and inflexible,
never to do evil. And this law, my child, is right;
for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil to pro-
cure a greater good, certain guilt would be thus
incurred, in expectation of contingent advantage.
And though the advantage should certainly follow,
yet the interval between commission and advan- ,
tagc, which is allowed to be 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 what little expectation I 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 contented pros-
titution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such ri-
vals in his affections, and strove to forget my in-
famy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I
danced, dressed, and talked ; but still was unhappy.
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 quite away. Thus each
day I grew more pensive, 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
answer to this proposal was almost madness. I
desired to part. As I was going, he offered me a
purse; but I flung it at him with indignation, and
burst from him in a rage, that for a while kept me
insensible of the miseries of my situation. But I
soon looked roun'l me, and saw myself a vile, ab-
ject, 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
aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I de-
spised and detested. I was set down here, where,
since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman's
unkindness have been my only companions. The
hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mam-
ma and sister now grow painful to me. Their sor-
rows are much; but mine are greater than tlieire
for mine are mixed with guilt and inlamy.'*
98
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
" Have patience, my child," cried I, " and I hope
things 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.
Oflences are easily pardoned where there is Love at bottom.
The next morning I took my daughter behind
me, and set out on my return home. As we travel-
ed along, I strove by every persuasion to calm her
sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution
to bear the presence of her offended mother. 1
took every opportunity from the prospect of a fine
country, through which we 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 hfe, which yet might be long, she
might depend upon a guardian and an instructor.
I armed her against the censures of the world,
showed her that books were sweet unreproaching^
companions to the miserable, and that if they could
not bring us to enjoy hfe, they would at least teach
us to endure it.
The 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 1 was wilUng to pre-
pare my family for my daughter's reception, I de-
termined to leave her that night at the inn, and to
return for her, accompanied by my daughter So-
phia, early the next morning. 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 re-
freshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards
home. jAnd 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 ho-
vered round my little fire-side vrith 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 shrilling cock, and the deep-
moutncd watch-dog at hollow distance. I approach-
■fd my little abode of pleasure, and before I was
(within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff
•jame 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 vmutterable happiness, when, to my
amazement, 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
pavement 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 apprehen-
sion, 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 fami-
ly stood with silent agony looking on as if they
enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it
by turns, and then looked round me for my two
little ones; but they were not to be seen. O mise-
ry! " 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, where are my chil-
drenT' cried I, rushing through the flames, and
bursting the door of the chamber in which they
were confined; "Where are my little onesl" —
" Here, dear papa, here we are,'' cried they to-
gether, while the flames were just catching the bed
where they lay. I caught them both in my arms,
and snatched them through the fire as fast as pos-
sible, while, 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 per-
ish. Here they are; I have saved my treasure.
Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we
shall yet be happy." We kissed our little darlings
a thousand times; they clasped us round the neck,
and seemed to share our transports, while their
mother laughed and wept by turns.
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 therefore out of my power to give my son any
assistance, either in attempting to save our goods,
or preventing the flames spreading to our corn. By
this time the neighbours were alarmed, and came
running to our assistance ; but all they could do
was to stand, Uke us, spectators of the calamity.
My goods, among which were the notes I had re-
served for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely
consumed, except a box with some papers that
stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more
of little consequence, which my son brought away
in the beginning. The neighbours contributed,
however, what they could to lighten our distress.
They brought us clothes, and furnished one of out
out-l?ouses with kitchen utensils ; so that by day-
light we had another, though a wretched dwelling
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
were soon again qualified to enjoy our former se-
renity. Being disabled myself from assisting my
son in our usual occupations, I read to my family
from the few books that were saved, and particu-
larly from such as, by amusing the imagination,
contributed to ease the heart. Our good neigh
l)ours, too, came every day with the kindest condo-
lence, and fixed a time in which they were all to
assist in repairing my former dwelling. Honest
Farmer Williams was not the last among these
visiters; but heartily offered his friendship. He
would even have renewed his addresses to my
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
beliind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her
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 sug-
gest. — " Our happiness, my dear," I would say,
" is in the power of one who can bring it about a
thousand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight.
If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you
a story, my child, told us by a grave, though some-
times a romancing, historian.
" Matilda was married very youngtoaNeapolitan
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 apartment which hung over the river
Volturna, the child with a sudden spring leaped
from her arms into the flood below, and disappear-
ed in a moment. The mother, struck with in-
stant surprise, and making an cfibrt to save him,
plunged in after; but for from being able to assise
the infant, she herself with great dilliculty escaiJt;
to the opposite shore, just when some French sol-
diers were plundering the country on that side,
who immediately made her their prisoner.
" As the war was then carried on between *hn
French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity,
they were going at once to perpetrate those two
CHAPTER XXIII extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This
base resolution, however, was opposed by a young
None but the guiUy can be long and completely miserable. ^^^^^_ ^.j^^_ ^,^^^gj^ ^}^^,j^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^.^^^ ^j^^
Some assiduity was now required to make our i utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and
present abode as convenient as possible, and we I brought her in safety to his native city. Her beau
(o 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 untutored benevolence could suggest.
When the fears of my family had subsided, cu-
riosity 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 re-
ception of our lost one, and though we had nothing
but wretchedness now to impart, I was wdlling to
procure her a welcome to what we had. This task
would have been more difficult but for our recent
calamity, which had humbled ray wife's pride, and
blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being un-
able 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 de-
linquent, who had not the courage to look up at
her mother, whom no instructions of mine could
persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for women
have a much stronger sense of female error than
men. "Ah, madam," cried her mother, " This is
but a poor place you are come to after so much
finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but
little entertainment to persons who have kept com-
pany only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss
Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very
much of late; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.'"
During this reception, the unhappy victim stood
pale and trembhng, unable to weep or to reply : but
I could not continue a silent spectator of her dis-
tress; wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in
my voice and manner, which was ever followed
with instant submission, " I entreat, woman, that
my words may be now marked once for all: I have
here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer;
her return to dutj-^ demands the revival of our ten-
derness. The real hardships of life are now com-
ing 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 re-
pentant sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have
supported a course of undeviating rectitude. And
this is right; for that single effort by which we stop
short in the down-hill path to perdition, is itself a
greater exertion of virtue than a hundi'ed acts of
justice."
100
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ty at first caujjht his eye, her merit soon after his
heart. Tliey were married ; he rose to the highest
posts; thoy lived long together, and were happy.
But the felicity of a soldier can never be called per-
manent: after an interval of several years, the
troops which he commanded having met with a re-
pulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city
where he had lived with his wife. Here they suf-
fered a siege, and the city at length was taken.
Few histories can produce more various instances
of cruelty than those which the French and Ital-
ians 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 particu-
larly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as
he was principally instrumental in protracting the
siecre. Their determinations were in general exe-
cuted almost as soon as resolved upon. The cap-
tive 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, who presided as
judge, should give the signal. It was in this inter-
val of anguish and expectation that Matilda came
to take a last farewell of her husband and deliverer,
deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty
of late, that had saved her from perishing by a pre-
mature death in the river Volturna, to be the spec-
tator of still greater calamities. The general, who
was a young man, was struck with surprise at her
beauty, and pity at her distress; 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 could confer on each,
were united."
In this manner I would attempt to amuse my
daughter, but she listened with divided attention;
for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she
once had for those of another, and nothing gave
her ease. In company she dreaded contempt; and
in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the
colour of her wretchedness, when we received
certain information that Mr. Thornhill was going
to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom 1 always
suspected he had a real passion, though he took
every opportunity before me to express his con-
tempt both of her person and fortune. This news
only served to increase poor 01i\'ia's affliction : such
a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her
courage could support. I was resolved, however,
to get more certain information, and to defeat if
possible the completion of his designs, by sending
my son to old Mr. Wilmot's with instructions to
itnow the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss
Wiimot a letter, intimating Mr. Tboinlull's con-
duct in my family. My son went in pursuance
of my directions, and in three days returned, as-
suring us of the truth of the account; but that he
had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which
he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thorn-
hill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round th»
country. They were to be married, he said, in a
few days, having appeared together at church th»
Sunday before he 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 uncle. Sir William Thorn-
hill, who bore so good a character. He added,
that nothing but mirth and feasting were going
forward; that all the country praised the young
bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine person,
and that they were immensely fond of each other;
concluding, that he could not help thinking Mr.
Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world,
" Why, let him, if he can," returned I : " but,
my son, observe this bed of straw, and unshelterinj
roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor; my
wretdied body thus disabled by fire, and my chil-
dren weeping round me for bread ; — you have com»
home, my child, to all this; yet here, even here, you
see a man that would not for a thousand worlds ex-
change situations. O, my children, if you could
but learn to commune with your own hearts, and
know what noble company you can make them,
you would little regard the elegance and splendoui
of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught
to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers.
The similitude still may be improved, when we ob-
serve that the good are joyful and serene, like trav- j
ellers that are going towards home ; the wicked but ^
by intervals happy, like travellers that are going in-
to exile." /V
My compassion for my poor daughter, overpow-
ered by this new disaster, interrupted what 1 had
further to observe. 1 bade her mother support her,
and after a short time she recovered. She ai)peared
from that time more calm, and I imagined had gain
ed a new degree of resolution : but appearances de-
ceived me; for her tranquillity was the languor ol
over-wrought resentment. A supply of provisions,
charitably sent us by my kind parishioners, seem-
ed to difluse new cheerfulness among the rest of
the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them
once more sprightly and at ease. It would have
been unjust to damp their satisfactions, merely to
condole with resolute melflncholy, or to burden
them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus oiice
more the tale went round, and the song was de-
manded, and cheerfulness condescended to hover
round our little habitation.
THE VICAR OF WAI^FIELD.
rm
CHAPTER XXIV.
Fresh Calamities.
The next morning the sun arose with peculiar
warmth for the season, so that we' agreed to break-
fast together on the honey-suckle bank; where,
while we sat, my youngest daughter at my request
joined her voice to the concert on the trees about
us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met
her seducer, and every object served to recall her
sadness. But that melancholy which is excited by
objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of har-
mony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it.
Her mother, too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing
distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as be-
fore. " Do, my pretty Olivia," cried she, " let us
have that little melancholy air your papa was so
fond of; your sister Sophy has already obliged us.
Do, child, it will please your old father." She
complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as
moved me.
ri. ' . When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away'J
The only art her guilt to cover.
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover.
And wring his bosom — is to die.
As she was concluding the last stanza, to which
an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave pe-
cuhar softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhili's
equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particu-
larly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daugli-
ter, who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, re-
turned to the house with her sister. In a few
minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and
making up to the place where I was still sitting,
inquired after my health with his usual air of ta-
miliarity. " Sir," replied I, " your present assur-
ance 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 ap-
pear before me. But now you are safe; for age
has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains
them."
" I vow, my dear sir," 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 excursion
with me had any thing criminal in it?"
"Go," cried I, " thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful
wretch, and every way a liar: but your meanness
secures you from my anger! Yet, sir, I am de-
scended from a family that would not have borne
this! — And so, tiiou vile thing, to gratify a mo-
mentary 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 can not help it. But you may still
be happy; and whatever opinion you may have
formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to con-
tribute to it. We can marry her to anotlier 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 de^
grading proposal ; for though the mind may otlen
be calm under great injuries, little villany can at
any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage.
" Avoid my sight, thou reptile!" cried I, " nor con-
tinue to insult me with thy presence. Were my
brave son at home he would not sufl'er this; but I
am old and disabled, and every way undone."
" I find," cried he, " you are bent upon obliging
me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended.
But as I have shown you what may be hoped from -^
my friendship, it may not be improper to represent
what may be the consequences 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 ex-
penses lately, previous to my intended marriage, 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 v»'ith alfairs 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 Wilmot; 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
all : As to your marriage with any but my daugh-
ter, that I never will consent to; and though your
friendship could raise me to a throne, or your re-
sentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise .;
both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably de-
ceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour,
and have found its baseness. Never more there-
fore expect friendship from me. Go, and possess
what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health,
and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy,
disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall
my heart still vindicate its dignity; and though
tliou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my
contempt."
" If so," returned he, "depend upon it you shall
feel the eflects of this insolence: and we shall short-
ly see which is the fittest object of scorn, you or
me." — Upon which he departed abruptly.
My wife and son, who were present at this tn-
terview, seemed terrified with the apprenensioii.
My daughters, also, finding that he was gone, cainr
102
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
out to be informed of the result of our conference,
whicn, when known, alarmed them not less than
the rest. But as to myself, 1 disregarded the utmost
stretch of his malevolence : he had already struck
the Mow, and now I stood prepared to repel every
new eifort; like one of those instruments used in
the art of war, which, however thrown, still pre-
sents a point to receive the enemy.
We soon however found that he had not threat-
ened in vain : for the very next morning his stew-
ard came to demand my annual rent, which, by
the train of accidents already related, I was unable
to paj'. The consequence of my incapacity 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
entreated 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
their little eloquence to paint the 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 in-
flexible.
" Why, my treasures," cried I, " why will you
thus attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not
right! My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but
my conscience will not permit me to approve.
Would you have me applaud to the world what my
heart must internally condemn! Would you have
me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous be-
trayer; and, to avoid a pnson, continually suffer
the more galUng 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 are
thrown, we can still retire to a charming apartment,
when we can look round our own hearts with in-
trepidity and with pleasure!"
In this manner we spent that evening. Early
the next morning, as the snow had fallen in great
abundance m 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 officers of
the justice, were making towards the 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 county gaol, which was eleven miles off".
" My friends," said I, " this is severe weather in
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 man-
ner, 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 such deep snow; but if it
must be so — ^ "
I then turned to my wife and children, and di-
rected them to get together what few things were
left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this
place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and de-
sired my son to assist his eldest sister, who, from a
consciousness that she was the cause of all our ca-
lamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in insen-
sibihty. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and
trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her
arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading
to look round at the strangers. In the mean time
my youngest daughter prepared for our departure,
and as she received several hints to use dispatch,
in about an hour we were ready to depart.
CHAPTER XXV.
No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of
comfort attending it.
We set forward from this peaceful neighbour-
hood, and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter
being enfeebled by a slow fevex, which had begun
for some days to undermine her constitution, one
of the officers, who had a horse, kindly took her
behind him; for even these men can not entirely di-
vest themselves 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 parishioners. These, with dreadful impre-
cations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice,
and swearing they would never see their minister
go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in
his defence, were going to use them with great se-
verity. The consequence might have been fatal
had I not immediately interposed, and with some
diflTiculty rescued the officers from the hands of the
enraged multitude. My children, who looked up-
on my delivery now as certain, appeared transport-
ed with joy, and were incapable of containing their
raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon
hearing me address the poor deluded people, who
came as they imagined to do me service.
"What! my friends," cried I, "and is this the
way you love me? Is this the manner you 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 ring-
leader? Show me the man that has thus seduced
you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resent-
I ment — Alas! my dear deluded flock, return back to
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
103
the duty you owe to God, to your country, and to
mci I shall yet perhaps one day see you m 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 immortality, that not one
here shall be wanting."
They now seemed all repentance, and melting
into tears, came one after the other to bid me fare-
well. 1 shook each tenderly by the hand, and leav-
ing them my blessing, proceeded forward without
meeting any further interruption. Some hours be-
fore night we reached the town, or rather village,
for it consisted but of a few mean houses, having
lost all its former opulence, and retaining no marks
of its ancient superiority but the gaol.
Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we
had such refreshments as could most reaihly be
procured, and I supped with my family with my
usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly
accommodated for that night, I next attended the
sheriffs otRcers to the prison, which had formerly
been built for the purpose 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 sounds of misery : but
it was very different. The prisoners seemed all
employed in one common design, that of forgetting
thought in merriment or clamour. 1 was apprized
of the usual perquisite required upon these occa-
sions, 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
liot, 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 laboured to become
cheerful, but cheerfulness was never yet produced
by effort, which is itself painful. As I was sitting,
therefore, in a corner of the gaol in a pensive pos-
ture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sit-
ting 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, 1
might profit by his instruction; if bad, he might be
assisted by mine, fl 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
Bide..? He asked me if I had taken care to provide
myself with a bed, wliich was a circumstance I had
never attended to.
" That's unfortunate," cried he, " as you are al-
lowed here nothing but straw, and your apartment
is very large and cold. However, you seem to be
something of a gentleman, and as I have been one
myself in my time, part of my bed-clothes are heart-
ily at your service."
I thanked liim, 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 understand the value of company
in aflliction, when he said. Ton kosmon aire, ei
dos ton etairon; and in fact," continued I, "what
is the world if it affords only solitudel"
"You talk of the world, sir," returned my fel-
low-prisoner; "the world is in its dotage ; and yet
the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled
the philosophers of every age. What a medley of
opinions have they not broached upon the creation
of the world! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus,
and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attemptedit in vain.
The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai
atelutaion to pan, which imply — " " I ask pardon,
sir," cried I, "for interrupting so much learning;
but I think I have heard all this before. Have I
not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Wel-
l)ridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jenkin-
son7" At this demand he only sighed. " I sup-
pose you must recollect," resumed I, "one Doctor
Primrose, from whom you bought a horse 1"
He now at once recollected me ; for the gloomi-
ness of the place and the approaching night had
prevented his distinguisliing my features before. —
" Yes, sir," returned Mr. Jenkinson, " I remember .
you perfectly well; I bought a horse, but forgot to
pay for him. Your 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 ever
deceived you, or indeed any man; for you see,"
continued he, showing his shackles, "what my
tricks have brought me to."
"Well, sir," replied 1, "your kindness in offer-
ing me assistance when you could expect no return,
shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften or to-
tally 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 \n\l
comply with my request ; and as to my own evi-
dence you need be under no uneasiness about that."
" Well, sir," cried he, " all the return I can make
shall be yours. You shall have more than half
my bed-clothes to-night, and I'll take care to stand
your friend in the prison, where I think I have
some influence."
I thanked him, and could not avoid being sur-
prised at the present youthful change in liis aspect ;
for at the time I had seen him before, he appeared
at least sixty. — "Sir," answered he, "you are lit-
tle acquainted with the world ; I had at that time
false hair, and have learned the art of counter<''«i
104
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ing 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 1 am, still I may be your friend, and that per-
haps v?hen you least expect it."
We were now prevented from further conversa-
tion by the arrival of the gaoler's servants, who
came to call over the prisoners' names, and lock u'p
for the night. A fellow also with a bundle of straw
for my bed attended, who led me along a dark nar-
row 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 medita-
tions, and having praised my Heavenly Corrector,
1 laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tran-
quillity till morning.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A Reformation in the Gaol. — ^To make Laws complete, thoy
should Reward as well as 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 thing about us, it seems,
had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow,
assuring them I had never slept with greater tran-
quilhty, and next inquired after my eldest daugh-
ter, who was not among them. They informed
me that yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had in-
creased her fever, and it was judged proper to leave
her behind. My next care was to send my son to
procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as
near the prison as conveniently could be found.
He obeyed ; but could only find one apartment,
which was hired at a small expense for his mother
and sisters, the gaoler with humanity consenting
to let him and his two little brothers he in the pri-
son with me. A bed was therefore prepared for
them in a corner of the room, which I thought an-
swered very conveniently. I was willing, however,
previously to know whether my children chose to
lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon
entrance.
"Well," cried I, "my good boys, how do you
like your bedl I hope jou are not afraid to he in
this room, dark as it appearsl"
" No, papa," says Dick, " I am not afraid to lie
any where 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 1 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 httle boys were to read
to me. " And as for you, ray son," continued I,
" it is by the labour of your hands we must all hopa
to be supported. Your wages as a day-labourer
will be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to
maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art
now sixteen years old, and hast strength ; and it
was given thee, my son, for very useful purposes ;
for it must save from famine your helpless parents
and family. Prepare then this evening to look out
for work against to-morrow, and bring home every
night what money you earn for our support."
Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest,
I Walked down to the common prison, where I
could enjoy more air and room. But I was not
long there when the execrations, lewdness, and
brutality that invaded me on every side, drove me
back to my apartment again. Here I sat for some
time pondering upon the strange infatuation of
wretches, who, finding all mankind in open arms
against them, were labouring to make themselves
a future and a tremendous enemy.
Their insensibility excited my highest compas-
sion, and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind.
It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to at-
tempt to reclaim them. I resolved therefore once
more to return, and, in spite of their contempt, to
give them my advice, and conquer them by my per-
severance. Going therefore among them again, I
informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design, at which he
laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest.
The proposal was received with the greatest good-
humour, as it promised to aflbrd a new fund of en-
tertainment to persons who had now no other re-
source for mirth, but what could be derived from
ridicule or debauchery.
I therefore read them a portion of the service with
a loud unaffected voice, and found my audience
perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whis-
pers, groans of contrition burlesqued, winking, and
coughing, alternately excited laughter. However,
I continued with my natural solemnity to read on,
sensible that what I did might mend some, but
could itself receive no contamination from any.
After reading I entered upon my exhortation,
which was rather calculated at first to amuse them
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 profane ; because they got nothing by
it, but might lose a great deal : " For be assured,
my friends," cried I, " for you are my friends, how-
ever the world may disclaim j'our friendship, though
you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would
not put one penny in your purse. Then what sig-
nifies calUng every moment upon the devil, and
courting his friendship, since you find how scurvi-
ly he uses you? He has given you nothing here,
you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
103
belly; and by Uie best accounts I have of him, he
will give you nothing that's good hereafter.
" If used ill in our dealings with one man, we
naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your
while, then, just to try how you may like the usage
of another master, who gives you fair promises at
least to come to himl Surely, my friends, of all
stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest,
who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers
for protection. And yet how are you more wise ?
You are all seeking comfort from one that has al-
ready 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 compli-
ments of my audience, some of whom came and
shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very
houest fellow, and that they desired my further ac-
quaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my
iecturo next day, and actually conceived some hopes
of making a reformation here; for it had ever been
my 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. Jenkinson begged leave to
add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure,
as he was kind enough to express it, of my con-
versation. He had not yet seen my family ; for as
they came to my apartment by a door in the nar-
row passage already described, by this means they
avoided the common prison. Jenkinson 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 unnoticed.
"Alas, doctor," cried he, " these children are too
handsome and too good for such a place as this!"
" Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, " thank Hea-
ven, my children are pretty tolerable in morals;
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!" repUed I; "yes,
it is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without
them for all the world; for they can make a dun-
geon seem a palace. There is but one way in this
Qfe of wounding my happiness, and that is by in-
juring them."
" 1 am afraid then, sir," cried he, " that I am in
eomc measure culpable; for I think I see here (look-
ing at my son Moses), one that I have injured, and
by whom I wish to be forgiven."
My son immediately recollected his voice and
*eatares, though he had before seen him in dis-
guise, and taking him by the hand, with a smila
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 was. not
your face, but youi white stockings, and the black
riband in your hair, that allured me. But no dis-
paragement to your parts, 1 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 tne narrative
of such a life as yours must be extremely instruc-
tive and amusing."
" Not much of cither," returned Mr. Jenkinson.
" Those relations which describe the tricks and
vices only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion
in life, retard our success. The traveller that dis-
trusts every person he meets, and turns back upon
the appearance of every man that looKs like a rob-
ber, seldom arrives in time at his journey's end."
" Indeed I think, from my own experience,*that-
the kriowing one is the silliest fellow under the
sun, I was thought cunning from my very child-
hood: whca but seven years old, the ladies would
say that I was a perfect little man; at fourteen I
knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the la-
dies ; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet
every one thought me so cunning, that not one
would trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to
turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived
ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to de-
ceive, and my heart palpitatuig with fears of detec-
tion. I used often to laugh at your honest simple
neighbour Flamborough, and one way or another
generally cheated him once a-year. Yet still the
honest man went forward without suspicion, and
grew rich, while I still continued tiicksy and cun-
ning, and was poor, without the consolation of be-
ing honest. However," continued he, "let me
know your case, and what has brought you here ;
perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a gaol
myself, I may extricate my friends."
In compliance with lus curiosity, I informed him
of the whole train of accidents and follies that had
plunged me into my present troubles, and my utter
inability to get free.
After hearing my story, and pausing some mi-
nutes, he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit
upon somctliing material, and took his leave, say-
ing he would try what could be done. , .
CHAPTER XXVII. - ' ,
The same subject continued.
The next morning, I communicated to my ^'ife
and children the scheme I had planned of reform-
ing the prisoners, which they received with uni^
'06
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
versal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility
and impropriety of it, adding, that my endeavours
would no way contribute to their amendment, but
might probably disgrace my calling.
" Excuse me," returned I ; "these people, how
ever fallen, are still men; and that is a very good
title to my affections. fGood counsel rejected, re
turns to enrich the giver's bosom; and though the
instruction I communicate may"'not mend them,
yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretch-
es, my children, were princes, there would be thou-
sands ready to offer their ministry; but in my opin-
ion, the Jieart that is buried in a dungeon is as pre-
cious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my trea-
sures, if I can ntend them, I will: perhaps they
vnU. not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up
even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain ;
for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the hu-
man 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, had a knack
of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers
upon my book. A third would cry amen in such
an affected tone, as gave the rest great delight. A
fourth had slily picked my pocket of my spectacles.
But there was one whose trick gave more univer-
sal 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 them, 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 ridicu-
lous in my attempt would excite mirth only the
first or second time, while what was serious would
be permanent. My design succeeded, and in less
than six days some were penitent, and all attentive.
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 ren-
dering their situation somewhat more comfortable.
Their time had hitherto been divided between fam-
ine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repin-
ing. Their only employment was quarreling among
each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobac-
co-stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I
took the hint of setting such as chose to work at
cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoe-makers, the
proper wood being bought by a general subscrip-
tion, and when manufactured, sold by my appoint-
ment, so that eaeh earned something every day — a
trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him.
1 did not stop here, but instituted fines for the
punishment of immorality, and rewards for pecu-
liar industry. Thus in less than a fortnight 1 had
formed them into something social and humane,
and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a Icgia*
later, who had brought men from their native fe-
rocity into friendship and obedience.
And it were highly to be wished, that legislative
power would thus direct the law rather to reforma-
tion than severity ; that it would seem convinced,
that the work of eradicating crimes is not by mak-
ing punishments familiar, but formidable. Then,
instead of our present prisons, which find or make
men guilty, which enclose wretches for the com-
mission of one crime, and return them, if return-
ed 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 punishments, is
the way to mend a state. Nor can I avoid even
questioning the validity of that right which social
combinations have assumed, of capitally punishing
offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder
their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all,
from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man
who has shown a disregard for the life of another.
Against such, all nature rises 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
tliat, 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 beside, the compact is inadequate, and
would be set aside even in a court of modern equi-
ty, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling
convenience, 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 a hundred or a hundred thousandf foras ten/
millions of circles can never make a squhrt", so the (
united voice of myriads can not lend the smallest'
foundation to falsehood^ It is thus that reason;
speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing.
Savages, that are directed by natural law alone,
are very 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 refined community
that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich,
are laid upon the poor. Government, while it
grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness oi
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD.
lO"
age; and as if our property were becomj 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 eJicts every
day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every
invader. >•
I can not tell whether it is from the number of
our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people,
that this country should show more convicts in a
year than half the dominions of Europe united.
Perhaps it is owing to both; for they mutually pro-
duce each other. 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 dis-
tinction is the bulwark of all morahty: 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 convul-
sion come to burst them; instead of cutting away
wretches as useless before we have tried their utih-
ty : instead of converting correction into vengeance,
— it were to be wished that we tried the restrictive
arts of govermnent, and made law the protector,
but not the tyrant of the people. We should then
find that creatures, whose souls are held as dross,
only wanted the hand of a refiner : we should then
find that creatures, now stuck up for long tortures,
lest luxury should feel a momentary pang, might,
if properly treated, serve to sinew the state in times
of danger; that as their faces are hke ours, their
hearts are so too; that few minds are so base as
that perseverance can not amend ; that a man may
see his last crime without dying for it; and that
very little blood will serve to cement our security.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Happiness and Misery ratlier the result of pruclence than of
virtue in this life; temporal evils or felicities being regard-
ed by Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling, and
unworthy its care in tlie distribution.
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. Hav-
ing communicated my wishes to my wife the next
morning the poor girl entered my apartment lean-
ing on her sister's arm. The change which I saw
in her countenance struck me. The numberless
graces that once resided there 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 paleness sat upon
her cheek.
" I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I , " but
why this dejection, L,i\-y1 I hope, my love, you
have too great a regard for me to permit disappoint-
ment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my
own. Be cheerful, cliild, and we yet may see hap-
pier days."
" You have ever, sir," replied she, " been kind
to me, and it adds to my pain that I shall 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 submisrion to Mr.
Thornhill; it may in some measure 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 thougl"
the world may look upon your offence 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 hv-
ing, he shall never have my consent to make you
more wretched by marrying another."
After the'departure of my daughter, my fellow-
prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly
enough expostulated upon my obstinacy in refusing
a submission which promised to give me freedom.
He observed, that the rest of my family were not
to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and
she the only one who had offended me. " Beside,"
added he, " I don't know if it be just thus to ob-
struct the union of man and wife, which you do at
present, by refusing to consent to a match you can
not 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
for want. But though my submission and appro-
bation 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
lie legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I
should be the basest of men, from any resentment
of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who
wish for a union. No, villiiin as he is, I should
then wish him married, to prevent the consequen-
ces of his future debaucheries. But now, should I
not be the most cruel of aU fathers to sign an in-
strument which must send my child to the grave,
merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus, to es-
cape one pang, break my child's heart with a thou-
sandT'
He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but
could not avoid observing, that he feared my daugh-
ter's life was already too much wasted to keep me
108
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
lon^ a prisoner. " However," continued he, "though
you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you
have no objections to laying your case before the
uncle, who has the first character in the kingJom
for every thing that is just and good. I would ad-
vise you to send him a letter by the ix)st, intimating
all his nephew's ill usage, and my life for it, that in
three days you shall have an answer." 1 thanked
him for the hint, and instantly set about comply-
ing; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our
money had been laid out that morning in provisions:
however, he supplied me.
For the three ensuing days I was in a state of
anxiety to know what reception my letter might
meet with ; but in the mean time was frequently
sol'cited 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 tliird day and the 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 va-
nished 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 gre^v
worse. My children, however, sat by me, and
while I was stretched on the straw, read to me by
turns, or listened and wept at my instructions.
Butmy daughter's health declined faster than mine:
every message from her contributed to increase my
apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after
I had written the letter which was sent to Sir Wil-
liam Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account
that she was speechless. Now it was that confine-
ment was truly painful to me ; my soul was burst-
ing from its prison to be near the pillow of my
child, to comfort, to strengthen her, and to receive
her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to hea-
ven ! Another account came; she was expiring,
and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weep-
ing by her. My fellow prisoner some time after
came with the last account. He bade me be pa-
tient J she was dead ! The next morning he re-
turned, and found me with my two little ones, now
my only companions, who were using all their in-
nocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated 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, pa|)a T' cried the eldest ; " and why then are
you sorry for her 7 I wish I were an angel out of this
frightful place, if my papa were with me." " Yes,"
added my youngest darling, "Heaven, where my
sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are
none but good people there, and the people here
are very bad."
Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harndess prat-
tle by observing, that, now my daughter was no
more, I should seriously think of the rest of my fa-
mily, and attempt to save my own hfe, which wa»
every day declining for want of necessaries and
wholesome air. He added, that it was now incum-
bent 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 rea-
son and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my land-
lord.
" Heaven be praised," replied I, " there is no
pride left me now ; I should detest my own heart
if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there.
On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my
parishioner, 1 hope one day to present him 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 al-
most 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 him any pleasure, let him
know, that if I have done liim any injury I am
sorry for it.
Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote 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 land-
lord, 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 and
delivered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill
had read, he said that all submission was now too
late and unnecessary ; that he had heard of our ap-
plication to his uncle, which met with the contempt
it deserved ; and as for the rest, that all future ap-
plications should be directed to his attorney, not to
him. He observed, however, that as he had a very
good opinion of the discretion of the two young la-
dies, they might have been the most agreeable in-
tercessors.
" Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "you
now discover the temper of the man that oppresses
me. He can at once be facetious and cruel ; but
let him use me as he will, I shall soon be 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 aiflictions,
and though I leave a helpless family of orphans be-
hind 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 Hea-
venly Father."
Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
109
thai day before, appeared with looks of terror, and
making efforts, but unable to speak. " Why, my
love," cried I, "why will you thus increase my af-
flictions by your own? What though no submis-
sions can turn our severe master, though he 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," re-
turned she, " a darling child. My Sophia, my dear-
est, is gone ; snatched from us, carried off by ruf-
fians!" — "How, madam," cried my fellow- prisoner,
" Miss Sophia carried off by villains ! sure it can
not be."
She could only answer with a fixed look and a
flood of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives who
Was present, and came in with her, gave us a more
distinct account : she informed us, that as my wife,
my daughter, and herself were taking a walk toge-
ther on the great road, a little way out of the vil-
lage, 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 the waist, and forcing her in, bid
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 pov^'er of any thing on earth to
give me another pang. What! not one left! not to
leave me one! — The monster! — The child that was
next my heart! 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, endeavoured to mo-
derate her grief; he bade us take comfort, for he
hoped that we might still have reason to be thank-
ful. — " My child," 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 prospects only lie beyond the grave?" —
" My dear father," returned he, " I hope there is
still something that will give you an interval of sat-
isfaction; for I have a letter from my brother
George." — " What of him, child?" interrupted I,
" dons he know our misery? I hope my boy is ex-
empt from any part of vyhat liis wretched family
suffers?" — "Yes, sir," returned he, " he is perfect-
ly gay, cheerful, and hap])y. His letter brings
nothmg but good news; he is the favourite of his
colonel, who promises to procure him the very next
lieutenancy that becomes vacant."
" And arc you sure of all this?" cried my wife :
" Are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my
boyl" — -"Nothing indeed, madam," returned my
son ; " you shall see the letter, which will give you
the highest 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 thct he is really so happy?" — "Yes,
madam," repUed he, "it is certainly his, and he will
one day be the credit and the support of our fami-
ly." — " Then 1 thank Providence," cried she, " that
my last letter to him has miscarried. — Yes, my
dear," continued she, 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 desired him, upon his
mother's blessing, and if he 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 hEis miscarried, and I am at rest." — " Wo-
man," cried I, "thou hast done very ill, and at
another time my reproaches might have been more
severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulf hast thou es-
caped, that would have buried both thee and hira
in endless ruin. Providence indeed has here been
kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reser\'ed
that son to be the father and protector of my chil-
dren 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
afllictions ; still kept in reserve to support his wi-
dowed mother, and to protect his brothers and sis-
ters. But what sisters has he left? he has no sis-
ters 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: — ,, .
' Honoured Sir,
' I HAVE called off my imagination a few mo-
ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix
it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear
little fire-side at home. My fancy draws that harm-
less group at listening to every line of this with
great composure. I -^iew those faces with 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 him-
self my friend, takes me with him to all companies
where he is acquainted, and after my first visit I
generally find myself received with increased re-
spect upon repeating it. I danced last night with
Lady G , and could I forget you know whom,
I might be perhaps successful. But it is my fate
still to remember others, while I am myself forgotten
by most of my absent friends; and in this number I
no
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
fear, sir, that I must consider you; for 1 have long
expected the pleasure of a letter from home, to no
purpose. Olivia and Sophia too promised to write,
but seem to have forgotten 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 emo-
tions. Then tell them, sir, that after all I love
them affectionately, and be assured of my ever re-
maining Your dutiful son."
"In all our miseries," cried I, "what thanks
have we not to return, that one at least of our fami-
ly 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 temptations of want, and be their conduc-
tor 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 entered, holding a man
all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest
irons. I looked with compassion on the wretch as
he approached me, but with horror when I found
it was my own son. — " My George! my George!
and do I behold thee thusl wounded — fettered!
Is this thy happiness? is this the manner you re-
turn to me? O that this sight could break my heart
at once, and let me die!"
"Where, sir, is your fortitude?" returned my
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 can not, can not help it. In the mo-
ment that I thought thee blessed, and prayed for thy
safety, to behold thee thus again! Chained, wound-
ed! And yet the death of the youthful is happy.
But I am old, a very old man, and have lived to
see this day! To see my children all untimely fall-
ing 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 upwaril that must soon descend
to crush thy own gray head with destruction! No,
sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile
death I must shortly suffer; to arm me with hope
and resolution; to give me courage to drink of that
hittemess which must shortly be my portion."
" My child, you must not die : I am sure no of-
fence of thine can deserve so vile a punishment.
My George 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, de-
termined 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 do-
mestics to seize me. I wounded one who first as-
saulted me, and I fear desperately; but the rest
made me their prisoner. The coward is determin-
ed to put the law in execution against me; the
proofs are undeniable : I have sent a challenge, and
as I am the first transgressor upon the statute, I
see no hopes of pardon. But you have often charm-
ed 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, and all the pleasures it can
produce. From this moment I brealt 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 oui
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 nig-
gardly 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 assem-
bled themselves according to my directions, foi
they loved to hear my counsel : my son and his mo-
ther supported me on either side ; I looked and saw
that none were wanting, and then addressed them
with the following exhortation.
CHAPTER XXIX.
The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to
the happy and the miserable here belov/. — That fro: ■ < the
nature of pleasure anil pain, the wretched must be repaid
the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter.
My friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers,
when I reflect on the distribution of good and evil
here below, I find that much has been given man
to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we
should examine the whole world, we shall not fine'
one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish
for; but we daily see thousands, who, by suicide
show us they have nothing left to hope. In this
life, then, it appears that we can not be entirely
blessed, but yet we may be completely miserable.
THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD.
Ill
Why man should thus feel pain; why our
wretchedness should be requisite in the formation
of universal felicity ; why, when all other systems
are made perfect by the perfection of their subor-
dinate parts, the great system should require for its
perfection parts that are not only subordinate to
others, but imperfect in themselves; — these are
qifestions 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 philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the
incapacity of that to console him, has given him
the aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy
are very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us
tliat life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy
them; and on the other hand, that though we una-
voidably have miseries here, life is short, and they
will soon be over. Thus do these consolations de-
stroy each other ; for, if life is a place of comfort,
its shortness mu^t be misery, and if it be long, our
griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak;
but religion comforts in a higher strain. Man is
here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and preparing
it for another abode. When tke good man leaves
the body and is all a glorious mind, he will find he
has been making himself a heaven of happiness
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 circumstance of life for our truest
comfort; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure
to think that we can make that happiness unend-
ing ; 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 rewards to the unhappy : the
Bick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, and
the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in
our sacred law. The author of our religion every
where 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 oU'er of unceasing 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 in-
creases what tliey already possess. To the latter,
i t is but a double advantage; for it diminishes their
pam here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss
hereafter.
But Providence is in another respect kinder to
tlie poor than the rich; for as it thus makes the life
after death more desirable, so it smooths the pas-
sage there. The wretched have had a long fa
miliarity with every face of terror. The man of
sorrows lays himself quietly down, without pos-
session's to regret, and but few ties to stop his de-
parture: 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 de-
gree of pain, every new breach that death opens in
the constitution, nature kindly covers with insensi-
bility.
Thus Providence has given the wretched two
advantages over the happy in this life — greater fe-
licity in dying, and in heaven all that superiority
of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoy-
ment. And this superiority, my friends, is no
small advantage, and seems to be one of the plea-
sures of the poor man in the parable ; for though ho
was already in heaven, and felt all the raptures it
could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition to
his happiness, that he had once been wretched, 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 see religion does what
philosophy could never do : it shows the equal deal-
ings 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 endless satisfac-
tion of knowing what it was once to be miserable,
when crowned with endless felicity hereafter ; and
even though this should be called a small advan-
tage, yet being an eternal one, it must make up by
duration what the temporal happiness of the great
may have exceeded by intcnseness.
These are, therefore, the consolations which the
wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which
they are above the rest of mankind ; in other re-
spects, they are below them. They who would
know the miseries of the poor, must see life and
endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantatrea
they enjoy, is only repeating what none either be-
lieve or practise. The men who have the neces-
saries of living are not poor, and they who want
them must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we
must be miserable. No vain efforts of a refined
imagination can soothe the wants of nature, can
give elastic sweetness to the dark vapour of a dun-
geon, or case the throbbings of a broken heart. Let
the philosopher from his couch of softness tell U3
that we can resist all these: alas! the effort by
which we resist them is still the greatest pain.
Death is slight, and any man may sustain it ; but
torments are dreadful, and these no man can eu •
dure.
To us then, my friends, the promises of happi^
112
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ness in heaven should be peculiarly dear ; for if our
reward be in this hie 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 show the
horrors of the place; those shackles, that tyranny
has imposed or crime made necessary ; when 1 sur-
vey these emaciated looks, and hear those groans,
O! my friends, what a glorious exchange would
heaven be for these. To fly through regions un-
confined as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal
bliss, to carol over endless hymns of praise, to have
no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of
Goodness himself for ever in our eyes! when I
think of these things, death becomes the messen-
ger of very glad tidings; when I think of these
things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my
support; when I think of these things, what is
there in Ufe worth havingl when I think of these
things, what is there that should not be spurned
awayl Kings in their palaces should groan for such
advantages; but we, humbled as we are, should
yearn for them.
And shall these things be ours? Ours they will
certainly be if we but try for them; and what is a
comfort, we are shut out from many temptations 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 we 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 jour-
ney's end ; we shall soon lay down the heavy bur-
den laid by Heaven upon us; and though death,
the only friend of the wretched, for a httle while
mocks the weary traveller with the view, and Uke
his horizon still flies before him ; yet the time will
certainly and shortly come, when we shall cease
from our toil; when the luxurious great ones of the
world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when we
ehall think with pleasure of our sufferings below;
when we shall be surrounded with all our friends,
or such as deserved our friendship ; when our bliss
shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, un-
ending.
CHAPTER XXX.
Happier prospects begin to appear. — Let us be inflexible, and
fortune will at last change incur favour.
When 1 nad thus finished, and my audience was
retired, the gaoler, who was one of the most hu-
inane of his profession, hoped I would not be dis-
pleased, as what he did was but his duty, observ-
ing, 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 hii
clemency, and grasping my boy's hand, bade him
farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that was
before him.
I again therefore laid me down, and one of my
little ones sat by my bed-side reading, when Mr.
Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was
news of my daughter; for that she was seen by a
person about two hours before in a strange gentle-
man's company, and that they had stopped at a
neighbouring village for refreshment, and seemed
as if returning to town. He had scarcely delivered
this news when the gaoler came with looks of haste
and pleasure to inform 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.
Just as he deUvered this news, my dearest girl
entered, and with looks almost wild with pleasure,
ran to kiss me in a transport of affection. Her mo-
ther's tears and silence also showed her pleasure — ■
"Here, papa," cried the charming girl, "here is
the brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this
gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted for my hap-
piness and safety " A kiss from Mr. Burch-
ell, 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 discover-
ed our errors with regard to you, and repent of our
ingratitude. After the vile usage you then receiv-
ed at my 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 re-
seiatment. I partly saw your delusion then, and
as it was out of my power to restrain, I could only
pity it."
" It was ever my conjecture," cried I. " that your
mind was noble, but now I find it so. But tell me,
my dear child, how thou hast been relieved, or who
the rufiians 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 disregard-
ed my entreaties. In the mean time the ruffiaii
himself used every art to hinder me from crying out*,
he flattered and threatened by turns, and sworn
that if 1 continued but silent he intended no harm.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
113
In the mean time 1 had broken the canvass that he
had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at some
distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walking
along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick
for which we so much used to ridicule him. As
Boon as we came within hearing, I called out to
him by name, and entreated his help. I repeated
my exclamations several times, upon which with a
very loud voice he bid 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
eome running up by the side of the horses, and with
one blow knock the postillion to the ground. The
horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of them-
selves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and
menaces drew his sword, and ordered him at his
peril to retire; but Mr. Burchell running up shiver-
ed his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near
t quarter of a mile ; but he made his escape. I was
it this time come out myself, willing to assist my
■.deliverer; but he soon returned to me in triumph.
The postillion, who was i-ccovered, was going to
aiake his escape too; but Mr. Burchell ordered him
It his peril to mount again and drive hack to town.
Finding it impossible to resist, he reluctantly com-
plied, though the wound he had received seemed to
me at least to be dangerous. He continued to com-
plain of the pain as we drove along, so that he at
last excited Mr. Burchell's compassion, who at my
request exchanged him 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 cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready
to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you
have delivered my girl, if you think she is a recom-
reiise, she is yours; if you can stoop to an alliance
tvith 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, that I give
you no small treasure : she has been celebrated for
beauty, it is true, but that is not my meaning, I
give you up a treasure in her mind."
" But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. Burchell, "that
you are apprized of my circumstances, and of my
incapacity to support her as she deserves."
"If your present objection," replied 1, "be meant
as an evasion of my oiler, I desist : but I know no
man so worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I
could give her thousands, and thousands sought
her from me, yet my honest brave Burchell should
be my dearest choice."
To all this his silence alone seemed to give a
mortifying refusal, and without the least reply to
my offer, he demanded if we could not be furnish-
ed with refreshments from the next inn ; to which
being answered in the afhrmativc, he ordered them
to wnd in the best dinner that could be provided up-
8
on such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of
their best wine, and some cordials for me; adding
with a smile, that he would stretch a little for onc«,
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
W'js lent us by the gaoler, who seemed remarkably
assiduous; the wine was disposed in order, and two
very well-dressed dishes were brought in.
My daughter had not yet heard of her poor bro-
ther's melancholy situation, and we all seemed un-
willing to damp her cheerfulness by the relation.
But it was in vain that 1 attem])ted to appear cheer-
ful, the circumstances of my unfortunate son broke
through all efforts to dissemble; so that I was at
last obliged to damp our mirth, by relating his mis-
fortunes, and wishing that he might be permitted
to share with us in this little internal of satisfaction.
After my guests were recovered from the conster-
nation my account had produced, I requested also
that Mr. Jcnkinson, 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 mean time asked me, if my
son's name was George: to which replying in the
affirmative, he still continued silent. As soon as
my boy entered the room, I could perceive he re-
garded Mr. Burchell 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 indebt-
ed for yet having a daughter; give him, my boy,
the hand of friendship, he deserves our warmest
gratitude."
My son seemed all this while regardless of what
I said, and still continued fixed at respectful dis-
tance. "My dear brother," cried his sister,
"why don't you thank my good deliverer?.; the
brave should ever love each other."
He still continued in silence and astonishment
till our guest at last perceived 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 greastest object in the universe,
says a certain philosopher, is a good man struggling
with adversity ; yet there is still a greater, which is
the good man that comes to relieve 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
respects to the gentleman that was with us, aud
114
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
begged to know when he should think proper 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, " I again find, sir," i)ro-
ceeded 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 t;ike that of another :
but where, sir, is the difference between a duellist
who hazards a life of no value, and the murderer
who acts with greater security 1 Is it any diminu-
tion of the gamester's fraud, when he alleges that
he has staked a counter T'
"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 quarrel. Here, sir, is the
letter, which will serve to convince you of her im-
prudence, and diminish his guilt."
He took the letter and hastily read it over.
" This," says he, " though not a perfect excuse, is
such a palliation of his fault as induces me to for-
give him. And, now, sir," continued he, kindly
talcing my son by the hand, " I see you are sur-
prised at finding me here ; but I have often visited
prisons upon occasions 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 uncon-
taminated by flattery ; and have received that hap-
i piness 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 would 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 Wilham Thornhill."
We now found the personage whom we had so
long entertained as a harmless amusing compan-
ion, was no other than the celebrated Sir William
Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce-
ly any were strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell
was in reality a man of large fortune and great in-
terest, to whom senates listened witii applause,
and whom party heard with conviction ; who was
the friend of his country, but loyal to his king. My
poor wife, recollecting her former familiarity, seem-
ed to shrink with apprehension ; but Sophia, who
a few moments before thought him her own, now
percei\ing 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 your for-
giveness! The slights you received from me the
last time I had the honour of seeing you at our
house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw
out — these, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven."
" My dear good Ia<ly," returned he with a smile,
" if you had your joke, I had my answer : I'll
leave it to all the company if mine were not aa
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 him in an advertisement. Can
you tell me, Sophy, my dear, whether you should
know him again 1"
" Indeed, sir," replied she, " I can't be positive ;
yet now I recollect he had a large mark over one
of his eyebrows." — "I ask pardon, madam," inter-
rupted Jenkinson, who was by, " be so good as to
inform me if the fellow wore his own red hajrl" — •
" Yes, I think so," cfn-d Sophia, " And did your
honour," continucu he, turning to Sir William,
" observe the length of his legs 7" — " I can't be sure
of their length," cried the baronet, " but 1 am con-
vinced of their swiftness; for he outran me, which
is what I thought few men in the kingdom could
have done." — "Please your honour," cried Jen-
kinson, " I know the man : it is certainly the same;
the best runner in England ; he has beaten Pin-
wire of Newcastle ; Timothy Baxter is his name.
I know him perfectly, and the very place of his
retreat this moment. If your honour will hid Mr.
Gaoler let two of his men go with me, I'll engage
to produce him to you in an hour at furthest."
Upon this the gaoler was 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 barcnet,
" my request is, that you will permit this man and
two of your servants to go upon a message by my
authority ; and as I am in the commission of the
peace, I undertake to secure you." — " Your pro-
mise is sufficient," replied the other, " and you may
at a minute's warning send them over England
whenever your honour thinks fit."
In pursuance of the gaoler's compliance Jenkin-
son was dispatched in search of Timothy Baxter,
while we were amused with the assiduity of out
youngest boy Bill, who had just come in, and
climbed up Sir William's neck in order to kiss
him. His mother was immediately going to chas-
tise 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 Burch-
ell? and Dick too, my honest veteran, are you
here 7 you shall find 1 have not forgot you." So
saying, he gave each a large piece of gmgerbread,
which the poor fellows ate very heartily, as they
had got that morning but a very scanty breakfast.
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
115
We now sat down to dinner, which was almost
cold, but previously, my arm still continuing pain-
fiil, Sir William wrote a prescription, for lie had
made the study of physic his amusement, and was
more than moderately skilled in the profession :
this being sent to an apothecary who lived in the
place, my arm Avas dressed, and I found almost in
stantaneous relief. We were waited upon at din
ner by the gaoler himself, who was willing to do
our guest all the honour in his power. But before
we had well dined, another message was brought
from his nephew, desiring permission to appear in
order to vindicate his innocence and honour ; with
which request the baronet complied, and desired
Mr. Thornhill to be introduced.
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 of*
fence; and though j-our 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 can not contradict a single particular," re-
plied the 'Squire ; " I defy him to do so ; and several
of my servants are ready to attest what I say. Thus,
sir," continued he, finding that I was silent, for in
fact I could not contradict him; " thus, sir, my own
innocence is vindicated : hut though, at your en-
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 can not govern ;
and this, too, at a time when his son was actually
preparing to take away my life ; — this, 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 ser-
vants 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 must my poor
boy feel thy cruelty? I hope that good Sir William
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, "your wishes
for his safety are not greater than mine ; but I am
soiTy 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 atten-
tion, who entered, hauling 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 hira
in, "here we have him; and if ever there was a
candidate for Tyburn, this is one."
The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the pri
soner, and Jenkinson who had him in custody, he
seemed to shrink back with terror. His face be-
came pale with conscious guilt, and he would have
withdrawn ; but Jenkinson, who perceived his de-
sign, stopped him. — "What, 'Squire," cried he,
"are you ashamed of your two old acquaintances,
Jenkinson and Baxter? but this is the way 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 William,
" has already confessed all. This is the gentleman
reported to be so dangerously wounded. He de-
clares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put him
CHAPTER XXXI.
Former Benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest.
Mr. Thornhill made his appearance with a
imile, which he seldom wanted, and was going to
embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed with
fin 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 ; put here
1 only see complicated instances of falsehood, cow-
ardice, and oppression. How is it, sir, that this
poor man, f-^r whom I know you professed a friend-
sliip, is used thus hardly? His daughter vilely
seduced as a recompense for his hospitality, and he
himself thrown into prison, perhaps but for resent-
ing the insult? His son, too, whom you feared to
face as a man "
" Is it possible, sir," interrupted his nephew,
" that my uncle could object that as a crime, which
his repeated instructions alone have persuaded me
to avoid?"
"Your rebuke," cried Sir William, "is just;
you have acted in this instance prudently and well,
though not quite as your father would have done :
my brother, indeed, was the soid of honour; but
thou Yes, you have acted in this instance per-
fectly 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, willing to clear the thing to
his satisfaction, and he received me only with in-
sult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his
being here, my attorney and steward can best in-
form you, as 1 commit the management of business
entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and upon this aflair; that he gave him the clothes he now
is unwilling, or even unable, to pay them, it is their; wears, to appear like a gentleman; and furnished
business to proceed in tliis manner; and I see no him with the post-chaise. The plan was laiil 'je
116
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
tween them, that he should carry off the young
lady to a place of safety; and that there he should
threaten and terrify her ; but Mr. Thornhill was to
come in in the mean time, as if by accident, to her
rescue ; and that they should fight a while, and then
he was to run off, — by which Mr. Thornhill would
have the better opportunity of gaining her affections
himself, under the 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,
concluding, 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 viper
have I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond
of public justice, too, as he seemed to be ! But he
ehall have it ; secure him, Mr. Gaoler : — yet, hold,
I fear there is no legal evidence to detain him."
Upon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost hu-
mility, entreated 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 these
fellows have to say; let his butler be called."
When the butler was introduced, he soon per-
ceived by his former master's looks that all his
power was now over. " Tell me," cried Sir Wil-
■ Ham sternly, " have you ever seen your master and
that fellow 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." — " How," inter-
rupted young Mr. Thornhill, " this to my face!" —
"Yes," replied the butler, "or to any man's face.
To tell you a truth, Master Thornhill, I never
either 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 very
fine witness to prove your innocence : thou stain to
humaniiy! to associate with such wretches! But,"
continuing his examination, "you tell me, Mr.
Butler, that this was the person who brought him
this old gentleman's daughter." — " No, please your
honour," replied the butler, he did not bring her,
for the 'Squire himself undertook that business;
but he brought the priest that pretended to marry
them." — "It is but too true," cried Jenkinson, "I
can not deny it ; that was the employment assigned
me, and I confess it to my confusion."
" Good heavens!" exclaimed the baronet, "how
every new discovery of his villany alarms me. All
bi» giiilt is now too plain, and 1 find his prosecu-
tion was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and re-
venge. At my request Mr. Gaoler, set this young
officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to me for
the consequences. I'll make it my business to set
the affair in a proper light to my friend the magis-
trate who has committed him. — But where is the
unfortunate young lady herself? Let her appear
to confront this wretch: I long to know by what
arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to come in.
Where is she?"
" Ah, sir," said I, " that question stings me to
the heart ; 1 was once indeed happy in a daughter,
but her miseries " Another interruption here
prevented me ; for who should make her appearance
but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to
have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing
could equal her surprise at seeing Sir William and
his nephew here before her ; for her arrival was
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 insisted that
her nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be con-
summated at her house; but stopping for refresh-
ment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the
town. It was there, from the v/indow, that the
young lady happened to observe one of my little
boys playing in the street, and instantly sending a
footman to bring the child to her, she learned from
him some account of our misfortunes; but was still
kept ignorant of young Mr. Thornhill's being the
cause. Though her father made several remon-
strances 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 siwprise but upon
some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous
concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and con-
venience of our lives ! How many seeming acci-
dents must unite before we can be clothed or fed!
The peasant must be disposed to labour, the show-
er must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, or
numbers must want the usual supply.
We all continued silent for some moments, while
my charming puiil, which was the name I gener-
ally gave this you iig lady, united in her looks com-
passion and astonishment, which gave new finish-
ing to her beauty. " Indeed, my dear Mr. Thorn-
hill," cried she to the 'Squire, who she supposed
was come here to succour, and not to oppress us,
" I take it a Httlc unkindly that you should come
here without me, or never inform me of the situa-
tion 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 shal3
ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like your
uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret.'
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
117
"He find pleasure in doing good!" cried Sir
William, interrupting her. "No, my dear, his
pleasures' are as base as he is. You see in him,
madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced hu-
manity. A wretch, who, after having deluded this
poor man's daughter, after plotting against the in-
nocence of her sister, has thrown the father into
prison, and the eldest son into fetters, because he
had the courage to face her betrayer. And give
me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon
an escape from the embraces of such a monster."
" goodness," cried the lovely girl, " how have
I been deceived! Mr. Thornhill 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 falsehoods. My son George
never lefl the kingdom, nor ever was married. —
Though you have forsaken him, he has always
loved you too well to think of any body else; and
I have heard him say, he would die a bachelor for
your sake." SJie 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 de-
baucheries, his pretended marriages, and ended
With a most irusulting picture of his cowardice.
" Good Heaven!" cried Miss Wilniot, "how very
near have 1 been to the brink of ruin! Ten thou-
sand falsehoods has this gentltman told me : he had
at last art enough to persuade me, that my promise
to the only man I esteemed was no longer binding,
since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods
I was taught to detest one equally brave and gene-
rous." I
But by this time my son was freed from the in-
cumbrances of justice, as the person supposed to
be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr. |
Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet de cham-
bre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished him
with whatever was necessary to make a genteel j
appearance. He now therefore entered, handsome-
ly dressed in his regimentals; and without vanity
(for I am above it,) he appeared as handsome a fel-
low 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,".
replied she; "1 have been deceived, basely deceiv-
ed, 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 of constancy,
you shall now have them repeated ; and be assured,
that if your Arabella can not 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 gentle-
man vi'as, to inform him of every circumstance 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 from flattery and
dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would
be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus, laying
aside all shame, he appeared the open hardy vil-
lain. " I find, then," cried he, "that I am to ex-
pect no justice here; but I am resolved it shall be
done me. You shall know, sir," turning to Sir
William, " I am no longer a poor dependant upon
your favours. I scorn them. Nothing 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 person,
that induced me to wish for this match; and pos-
sessed of the one, let who will 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 her fortune could les-
sen her value to him? " Though fortune," said
she, " is out of my power, at least I have my heart
to give."
" And that, madam," cried her real lover, "was
indeed all that you ever had to give ; at least all that
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 pleasure, as
it serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity."
Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a lit-
tle pleased at the danger his daughter had just es-
caped, and readily consented to a dissolution of the
match. But finding that her fortune, which was
secured to Mr. Thornhill 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 daujjhter's fortune was wormwood. He sat
therefore for some minutes emj)loycd in the mo*t
mortifying speculations, till Sir William attcmptcil
to lessen his anxiety. — "I must confess, sir," cried
he, "that your present disappointment does not
118
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
entirely dis[)lease me. Your immoderate passion
for wealth is now justly punished. But though the
young lady can not 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: they have long loved each other;
and for the friendship I bear his father, my interest
shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave then
that ambition which disappoints you, and for once
admit 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
gentleman, 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 me
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 toge-
ther."
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 I, was no great fa-
vour. — We had now, therefore, the satisfaction of
seeing them fly into each other's arms in a trans-
port. — "After all my misfortunes," cried my son
George, " to be thus rewarded ! Sure tliis is more
than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To
be possessed of all that's good, and after such an
interval of pain! My warmest wishes could never
rise so high!"
"Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride,
" now let the wretch take my fortune ; since you
are happy without it, so am I. O 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 Jenkinson, "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 marri-
ed to anotherl" — " How can you make such a
simple demand]" replied the baronet: "undoubt-
edly he can not." — "I am sorry for that," cried
Jenkinson; ''for as this gentleman and I have been
old fellow-sporters, 1 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
siarried already." — "You lie, like a rascal," return-
ed the 'Squire, who seemed roused by this insult;
" I never was legally married to any woman."
"Indeed, begging your honour's pardon," repli-
ed the other, "you were; and I hope you will show
a proper return of friendsloip to your own honest
Jenkinson, who brings you a wife; and if the com-
pany restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they
shall see her." So saying he went off with hia
wsual celerity, and left us all unable to form any
probable conjecture as to his design. " Ay, let
him go," cried the 'Squire; "whatever else 1 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 hu-
mour, I suppose." — "Perhaps, sir," replied I, "he
may have a more serious meaning. For when we
reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has
laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more
artful than the rest, has been found able to deceive
him. When we consider what numbers he has
ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish
the infamy and the contamination which he has
brought into their families, it would not surprise
me if some one of them — Amazement! Do I see
my lost daughter! do I hold herl It is, it is my life,
my ha])piness. I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet
still I hold thee — and still thou shalt live to bless
me." The warmest transports of the fondest lover
were not greater than mire, when I saw him in-
troduce my child, and held my daughter in my
arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures.
"And art thou returned to mo, my darling,"
cried I, " to be my comfort in age!" " That she
is," cried Jenkinson, "and make much of her, for
she is your own honourable child, and as honest a
woman as any m the whole room, let the other be
who she will. And as for you, 'Squire, 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 whicli you
were married together." — So saying, he put tho
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 sur-
prised at all this ; but a few words will explain the
difficulty. That there 'Squire of renown, for whom
I have a great friendship (but that's between our-
selves), has often employed me in doing odd little
tlimgs for him. Among the rest he commissioned
me to procure him a false license and a false priest^
in order to deceiv e 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,
my only design was to keep the license, and let the
'Squire know that I could prove it upon him when-
ever 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 jo>
reached even to the common room, where the pri-
soners themselves sympathized,
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
119
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 the
progress of decay, and restore former health and
vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not
one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still hold-
ing the dear loved child in my arms, I asked my
heart if these transports were not delusion. " How
could 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 pleasure at
finding her again is more than a recompense for
the pain."
"As to 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 liv-
ing; there was therefore no other method to bring
things to bear, but by persuading you that she was
dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in the de-
ceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of un-
deceiving you till now."
In the whole assembly there now appeared only
two faces that did not glow with transport. Mr.
Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him:
he now saw the gulf of infamy and want before
him, and trembled to take the plunge. He there-
fore 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 mo-
ments, "Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude," cried
be, " deserve no tenderness; yet thou shalt not be
entirely forsaken — a bare competence shall be sup-
plied to support the wants of life, but not its follies.
This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in posses-
(rion of a third part of that fortune wliich once was
thine, an<l from her tenderness alone thou art to
expect any extraordinary supplies for the 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
Aim at the same time to be gone, and from all his
ibrmer domestics to choose one, such as he should
ImriK proper, which was all that should be granted
to attend him.
As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely
stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and
•witched 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 wo-
man of. Sopliia and Moses followed in turn, and
even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be ad-
mitted to that honour. Oiur satisfaction seemed
scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, wliose
greatest pleasure was in doing 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 Soplua, who, for some reasons we
could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satis-
fied. " 1 think, now," 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 he shall have from me
five hundred pounds as her fortune; and upon this
1 am sure they can live very comfortably together.
Come, Miss Sophia, what say yon to this match
of my making? Will you have him?" My 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 in-
finite obligations to, who has preserved your sister,
and who has five hundred pounds! What, not have
him?" "No, sir, never," repHed she angrily;
" I'd sooner die first." — " If that be the case, then,"
cried he, "if you will 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 ad-
mire a mistress that loved him for himself alone? I
have for some years sought 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
turning to Jenkinson: "As I can not, 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 fortune ; 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 meantime, Sir William's gentleman appear-
ed 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 1 led the van, and
120
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The gener-
ous baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed
among the prisoners, and Mr. Wiimot, induced by
his example, gave half that sum. We were re-
ceived belovF 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 and pain which they had
sustained during the day, I asked permission to
withdraw ; and leaving the company in the midst
of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I
poured out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy
as well as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till
morning.
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 the settle-
ment that I had made the day before in his favour,
he let me know that 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 generosi-
ty pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for
good fortune; but I had some doubts whether I
ought in justice to accept his offer. While I was
pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room,
to whom I commimicated my doubts. His opinion
was, that as my son was already possessed of a very
affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his
ofl'cr without any hesitation. His business, how-
ever, was to inform me, that as he had the night
before sent for the licenses, and expected them
every hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my
assistance in making all the company happy that
morning. A footman entered while we were speak-
ing, to tell us that the messenger was returned ; and
as I was by this time ready, I went down, where I
found the whole company as merry as affluence
and innocence could make them. However, as
they were now preparing for a very solemn cere-
mony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I told
them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deport-
ment they should assume upon this mystical occa-
sion, and read them two homilies, and a thesis of
my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet
they still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovern-
aWe. Even as we were going along to church, tp
which I led the way, all gravity had quite forsaken
them, and I was often tempted to turn back in in-
dignation. In church a new dilemma arose, which
promised no easy solution. This was, which couple
should be married first. My son's bride warmly
insisted that Lady Thomhill (that was to be)
should take the lead : but this the other refused
with equal ardour, protesting she would not be
guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argu-
ment was supported for some time Ix'tween both
with equal obstinacy and 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 dono
here to-day." — This at once reduced them to rea-
son. The baronet and his lady were first married,
and then my son and his lovely partner.
I had previously that morning given orders that
a coach should be sent for my honest neighbour
Flamborough and his family; by which means,
upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of
finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted be-
fore us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eld-
est 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 re-
buked with such sharpness. I told the story to
Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and re-
proved them with great severity ; but finding them
quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave
them half a guinea a-piece 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. Thorn-
hill's cook. And it may not be improper to observe,
with respect to that gentleman, that he now resides^
in quality of companion, at a relation's house, be-
ing 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, how-
ever, still remembers him with regret ; and she has
even told me, though I make a 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 ceremo-
nies were going to be renewed. The question wns,
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 George, who pro-
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
121
posed 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 had the pleasure of sitting
at the head of the table, and carving 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
ysual; but I am certain we had more laughing,
(M liicli answered the end as well. One jest I par-
ticularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot drinking to
Moses, whose head was turned another way, my
lioa replied, "Madam, I thank you." [Jpon which
the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the
company, observed, that he was thinking of his
mistress: at which jest I thought the two Miss
Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. As
soon as dinner was over, according to my old cus-
tom, I requested that the table might be taken away,
to have the pleasure of seeing all my family assem-
bled once more by a cheerful fire-side. My two
little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the com-
pany by their partners. I had nothing now on this
side of the grave to wish for; all my cares were
over; my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only
remained, that my gratitude in good fortune should
exceed my former submission in adversity.
AN INaUIRY
INTO
^ixt ^vtmnt ^tait of IJoUtr Erarnins**
Tolcrabilc si jEdiJicia nostra diriiercnt jEdificandi capaces.
CHAPTER I.
Introiluciion,
It has been so long the practice to represent Ht-
erature 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 genius for granted, as 1 do, argues either
resentment or partiality. The writer possessed of
fame, it may be asserted, is willing to enjoy it with-
out a rival, by lessening every competitor; 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 pro-
fession.
Sensible of this, I am at a loss where to find an
apology for persisting to arraign the merit of the
age ; for joining in a cry which the judicious have
long since left to be kept up by tiie vulgar ; and for
adopting the sentiments of the multitude, in a per-
formance that at best can please only a few.
Complaints of our degeneracy in literature, as
well as in morals, I own, have been frequently ex-
hibited of late, but seem to be enforced more with
the ardour of devious declamation than the calm-
ness of deliberate inquiry. The dullest critic, who
strives at a reputation for delicacy, by showing he
can not be pleased, may pathetically assure us, that
our taste is upon the decline ; may consign every
modern performance to oblivion, and bequeath no-
thing to posterity, except the labours of our ances-
tors, or his own. Such general invective, however,
•The fu-st edition of ihis work aiipearcd ia 1759, and the
•cconJ was piiiiLed in 1774.
conveys no instruction; all it teaches is, thatthf
writer dislikes an age by which he is probably dis-
regarded. The manner of being useful on the
subject, would be, to point out the symptoms, to in
vestigate the causes, and direct to the remedies of
the apjiroaching 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 under-
taking the reader must determine ; yet perhaps his
observations may be just, though his manner of
expressing them should only serve as an example
of the errors he undertakes to reprove.
Novelty, however, is not permitted to usurp the
place of reason ; it may attend, but it shall not con-
duct the inquiry. But it should be observed, that
the more original any performance is, the more it
is liable to deviate ; for cautious stupidity is always
in the right.
CHAPTER II.
The Causes which contribute to the Decline of Learning.
If we consider the revolutions which have hap-
pensed in the commonwealth of letters, survey the
rapid progress of learning in one period of antiqui-
ty, or its amazing decline in another, we shall be
almost induced to accuse nature of partiality ; as
if she had exhausted all her efforts in adorning onf
age, while she left the succeeding entirely neglect
ed. It is not to nature, however, but to ourselves
alone, thattliis partiality must be ascribed : the seeds
of excellence are sown in every age, and it is wholly
owing to a wrong direction in the passions or pur-
suits of mankind, that they have not received the
proper cultivation.
As, in the best regulated societies, the very laws
wliich at first give the government solidity, may in
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
1^
the t=-td contribute to its dissolution, so the efforts
■VPlucn might have promoted learning in its feeble
commencement, may, if continued, retard its pro-
gress. The paths of science, which were at first
intricate because untrodden, may at last grow toil-
some, because too much frequented. As learning
advances, the candidates for its honours become
more numerous, and the acquisition of fame more
uncertain : the modest may despair of attaining it,
and the opulent think it too precarious to pursue.
Thus the task of supporting the honour of the
times may at last devolve on indigence and effron-
tery, while learning must partake of the contempt
of its professors.
To illustrate these assertions, it may be proper
to take a shght review of the decline of ancient
learning; to consider how far its depravation was
owing to the impossibility of supporting continued
perfection; in what respects it proceeded from vol-
untary corruption; and how far it was hastened on
by accident. If modern learning be compared with
ancient, in these different lights, a parallel between
both, which has hitherto produced only vain dis-
pute, may contribute to amusement, perhaps to in-
struction. We shall thus be enabled to perceive
what period of antiquity the present age most re-
sembles, whether we are making advances towards
excellence, or retiring again to primeval obscurity;
we shall thus be taught to acquiesce in those de-
fects which it is impossible to prevent, and reject
all faulty innovations, though ofiered under the
specious titles of improvement.
Learning, when planted in any country, is tran-
sient and fading, nor does it flourish till slow gra-
dations of improvement have naturalized it to the
soil. It makes feeble advances, begins among the
vulgar, and rises into reputation among the great.
It can not be established in a state at once, by intro-
ducing the learned of other countries; these may
grace a court, but seldom enlighten a kingdom.
Ptolemy Philadelphus, Constantine Porphyroge-
neta, 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 flour-
ish; but when that was withdrawn, they quickly
felt the rigours of a strange climate, and with exo-
tic constitutions perished by neglect.
As the arts and sciences are slow in coming to
maturity, it is requisite, in order to their perfection,
that the state should be permanent which gives
them reception. There are numberless attempts
without success, and experiments without conclu-
sion, between the first rudiments of an art, and its
Utmost perfection ; between the outlines of a sha-
dow, and the picture of an Apelles. Leisure is re-
quired to go through the tedious interval, to join
the experience of predecessors to our own, or en-
large 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 hut of short duration, as was the case of Arabia,
learning seems coeval, sympathizes with its poUti-
cal struggles, and is annihilated in its dissolution.
But permanence in a state is not alone sufiicient;
it is requisite also for this end that it should be free.
Naturalists assure us, that all animals are sagac.
ous in proportion as they are removed from the
tyranny of others. In native liberty, the elephant
is a citizen, and the heaver an arcliitect; but when-
ever the tyrant man intrudes upon their communi-
ty, their spirit is broken, they seem anxious only
for safety, and their intellects suffer an equal dimi-
nution with their prosperity. The parallel will hold
with regard to mankind. Fear naturally represses
invention ; benevolence, ambition : for in a nation
of slaves, as in the despotic governments of the
East, to labour after fame is to be a candidate for
danger.
To attain literary excellence also, it is requisite
that the soil and climate should, as much as possi-
ble, conduce to happiness. The earth must sup-
ply man with the necessaries of life, before he has
leisure or inclination to pursue more refined enjoy-
ments. The climate also must be equally indulgent;
for in too warm a region the mind is relaxed into
languor, and by the opposite excess is chilled into
torpid inactivity.
These are the principal advantages which tend
to the improvement of learning ; and all these were
united in the states of Greece and Rome.
We must now examine what hastens, or pre-
vents its decline.
Those who hehold the phenomena of nature,
and content themselves with the view without in-
quiring into their causes, are perhaps wiser than is
generally imagined. In this manner our rude an-
cestors were acquainted with facts; and poetry,
which helped the imagination and the memory, was
thought the most proper vehicle for conveying their
knowledge to posterity. It was the poet who har-
monized the ungrateful accents of his native dia
lect, 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 ex-
pression, and delicacy of sentiment, were all excel-
lencies derived from the poet; in short, he not only
preceded but formed the orator, philosopher, and
historian.
When the observations of past ages were col-
lected, philosophy next began to examine their
causes. She had numberless facts from which to
draw proper inferences, and poetry had taught her
the strongest expression to enforce them. Thus
the Greek philosophers, for instance, exerted all
their happy talents in the investigation of truth.
124
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
and the production of beauty. They saw, that
there was more excellence in captivating thejudg-
ment, than in raising a momentary astonishment.
In their arts they imitated only such parts of nature
as might please in the representation ; in the sci-
ences, they cultivated such parts of knowledge as it
was every man's duty to know. Thus learning
was encouraged, protected, and honoured; and in
its turn it adorned, strengthened, and harmonized
the community.
But as the mind is vigorous and active, and ex-
periment is dilatory and painful, the spirit of phi-
losophy being excited, the reasoner, when destitute
of experiment, had recourse to theory, and gave up
what was useful for refinement.
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 learn-
ing, though they seldom contribute to its improve-
ment. But as nothing but speculation was required
in making proficients in their respective depart-
ments, so neither the satire nor the contempt of the
wise, though Socrates was of the number, nor the
laws levelled at them by the state, though Cato
was in the legislature, could prevent their ap-
proaches.* Possessed of all the advantages of un-
feeling dulness, laborious, insensible, and persever-
ing, they still proceed mending and mending every
work of genius, or, to speak without irony, under-
mining all that was polite and useful. Libraries
were loaded, but not enriched with their labours,
while the fatigue of reading their explanatory com-
ments was tenfold that which might sufiicefor un-
derstanding the original, and their works effectual-
ly increased our application, by professing to re-
move it.
Against so obstinate and irrefragable an enemy,
what could avail the unsupported 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, senti-
ment, or genius, and at last, when destitute of em-
ployment, 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 dis-
puting, to those who knew nothing of the subject
in debate. It was observed how some of the most
admired poets had copied nature. From these they
collected dry rules, dignified with long names, and
such were obtruded upon the public for their im-
provement. Common sense would be apt to sug-
gest, that the art might be studied more to advan-
tage, rather by imitation than precept. It might
suggest, that those rules were collected, not from
nature, but a copy of nature, and would consequent-
* Vide Suetoa Hist. Gram.
ly give us still fainter resemblances of original beau-
ty. It might still suggest, that explained wit makes
but a feeble impression; that the observations of
others are soon forgotten, those made by ourselves
are permanent and useful. But it seems, under-
standings of every size were to be mechanically in-
structed in poetry. If the reader was too dull to
relish the beauties of Virgil, the comment of Ser
vius was ready to brighten his imagination ; if Te-
rence could not raise him to a smile, Evantius was
at hand, with a long-winded scholium to increase
his titilation. 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 ab-
surdities which were hatched in the schools of
those specious idlers; be it sufficient to say, that
they increased as learning improved, but swarmed
on its decline. It was then that every work of
taste was buried in long comments, every useful
subject in morals was distinguished away intocasu-
istry, and doubt and subtlety characterized the learn-
ing of the age. Metrodorus, Valerius Probus,
Aulus Gellius, Pcdianus, Boethius, and a hundred
others, to be acquainted with whom might show
much reading, and but Uttle 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 suffer-
ed 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 in a world of fools it were folly to aim at being
an only exception, obliged to conform to every pre-
vailing absurdity of the times. Original produc-
tions seldom appeared, and learning, as Lf grown
superannuated, bestowed all its panegyric upon
the vigour of its youth, and turned encomiast upon
its former achievements.
It is to these, then, that the depravation of an-
cient polite 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 per-
plexity and confusion. The public, therefore, with
reason, rejected learning, when thus rendered bar
ren, though voluminous; for we may be assured,
that the generality of mankind never lose a passion
for letters, while they continue to be either amus-
ing or useful.
It was such writers as these, that rendered learn-
ing unfit for uniting and strengthening civil socie-
ty, or for promoting the views of ambition. True
philosophy had kept the Grecian states cemented
into one effective body, more than any law for tnal
purpose ; and the Etrurian philosophy, whii.h pre-
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
m
vailed in the first ages of Rome, inspired those pa-
triot virtues which paved the way to universal em-
pire. But by the labours of commentators, when
philosophy became abstruse, or triflingly minute,
when doubt was presented instead of knowledge,
when the orator was taught to charm the multitude
with the music of his periods, and pronounced a
declamation that might be sung as well as spoken,
and often upon subjects wholly fictitious ; in such
circumstances, 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 politicswere strengthened by them,
60 long did the coiiununity give them countenance
and protection. But the wiser part of mankind
would not be imposed upon by unintelligible jar-
gon, nor, like the knight in Pantagruel, swallow a
himera 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 liis ava-
rice, his impudence, and his beard.
Under the auspicious influence of genius, arts
and sciences grew up together, and mutually illus
trated each other. But when once pedants became
lawgivers, the sciences began to want grace, and
the polite 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 pro-
gress of wisdom, by addicting their readers to one
particular sect, or some favourite science. They
generally carried on a petty traffic in some little
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 inquiries. Their disci-
ples, instead of aiming at being originals them-
selves, became imitators of that merit alone which
was constantly proposed for their admiration. In
exercises of this kind, the most stupid are 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 commencement, or the age
of ports ; its maturity, or the age of philosophers ;
and its decline, or the age of critics. In the poeti-
cal age commentators were very few, but might
have in some respects been useful. In its philoso-
phical, their assistance must necessarily become
obnoxious ; yet, as if the nearer we approached
perfection the more wc stood in need of their direc-
tions, in this period the}' began to grow numerous.
But when polite learning was no more, then it
was those literary lawgivers made the most formi-
dable appearance. Corruptissima republica, plu-
rimae leges. Tacit. . ,
But let us take a more distinct view of those
ages of ignorance in which false refinement had in-
volved mankind, and see how far they resemble ouf
own.
CHAPTER III.
A View of the Obscure Ages.
Whatever the skill of any country may be in
the sciences, it is from its excellence in polite learn-
ing alone, that it must expect a character from pos-
terity. The poet and the historian are they who
diffuse a lustre upon the age, and the philosopher
scarcely acquires any applause, unless his charac-
ter be introduced to the vulgar by their mediation.
The obscure ages, which succeeded the decline
of the Roman empire, are a striking instance of
the truth of this assertion. Whatever period of
those ill-fated times we happen to turn to, we shall
perceive more skill in the sciences among the pro-
fessors of them, more abstruse and deeper inquiry
into every philosophical subject, and a greater
show of subtlety and close reasoning, than in the
most enhghtened ages of all antiquity. But their
writings were mere speculative amusements, and
all their researches exhaustcil 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 inquired 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, how-
ever, though they serve to help out the declaimer,
should be cautiously admitted by the historian.
For instance, the tenth century, is particularly dis-
tinguished 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 useless by affec-
tation 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 obscurity chiefly chooses to cultivate.
About the tenth century flourished Leo the phi-
losopher. We have seven volumes folio of his col-
lections of laws, pubUshed at Paris, 1647. He
wrote upon the art miUtary, and understood also
astronomy and judicial astrology. He was seven
times more voluminous than Plato.
126
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Solomon, the German, wrote a most elegant dic-
tionary of the Latin tongue, still preserved in the
university of Louvam ; Pantaleon, in the lives of
bis illustrious countrymen, speaks of it in the warm-
est strains of rapture. Dictionary writing was at
that time much in fashion.
Constantino Porphyrogenta was a man univer-
sally skilled in the sciences. His tracts on the ad-
ministration of an empire, on tactics, and on laws,
were published some years since at Leyden. His
court, for he was emperor of the East, was resorted
to by the learned from all parts of the world.
Luitprandus 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 produc-
tions. I can not pass over one of a later date made
him by a German divine. Luitprandus nunquam
Jjuitprando dissimilis.
Alfric composed several grammars and dictiona-
ries still preserved among the curious.
Pope Sylvester the Second wrote a treatise on
the sphere, on arithmetic and geometry, published
some years since at Paris.
Michael Psellus lived in this age, whose books
in the sciences, I will not scruple to assert, contain
more learning than those of any one of the earlier
ages. His erudition was indeed amazing; and he
Was as voluminous as he was learned. The cha-
racter given him by Allatius 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 com-
mentaries on Aristotle alone amount to three folios.
Bertholdus Teutonicus, a very voluminous his-
torian, was a politician, and wrote against the gov-
ernment under which he Uved : but most of his
writings, though not all, are lost.
Constantius Afer was a philosopher and physi-
cian. We have remaining but two volumes folio
of his philological performances. However, the
historian who prefixes the Ufe of the author to his
works, says, that he wrote many more, as he kept
on writing during the course of a long life.
Lambertus published a universal history about
this time, which has been printed at Frankfort in
folio. An universal history in one folio! If he had
consulted with his bookseller, he would have spun
it out to ten at least; but Lambertus might have
bad too much modesty.
By this time the reader perceives the spirit of
learning which at that time prevailed. The igno-
rance of the age was not owing to a dislike of know-
ledge but a false standard of taste was erected, and
a wrong direction given to philosophical inquiry.
Jt was the fashion of the day to write dictionaries,
commentaries, and compilations, and to evaporate
in a folio the spirit that could scarcely have sufRccd
for an epigram. The most barbarous times had
men of learning, if commentators, compilers, po-
lemic divines, and intricate metaphysicians, de-
served the title.
I have mentioned but a very inconsiderable num-
ber 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 polite an-
tiquity. As, therefore, the writers of those times
are almost entirely forgotten, we may infer, that the
number of publications alone will never secure any
age whatsoever from oblivion. Nor can printing,
contrary to what Mr. Baumelle has remarked, pre-
vent literary decline for the future, since it ordy in-
creases the number of books, without advancing
their intrinsic merit.
CHAPTER IV.
Of the Present State of Polite Learning in Italy.
Prom ancient we are now come to modern time^
and, in running over Europe, we shall find, that
wherever learning has been cultivated, it has flouri
ished by the same advantages as in Greece and
Rome ; and that, wherever it has declined, it sinks
by the same causes of decay.
Dante, the poet of Italy, who wrote in the thir-
teenth century, was the first who attempted to bring
learning from the cloister into the community, and
paint human nature in a language adapted to mo-
dern manners. He addressed a barbarous people
in a method suited to their apprehensions; united
purgatory and the river Styx, St. Peter and Virgil,
Heaven and Hell together, and shows a strange
mixture of good sense and absurdity. The truth
is, he owes most of his reputation to the obscurity
of the times in which he lived. As in the 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 have lifted up the standard of na-
ture, in spite of all the opposition and the persecu-
tion he received from contemporary criticism. To
this 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 justly boast of rivalling ancient
Rome ; equal in some branches of polite 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 Vida and Tasso
wrote on the arts of poetry, the whole swarm of
critics was up. The Speronis of the age attempt
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
127
ed to be awkwardly merry ; and the Virtuosi and
the Nascotti sat upon the merits of every contem-
porary performance. After the age of Clement VI I.
the Italians seemed to think that there was more
merit in praising or censuring well, than in writing
Well; almost every subsequent performance since
their time, being designed rather to show the ex-
cellence of the critic's taste than his genius. One
or two poets, indeed, seem at present born to re-
deem the honour of their country. Metastasio has
restored nature in all her simplicity, and MafTei is
the first tiiat has introduced a tragedy among his
countrymen without a love-plot. Perhaps the Sam-
son of Milton, and the Athalia of Racine, might
have been his guides in such an attempt. But two
poets in an age are not suffered to revive the splen-
dour of deca}ang genius ; nor should we consider
them as the standard by which to characterize a
nation. Our measures of literary reputation must
be taken rather from that numerous class of men,
who, placed above the vulgar, are yet beneath the
great, and who confer fame on others without re-
ceiving any portion of it themselves.
In Italy, then, we shall no where find a stronger
yassion for the arts of taste, yet no country making
more feeble efforts to promote either. The Vir-
tuosi and Filosofi seem to have divided the Ency-
clopedia between each other. Both inviolably at-
tached to their respective pursuits ; and, from an
opposition of character, each holding the other in
the most sovereign contempt. The Virtuosi, pro-
fessed critics of beauty in the works of art, judge
of medals by the smell, and pictures by feeling; in
statuary, hang over a fragment with the most ar-
dent gaze of admiration : though wanting the head
and the other extremities, if dug from a ruin, the
Torse becomes inestimable. An unintelligible
monument of Etruscan barbarity can not be suffi-
ciently prized ; and any thing from Herculaneum
excites rapture. When tlie intellectual taste is
thus decayed, 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 wear eternal verdure; fawns, and dryads,
and liamadryads, stand ready to fan the sultry
shepherdess, who has forgot indeed the pretti-
nesses with which Guarini's shepherdesses have
been reproached, but is so simple and innocent as
often to have no meaning. Happy country, where
the pastoral age Ix-gins to revive! where the wits
even of Rome, are united into a rural group of
nymphs and swains, under the appellation of mo-
dern Arcadians: whi^re in the midst of porticos,
processions, and cavalcades, abbes turned shep-
herds, and shephonlesses without sheep indulge
their innocent diccrtiracnti.
The Filosofi are entirely different from the for-
mer. As those pretend to have got their know-
ledge from conversing with the living and polite, so
these boast of having theirs from books and study.
Bred up all their lives in colleges, they have there
learned to think in track, servilely to follow the
leader of their sect, and only to adopt such opinions
as their universities, or the inquisition, 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 sel-
dom admit opinions as true, till universally received
among the rest of mankind. In short, were I to
personize my ideas of learning in tliis country, I
would represent it in the tawdry habits of the stage,
or else in the more homely guise of bearded school-
philosophy.
CHAPTER V
Of Polite Learning in Germany.
If we examine the state of learning in Germany,
we shall find that the Germans early discovered a
passion for polite literature; but unhappily, like con-
querors, who, invading the dominions of othera
leave their own to desolation, instead of studying
the German tongue, they continue to write in Latin.
Thus, wliile 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 commentators; and though
they have given many instances of their industry,
they have scarcely afforded any of genius. If cri-
ticism could have improved the taste of a people,
the Germans would have been the most polite na-
tion alive. We shall no where behold the learned
wear a more important appearance than here ; no
where more dignified with professorships, or dress-
ed out in the fopperies of scholastic finery. How-
ever, they seem to earn all the honours of tliis kind
which they enjoy. Their assiduity is unparal-
leled; and did they employ half those hours on
study which they bestow on reading, we might
be induced to pity as well as praise their painful
pre-eminence. But gujlty 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 subject, not selecting what may be advanc-
ed to the purpose. Were angels to write books,
they never woidd write folios.
But let tlic Germans have their due; if they are
dull, no nation alive assumes a more laudable so-
lemnity, or better understands all the decorums ot
stupidity. Let the discourse of a professor run on
128
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
tiever so heavily, it can not be irksome to his dozing
pupils, who frequently lend him sympathetic nods
of approbation. I have sometimes attended their
disputes at gradation. On this occasion they often
dispense with their gravity, and seem reall)'^ all
alive. The disputes are managed between the fol-
lowers of Cartesius (whose exploded system they
continue to call the new philosophy) and those of
Aristotle. Though both parties are in the wrong,
they argue with an obstinacy worthy the cause of
truth; Nego, Probo, and Distinguo, grow loud; the
disputants become warm, the moderator can not
be heard, the audience 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, which are chiefly calculated to promote
knowledge. His late majesty as elector of Hano-
ver, has established one at Gottingen, at an expense
of not less than a hundred thousand pounds. Thi"?
University has already pickled monsters, and dis-
sected live puppies without number. Their trans-
actions have been published in the learned world
at proper intervals since their institution; and will,
it is hoi)ed, 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 neighbouring countries, it would have ren-
dered the name of the donor immortal, and added
to the real interests of society.
Yet it ought to be observed, that, of late, learn-
ing has been patronized here by a prince, who, in
the humblest station, would have been the first of
mankind. The society established by the king of
Prussia, at Berlin, is one of the finest literary in-
stitutions that any age or nation has produced.
This academy comprehends all the sciences under
four 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, mathe-
matics, 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 produdions of tlieir
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 themselves to one branch of sci-
ence, or some particular 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 know-
ledge, he who reads their Acta will only find an is withdrawn,
«bsc>irc farago of experiment, most frequently ter- country.
minated by no resulting phenomena. To make
experiments, is, I own, the only way to promota
natural knowledge ; but to treasure up everj- unsuc
cessful inquiry into nature, or to communicate
every experiment without conclusion, is not to pro-
mote science, but oppress it. Had the members
of these societies enlarged their plans, and taken
in art as well as science, one part of knowledge
would have repressed any faulty luxuriance in the
other, and all would have mutually assisted each
other's promotion. Besides, 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 already to the learned in a different line;
consequently, their progress must be slow in gain-
ing a proper eminence from which to view their
subject, and their strength will be exhausted in at-
taining the station whence they should have set out.
With regard to the Royal Society of London, the
greatest, and perhaps the oldest institution of the
kind, had it widened the basis of its institution,
though they might not have propagated more dis-
coveries, they would probably have delivered them
in a more pleasing and compendious form. They
would have been free from the contempt of the ill.
natured, and the raillery of the wit, for which, even
candour must allow, there is but too much founda-
tion. But the Berlin academy is subject to none of
all these inconveniences, but everyone of its indivi-
duals is in a capacity of deriving more from thd
common stock than he contributes to it, while each
academician serves as a check upon the rest of his
fellows.
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 speak,
is artificially supported. The introduction of fo-
reigners 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 ques-
tions 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 intro-
ducing that of another, which has been formed
from manners which are different. Besides, an
academy composed of foreigners must still be re-
cruited from abroad, unless all the natives of the
country to which it belongs, are in a capacity of
becoming candidates for its honours or rewards.
While France therefore continues to supply Berlin,
polite learning will flourish ; but when royal favour
learning will return to its natural
THE PRESENT STATE OP POLITE LEARNING.
139
CHAPTER VI.
CM Polite Learning in Holland, and some other Comitriea of
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 conunodity. Here, though destitute
of what may be properly called a language of their
o\*ii, all the languages are understood, cultivated,
and spoken. All useful inventions in arts, and
new discoveries in science, are published here almost
as soon as at the places which first produced them.
Its individuals have the same faults, however, with
the Germans, of making more use of their memory
than their judgment. The chief employment of
their literati is to criticise, or answer, the new per-
formances which appear elsewhere.
A dearth of wit in France or England naturally
produces a scarcity in Holland. What Ovid says
of Echo, may be applied here, Nee loqui prius ipsa
didicit nee reticere loqxienti. They wait till some-
thing new comes out from others ; examine its me-
rits, 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 neighbouring
nations, and that in a laiiguage not their own.
They somewhat resemble their brokers, who trade
for immense sums without having any capital.
The other countries of Europe may he consider-
ed as immersed in ignorance, or making but feeble
efforts to rise. Spain has long fallen from amazing
Europe wilh her wit, to amusing them with the
greatness of her catholic credulity. Rome consi-
ders her as the most favourite of all her children,
and school divinity still reigns there in triumph.
In spite of all attempts of the Marquis D'Ensana-
da, who saw with regret the barbarity of his coun-
trymen, and bravely offered to oppose it by intro-
ducing 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. Ensana-
da has been banished, and now lives in exile. Feio
has incurred the hatred and contempt of every bigot
whose errors he has attempted to oppose, and feels
no doubt the unremitting displeasure of the j)riest-
hood. Persecution is a tribute the great must ever
pay for pre-eminence.
It is a httle extraordinary, however, how Spain,
whose genius is naturally fin(^, should be so much
behind the rest of Europe in this particular; or
why school divinity should hold its ground there
for nearly six hundred years. The reason must
be that pl>iloso[ihical opinions, which are otiierwise
transient, acquire stability in proportion as they are
connected with the laws of the country; and phi-
losophy and law have no where been so closely
united as here.
Sweden has of late made some attempts in polite
learning in its own language. Count Tessin's in-
structions to the prince, his pupil, are no bad be-
ginning. If the Muses can fix their residence so
far northward, perhaps no country bids so fair 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
its attendant ferocity. They will certainly in time
produce somewhat great, if their intestine divisions
do not unhappily prevent them.
The history of polite learning in Denmark may
be comprised in the life of one single man : it rose
and fell wilh the late famous Baron Holberg. This
was, perhaps, one of the most extraordinary per-
sonages that has done honour to the present cen-
tury. 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 in
volved 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, tra-
velled about from school to school, and begged his
learning and his bread. When at the age of sev-
enteen, instead of applying himself to any of the
lower occupations, which seem best adapted to such
circumstances, he was resolved to travel for im-
provement from Norway, the place of his birth, to
Copenhagen the capital city of Denmark. He
lived there by teaching French, at the same time
avoiding no opportunity of improvement that his
scAinty funds could permit. But his ambition was
not to be restrained, or his thirst of knowledge sa-
tisfied, until he had seen the world. Without mo-
ney, recommendations, or friends, he undertook to
set out upon his travels, and make the tour of Eu-
rope on foot. A good voice, and a trifling skill in
music, were the only finances he had to support an
undertaking so extensive; so he travelled by day,
and at night sung at the door of peasants' houses
to get liimself a lodging. In this manner, whilo
yet very young, Holberg passed through France,
Germany, and Holland; and coming over to Enc-
land, took up his residence for two years in the
university of Oxford. Here he subsisted by teach-
ing French and nmsic, and wrote his universal
history, his earliest, but worst performance. Fur-
nished with all the learning of Europe, he at last
thought proper to return to Copenhagen, where his
ingenious productions quickly gained him that fa-
vour he deserved. He composed not less than eigh-
teen comedies. Those in his own language are
130
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
said to excel, and those which are translated into
French have peculiar merit. He was honoured
with nobility, and enriched b}' 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 low state polite learning
is in tlie countries I have mentioned ; either past
its prime, or not yet arrived at maturity. And
thougli the sketch 1 have drawn be general, yet it
was for the most part taken on the spot. I am sen-
sible, however, of the impropriety of national reflec-
tion; and did not truth bias me more than inclina-
tion in this particular, I should, instead of the account
already given, have presented the reader with a
panegyric on many of the individuals of every coun-
try, whose merits deserve the warmest strains of
praise. Apostolo Zeno, Algarotti, Goldoni, Mu-
ratori, and Stay, in Italy; Haller, Klopstock, and
Rabner, in Germany; Muschenbroek, and Gau-
bius, in Holland; all deserve the highest applause.
Men like these, united by one bond, pursuing one
design, spend their labour and their lives in making
their fellow-creatures 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 re-
compense; and self-applause for the present, and
the alluring prospect of fame for futurity, reward
his labours. The perspective of life brightens up-
on us, when terminated by an object so charming.
Every intermediate image of want, banishment, or
sorrow, receives a lustre from its distant influence.
With this in view, the patriot, philosopher, and
poet, have often looked with calmness on disgrace
and famine, and rested on their straw with cheer-
ful serenity. Even the last terrors of departing
nature 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.
CHAPTER VII.
Of Polite Learning in France.
We have hitherto seen, that wherever the poet
Was permitted to begin by improving 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 Eng-
liind; where, though it may be on the decUne, 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 morti-
fied part, but here there is still life, and there is
hope. And indeed the French themselves are so
far from giving into any despondence of this kind,
that on the contrary, they admire the progress they
are daily making in every science. That levity, for
which we are apt to despise this nation, is probably
the principal source of their happiness. An agree-
able oblivion of past pleasures, a freedom from soli-
citude about future ones, and a poignant zest of
every present enjoyment, if they be not philosophy,
are at least excellent substitutes. By this they are
taught to regard the period in which they live with
admiration. The present manners, and the pre-
sent conversation, surpass all that preceded. A
similar enthusiasm as strongly tinctures their learn-
ing and their taste. While we, with a despondence
characteristic of our nature, are for removing back
British excellence to the reign of Clueen Elizabeth,
our more happy rivals of the continent cry up the
writers of the present times with rapture, and re-
gard the age of Louis XV. as the true Augustan
age of France.
The truth is, their present writers have not fall
en so far short of the merits of their ancestors as
ours have done. That self-sufficiency now men-
tioned, may have been of service to them in this par-
ticular. By fancying themselves superior to their
ancestors, they have been encouraged to enter the
lists with confidence; and by not being dazzled at
the splendour of another's reputation, have some-
times had sagacity to mark out an unbeaten 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
skilfully directed, the link of patronage and learn-
ing still continues unbroken. The French nobility
have certainly a most pleasing way of satisfying the
vanity of an author, wdthout indulging his avarice.
A man of literary merit is sure of being caressed by
the great, though seldom enriched. His pension
from the crown just supplies half a competence,
and the sale of his labours makes some small addi-
tion to his circumstances. Thus the author leads
a life of splendid poverty, and seldom becomes
wealthy or indolent enough to discontinue an ex-
ertion of those abilities by which he rose. With
the EngUsh it is difi'erent. Our writers of rising
merit are generally neglected, while the few of an
established reputation are overpaid by luxurious af-
fluence. The young encounter every hardship
which generally attends upon aspiring indigence ;
the old enjoy the vulgar, and perhaps the more pru-
dent, satisfaction, of putting riches in competition
with fame. Those are often seen to spend their
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
131
youth in want and obscujity; these are sometimes
found to lead an old age of indolence and avarice.
But such 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 nobili-
ty, in short, are often known to give greater re-
wards to genius than the French, who, however,
are much more judicious in the appUcation of their
empty favours.
The fair sex in France have also not a little con-
tributed to prevent the decline of taste and literature,
by expecting such qualifications in their admirers.
A man of fasliion at Paris, however contemptible
we may tliink him here, mxist 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
show, 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 cir-
cle of beauty at the chemical lectures of Rouelle as
gracing the court of Versailles. And indeed wis-
dom never appears so charming as when graced
and protected by beauty.
To these advantages may be added, the recep-
tion of their language in the different courts of Eu-
rope. 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 began
to write in this, some of whose productions contri-
bute to support the present literary reputation of
France.
There are, therefore, many among the French
who do honour to the present age, and whose writ-
ings will be transmitted to posterity with an ample
share of fame; some of the most celebrated are as
follow : —
Voltaire, whose voluminous, yet spirited produc-
tions are too well known to require an eulogy.
Does he not resemble the champion mentioned by
Xenophon, of great reputation in all the gymnastic
exercises united, but inferior 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 learning. His sys-
tem 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 be found to attempt such an undertaking!
He seems more a poet than a philosopher.
Rousseau of Geneva, a professed man-hater, or
more properly speaking, a philosopher enraged with
one half of mankind, because they unavoidably
make the other half unhappy. Such sentiments j
are generally the result of much good-nature and
little experience.
Piron, an author possessed of as much wit aa
any man aUve, yet with as Uttle prudence to turn 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
censure his obscenity. His Ode a Priape has j ust-
ly excluded him from a place in the academy of Bel-
les-Lettres. However, the good-natured Montes-
quieu, by his interest, procured the starving bard a
trifling pension. His own epitaph was all the re-
venge he took upon the academy for being repulsed.
Ci-git Piron. qui ne fut jamais rien,
Pas meme acad^micien.
Crebillon, junior, a writer of real merit, but guil-
ty of the same indelicate faults with the former.
Wit employed in dressing up obscenity is like the
art used in painting a corpse; it may be thus ren-
dered tolerable to one sense, but fails not quickly
to offend some other.
Gresset is agreeable and easy. His comedy call-
ed the Mechant, and a humorous poem entitled
Ververt, have original merit. He was bred a
Jesuit ; but his wit procured his dismission from the
society. This last work particularly could expect
no pardon from the Convent, being a satire against
nunneries!
D' Alembert has united an extensive skill in sci-
entifical learning with the most refined taste for
the polite arts. His excellence in both has procur-
ed 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 sustained before the doctors
of the Sorbonne. It was levelled against Chris-
tianity, and the Sorbonne too hastily gave it their
sanction. They perceived its purport, however,
when it was too late. The college was brought in-
to some contempt, and the abbe obliged 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 debau-
chee.
The catalogue might be increased with several
other authors of merit, such as Marivaux, Lefranc,
Saint-Foix, Destouches, and Modonville ; but let it
suffice to say, that by these the character of the
present age is tolerably supported. Though their
poets seldom rise to fine enthusiasm, they never
sink into absurdity ; though they fail to astonish,
they are generally possessed of talents to please.
The age of Louis XIV, notwithstanding these
respectable names, is still vastly superior. For be-
side the general tendency of critical corruption,
which shall he spoken of by and by, there are other
symptoms which indicate a decline. There is, for
instance, a fondness of scepticism, which runa
132
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
through the works of some of their most applauded
writers, and which the numerous class of their imi-
tators have contributed to diffuse. 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 ail the
eager desires of infidelity, 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 man-
ner which the father of the late poet, Saint-Foix,
took to reclaim his son from this juvenile error.
The young poet had shut himself up for some time
in his study ; and his father, wilhng to know what
had engaged his attention so closely, upon entering
found him busied in drawing up a new system of
religion, and endeavouring to show the absurdity
of that already established. The old man knew
by experience, that it was useless to endeavour to
convince a vain young 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 curtain at one end of
the room, discovered a crucifix exquisitely painted.
"My son," says he, "you desire to change the re-
ligion of your country, — behold the fate of a re-
former." The truth is, vanity is more apt to mis-
guide men than false reasoning. As some would
rather be conspicuous in a mob than unnoticed
even in a privy -council, so others choose rather to
be foremost in the retinue of error than follow in
the train of truth. What influence the conduct
of such writers may have on the morals of a people,
is not my business here to determine. Certain I
am, that it has a manifest tendency to subvert the
hterary merits of the country in view. The change
of religion in every nation has hitherto produced
barbarism and ignorance; and such will be proba-
bly its consequence in every future period. For
when the laws and opinions of society are made to
clash, harmony is dissolved, and all the parts of
peace unavoidably crushed in the encounter.
The writers of this country have also of late
fallen into a method of considering every part of art
and science as arising from simple principles. The
success of Montesquieu, and one or two more, has
induced all the subordinate ranks of genius into vi-
cious imitation. To this end they turn to our view
that side of the subject which contributes to sup-
port their hypothesis, while the objections are gen-
erally passed over in silence. Thus a universal
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
Ftyled for a short time very ingenious. In this
manner, we have seen of late almost every subject
m morals, natural history, politics, economy, and
commerce, treated. Subjects naturally proceeding '
on many principles, and some even opposite to
each other, are all taught'to proceed along the line
of systematic simplicity, and continue, like other
agreeable falsehoods, extremely pleasing till thej
are detected.
I must still add another fault, of a nature some
what similar to the former. As those above men-
tioned are for contracting a single science into
system, so those 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 dif-
ferent writers cemented into one body, and con-
curring in the same design by the mediation of a
bookseller. From these inauspicious combinations
proceed those monsters of learning the Trevoux,
Encyclopedies, and BibHotheques 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 favour, 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 own
ignorance ; may serve, when gilt and lettered, to
adorn the lower shelves of a regidar library ; but
wo to the reader, who, not daunted at the immense
distance between one great pasteboard and the
other, opens the volume, and explores his way
through a region so extensive, but barren of enter
tainment. No unexpected landscape there to de
light the imagination ; no diversity of prospect to
cheat the painful journey. He sees the -wide ex-
tended desert lie before him : what is past, only in
creases his terror of what is to come. His course
is not half finished ; he looks behind him with af-
fright, and forward with despair. Perseverance is
at last overcome, and a night of oblivion lends its
friendly aid to terminate the perplexity.
CHAPTER Vlll.
Of I.eaming in Great Britain.
To acquire a character for learning among the
English at present, it is necessary to know much
more than is either important or useful. It seems
the spirit of the times for men here to exhaust their
natural sagacity in exploring the intricacies of ano-
ther 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
our 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 sees them surrounded with
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
K3
speculation and subtlety, placed there by their pro-
fessors, as if with a view of deterring his approach.
Hence it happens, that the generality of readers fly
from the 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 furnishes instances.
The man of taste, however, stands neutral in
this controversy. He seems placed in a middle sta-
tion, between the world and the cell, between learn-
ing and common sense. He teaches the vulgar on
what part of a character to lay the emphasis of
praise, and the scholar where to point his applica-
tion so as to deserve it. By his means, even the
philosopher acquires popular applause, and all that
are truly great the admii-ation of posterity. By
means of polite learning alone, the patriot and the
hero, the man who praises virtue, and he who prac-
tises it, who fights successfully for his country, or
who 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, en-
tirely annihilated. For if, as it should seem, the
rewards of genius are improperly directed ; if those
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 the vile complexion of the 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
the registers of time, or having served to continue
the species.
CHAPTER IX. ,:"■ ■
, Of rewarding Genius in England.
There is nothing authors are more apt to lament
than want of encouragement from the age. What-
ever their differences in other respects, they are all
ready to unite in this complaint, and each indirectly
offers himself as an instance of the truth of his as-
sertion.
The beneficed divine, whose wants are only ima-
ginary, expostulates as bitterly as the poorest au-
thor. Should interest or good fortune advance the
divine to a bishopric, or the 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 Heavenfor having made thecircumstanccs
of all manldnd so extremely happy; the other bat-
tens on all the delicacies of life, enjovs liis wife and
his easy chair, and sometimes, for the sake of con-
versation, deplores the luxury of these degenerate
days. . c -
All encouragements to merit are therefore mis-
applied, which make the author too rich to con
tinue his profession. There can be nothing more
just than the old observation, that authors, hke
running horses, should be fed but not fattened. If
we would continue them in otir service, we should
reward 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 incapa-
ble of filling an employment with dignity : I would
only insinuate, that when made a bishop or states-
man, he will continue to please us as a writer no
longer; as, to resume a former allusion, the nmning
horse, when fattened, will still be fit for very useful
purposes, tho\igh unqualified for a courser.
No nation gives greater encouragements to learn-
ing than we do ; yet, at the same time, none are so
injudicious in the application. We seem to confer
them with the same view that statesmen have been
known to grant employments at court, rather as
bribes to silence than incentives to cmiilation.
Upon this principle, all our magnificent endow-
ments of colleges are erroneous ; and at best more
frequently enrich the prudent than reward the in-
genuous. A lad whose passions are not strong
enough in youth to mislead him from that path of
science wliich 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,
whose youth has been thus passed in the tran-
quillity of dispassionate prudence, to liquors which
never ferment, and consequently continue always
muddy. Passions may raise a commotion in the
youthful breast, but they disturb only to refine it.
However this be, mean talents are often rewarded
in colleges with an easy subsistence. The candi-
dates for preferments of this kind often regard their
admission as a patent for future indolence ; so that
a life begun in studious labour is often continued
in luxurious indolence.
Among the universities abroad, I have ever ob-
served their riches and their learning in a recipro-
cal proportion, their stupidity and pride increasing
with their oiiulence. Happening once, in conver-
sation willi Gauhius of Leyden, to mention the
college of Edinburgh, he began by complamino-,
that all the English students which formerly came
to his university now went entirely there ; and the
fact surj)ri.<ed him more, as Leyden was now as
well as ever furnished with masters excellent in
their respective professions. He concluded by ask-
ing, if the professors of Edinburgh were rich? I
replied, that tlie salary of a professor there seldom
amounted to more than thirty pounds a year. Pool
134
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
men, says he, I heartily wish they were belter x^ro-
vided for ; until they become rich, we can have no
expectation of English students at Leyden.
Premiums also, proposed for literary excellence,
when given as encouragements to boys, may be
useful ; but when designed as rewards to men, are
certainly misappUed. We have seldom seen a per-
formance of any great merit, in consequence of re-
wards proposed in this manner. Who has ever
observed a writer of any eminence a candidate in
so precarious a contest? The man who knows the
real value of his own genius, will no more venture
it upon an uncertainty, than he who knows the true
use of a guinea will stake it with 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 sub-
scriptions. When first brought into fashion, sub-
scriptions were conferred upon the ingenious alone,
or those who were reputed such. But at present,
we see them made a resource of indigence, and re-
quested, not as rewards of merit, but as a relief of
distress. If tradesmen happen to want skill in con-
ducting 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 this
nature are not thrust into the half-opening doors
of the rich, with, perhaps, a paltry petition, show-
ing the author's wants, but not his merits. I would
not willingly prevent that pity which is due to in-
digence ; but while the streams of liberality are thus
diffused, they must, in the end, become proportiona-
bly shallow.
What then are the proper encouragements of
genius? I answer, subsistence and respect ; for these
are rewards congenial to its nature. Every animal
has an aliment 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 the man of
true genius, for he makes a luxurious banquet upon
empty applause. It is this alone which has in-
spired 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 ; money
the pay of the common herd. The author who
draws his quill merely to take a purse, no more de-
serves success than he who presents a pistol.
When the link between patronage and learning
was entire, then all who deserved fame were in a
capacity of attaining it. When the great Somers
was at the helm, patronage was fashionable among
oar nobility. The middle ranks of mankind, who
generally imitate the great, then followed their ex-
ample, and applauded from fashion if not from feel-
ing. I have heard an old poet* of that glorious age
' Dr. Young.
say, that a dinner with his lordship has procured
him invitations for the whole \TOek following; that
an airing in his patron's chariot has sui)plied 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 inglorious
memory, the learned have been kept pretty much
at a distance. A jockey, or a laced player, sup-
plies the place of the scholar, poet, or the man of
virtue. Those conversations, once the result of
wisdom, wit, and innocence, are now turned to
humbler topics, Uttle more being expected from a
companion than a laced coat, a pliant bow, and an
immoderate friendship for a well-served table.
Wit, when neglected by the great, is generally
despised by the vulgar. Those who are unacquaint-
ed 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 admira-
tion, and dictates to the rest of mankind with all
the eloquence of conscious superiority. Very dif-
ferent 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 unthinliing face brightens into malicious
meaning. Even aldermen laugh, and revenge on
him the ridicule which was lavished on their fore-
fathers :
Etiam victis redit in praecordia virtus,
Victoresque cadunt.
It is indeed a reflection somewhat mortifying to
the author, who breaks his ranks, and singles out
for pubUc favour, to think that he must combat
contempt before he can arrive at glory. That lie
nmst expect to have all the fools of society united
against him, before he can hope for the applause
of the judicious. For this, however, he must pre-
pare beforehand; as those who have no idea of the
difficulty 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 de-
sire of rewarding it in others.
Voltaire has finely described the hardships a
man must encounter who writes for the public. 1
need make no apology for the 4ength of tlie quota-
tion.
"Your fate, my dear Le Fevre, is too strongly
marked to permit your retiring. The bee nmst
toil in making honey, the silk-worm must spin, the
philosopher must dissect them, and you are bom to
sing of their labours. You must be a poet and a
scholar, even though your inclinations should re-
sist : nature is too strong for inclination. But hope
not, my friend, to find tranquillity in the employ-
ment you are going to pursue. The route of genius
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
135
is not less obstructed with disappointment than
that of ambition.
" If you have the misfortune not to excel in your
profession as a poet, repentance must tincture all
your future 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.
"But why must I be hated, you will perhaps
reply ; why must I be persecuted for having writ-
ten a pleasing poem, for having produced an ap-
plauded tragedy, or for otherwise instructing or
amusing mankind or myself?
" My dear friend, these very successes shall ren-
der you miserable for life. Let me suppose your
performance has merit; let me suppose you have
surmounted the teasing employments of printing
and publishing; how will you be able to lull the
critics, who, like 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 literar}' journals in France,
as many in Holland, each sujiporting opposite in-
terests. The booksellers who guide these periodi-
cal compilations, find their account in being severe ;
the authors employed by them have wretchedness
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
scurrility, perhaps you reply; they rejoin; both
plead at the bar of the pubUc, and both are con-
demned to ridicule.
"But if you write for the stage, your case is still
more worthy compassion. You are there to be
judged b)'^ men whom the custom of the times has
rendered contemptible. Irritated liy their own in-
feriority, they exert all their little tyranny upon
you, revenging upon the author the insults they
receive from the public. From such men, then,
you are to expect your sentence. Suppose your
piece admitted, acted: one single ill-natured jest
from the pit is sufficient to cancel all your labours.
But allowing that it succeeds. There are a hun-
dred squibs flying all abroad to prove that it should
not have succeeded. You shall find your brightest
scenes burlesqued by the ignorant; and the learned,
who know a little Greek, and nothing of their na-
tive language, affect to despise you.
" But perhaps, with a panting heart, you carry
your piece before a woman of quality. Shi' gives
the labours of your brain to her maid to be cut into
shreds for curling her hair; while the laced foot-
man, who carries the gaudy livery of luxury, in-
sults your appearance, who bear the livery of indi-
gence.
" But granting your excellence has at last forced
envy to confess that your works have some merit;
this then is all the reward you can expect while
living. However, for this tribute of applause, you
must expect persecution. You will be reputed the
author of scandal which you have never seen, of
verses you despise, and of sentiments directly con-
trary to your own. In short, you must embark in
some one party, or all parties will be against you.
" There are among us a number of learned so-
cieties, where a lady presides, whose wit begins to
twinkle when the splendour of her beauty begins
to decline. One or two men of learning compose
her ministers of state. These must be flattered, or
made enemies by being neglected. Thus, though
you had the merit of all antiquity united in your
person, you grow old in misery and disgrace. Eve^
?y place designed for men of letters is filled up by-
men of intrigue. Some nobleman's private tutor,
some court flatterer, shall bear away the prize, and
leave you to anguish and to disappointment."
Yet it were well if none but the dunces of socie •
ty were combined to render the profession of an
author ridiculous or unhappy. Men of the first
eminence are often found to indulge this illiberal
vein of raillery. Two contending writers often, by
the opposition of their wit, render their profession
contemptible in the eyes of ignorant persons, who
should have been taught to admire. And yet, what-
ever the reader may think of himself, it is at least
two to one but he is a greater blockhead than the
most scribbling dunce he aflccts to despise.
The poet's poverty is a standing topic of con-
tempt. His writing for bread is an unpardonable
offence. Perhaps of all mankind an author in
these times is used most hardly. We keep him
poor, and yet revile his poverty. Like angry pa-
rents who correct their children till they cry, a)id
then correct them for crying, we reproach him for
living by his wit, and yet allow him no other means
to live.
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|*ity than insult
his distress. Is poverty the writer's fault? No
doubt he knows how to prefer a bottle of cham-
pagne to the nectar of the neighbouring alehouse,
or a venison pasty to a plate of potatoes. Want
of delicacy is not in him but in us, who deny him
the ojiiiortunity of making an elegant choice.
Wit certainly is the property of those who have
it, nor should we be displeased if it is the only pro-
perty a man sometimes has. AVe must not under-
rate 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 stupiti, it is certainly better to be
contemptibly rich than 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.
136
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
To be more serious, new fashions, follies, and
vices, make new monitors necessary in every age.
An author may be considered as a merciful sub-
stitute to the legislature. He acts not by punishing
crimes, but preventing them. However virtuous
the present age, there may be stUl growing employ-
ment 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 com-
munity. And indeed a child of the public he is in all
respects; for while so well able to direct others, how
incapable is he frequently found of guiding himself!
His simplicity exposes him to all the insidious ap-
proaches of cunning; his sensibility, to the slightest
invasions of contempt. Though possessed of for-
titude to stand unmoved 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 life, or render it unfit for active em-
ployment: prolonged vigils and intense application
EtU! further contract his span, and make his time
glide insensibly away. Let us not, then, aggravate
those natiual inconveniences by neglect; we have
had sufficient instances of this kind already. Sale
and Moore will suffice for one age at least. But
they arc dead, and their sorrows are over. The
neglected author of the Persian eclogues, which,
however inaccurate, excel any in our 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 press-
ing foremost in the lists of fame, and worthy of bet-
ter times; schooled by continued adversity into a
hatred of their kind; flying from thought to drunk-
enness; yielding to the united pressure of labour,
penury, and sorrow; sinking unheeded, without
one friend to drop a tear on their unattended obse-
quies, and indebted to charity for a grave.
The author, fSkvhen unpatronized by the great,
has naturally recourse to the bookseller. There
can not be perhaps imagined a combination more
prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of
the one to allow as little for writing, and of the
other to write as much as possible. Accordingly,
tedious compilations and periodical magazines are
the result of their joint endeavours. In these cir-
cumstances, the author bids adieu to fame, writes
for bread, and for that only imagination is seldom
called m. He sits down to address the venal muse
witti tne most phlegmatic apathy ; and, as we are
told of the Russians, courts his mistress by falling
asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in
a wider circl than that of the trade, who generally
value him, not for the fineness of his compositions,
but the quantity he works off in a given time.
A long habit of writing for bread thus turns the
ambition of every author at last into avarice. He
finds that he has written many years, that the pub-
lic are scarcely acquainted even with his name ; he
despairs of applause, and turns to profit which in-
vites him. He finds that money procures all those
advantages, that respect, and that ease, which he
vainly expected from fame. Thus the man who,
under the protection of the great, might have done
honour to humanity when only patronized by the
bookseller, becomes a thing Uttle superior to the
fellow who works at the press.
' Our author here alludes to the insanity of Colliiia.
CHAPTER X.
Of the Marks of Literary Decay in France and England.
The faults already mentioned are such as learn-
ing 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 moredifiused; and experience has shown, that in-
stead 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 number.
Other depravations in the republic of letters, such
as affectation in some popular writer 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 found to co-ope-
rate in the decline of literature ; and it has some-
times declined, as in modern Italy, without them ;
but an increase of criticism has always portended
a decay. Of all misfortunes therefore in the com-
monwealth of letters, this of judging from rule,
and not from feeUng, is the most severe. At such
a tribunal no work of original merit can please.
Sublimity, if carried to an exalted height, approach-
es burlesque, and humour sinks into vulgarity.
The person who can not feel may ridicule both as
such, and bring rules to corroborate his assertion.
There is, in short, no excellence in writing that
such judges may not place among the neighbouring
defects. Rules render the reader more difficult to
be pleased, and abridge the author's power of pleas-
ing.
Ifweturnto either country, we shall perceive
evident symptoms of this natural decay beginning
to appear. Upon a inoderate calculation, there
seems to be as many volimies of criticism published
in those countries, as of all other kinds of polito
erudition united. Paris sends forth not less thin
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
is?
four literary journals every month, the Annee- Lit
teraire and the Feuille by Freron, the Journal
Etranger by the Chevalier D'Arc, and Le Mer-
cure by Marmontel. We have two literary reviews
in London, with critical newspapers and magazines
without number. The compilers of these resem-
ble the commoners of Rome ; they are all for level-
ling property, not by increasing their own, but by
diminishing that of others. The man who has any
good-nature in his disposition must, however, be
somewhat displeased to seedistinguished reputations
often the sport of ignorance, — to see by one flilse
pleasantry, the future peace of a worthy man's hfe
disturbed, and this only, because he has unsuccess-
fully 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 triumph,
and ascribes to his parts what is only due to his ef-
frontery. I fire with indignation, when I see per-
sons wholly destitute of education and genius in-
dent to the press, and thus turn book-malcers, adding
to the sin of criticism the sin of ignorance also ;
whose trade is a bad one, and who are bad work-
men in the trade.
When I consider those industrious men as in-
debted to the works of others for a precarious sub-
sistence, when I see them coming down at stated
intervals to rummage the bookseller's counter for
materials to work upon, it raises a smile though
mixed with pity. It reminds me of an animal call-
ed by naturalists the soldier. This little creature,
says the historian, is passionately fond of a shell,
but not being supplied with one by nature, has re-
course 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 quest of a shell to please it. Nothing can
be more amusing than their industry upon this oc-
casion. One shell is too big, another too little: they
enter and keep possession sometimes for a good
while, until one is, at last, found entirely to please.
When all are thus properly equipped, they march
up again to the mountains, and live in their new
acquisition till under a necessity of changing.
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 can not be brought to excuse. From
this proceeds the aHectcd security of our odes, the
tuneless flow of our blank verse, the pompous epi-
thet, laboured diction, and every other deviation
from common sense, which procures the poet the
applause of the month: he is praised by all, read
by a few, and soon forgotten.
There never was an unbeaten 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 nature,
and was persecuted by the critics as long as he liv-
ed. Thus novelty, one of the greatest beauties in
poetry, must be avoided, or the connoisseur be dis- -
pleased. It is one of the chief privileges, however,
of genius, to fly from the herd of imitators by some
happy singularity; for should he stand still, 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 connoisseur 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 tliis may be the reason why so many
writers at present arc apt to appeal from the tribu-
nal of criticism to that of the people.
From a desire in the critic, of grafting the spirit
of ancient languages upon the English, has proceed-
ed, of late, several disagreeable instances of pedant-
ry. Among the number, 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 used upon the most trivial
occasions. It has particularly found its way into
our didactic poetry, and is likely to bring that spe-
cies of composition into disrepute for which the
English are deservedly famous.
Those who are acquainted with writing, know
that our language runs almost naturally into blank
verse. The writers of our novels, romances, and
all of this class who have no notion of style, natu-
rally hobble into this unharmonious measure. If
rhymes, therefore, be more difficult, for that very
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 high-
est by diminishing the aperture. But rhymes, it
will be said, are a remnant of monkish stupidity,
an innovation upon the poetry of the ancients.
They are but indifferently acquainted with anti-
quity who make the assertion. Rhymes are pro-
bably of older date than either the Greek or Latin
dactyl and spondee. The Celtic, which is allowed
to be the first language spoken in Europe, has ever
preserved them, as we may find in the Edda of Ice-
land, and the Irish carols, still sung among the ori-
ginal inhabitants of that island. Olaus Wormias
gives us some of the Teutonic jwetry in this way;
and Pontoppidan, bishop of Bergen, some of the
Norwegian. In short, this jingle of sounds is al^
most natural to mankind, at least it is so to our Ian
guage, if we may judge from many unsuccessful
attempts to throw it oflf.
1 should not have em[)loyed so much time in op-
posing this erroneous innovation, if it were not apt
to intniduce another in its train; I mean, a disgust-
ing manner of solemnity into our poetry ; and, as the
138
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
prose writer has been ever found to follow the poet,
it must consequently banish in both all that agreea-
ble trifling, which, if I may so express it, often
deceives us into instruction. The finest senti-
ment and the most weighty truth may put on a
pleasant face, and it is even virtuous to jest when
serious advice must be disgusting. 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 its, his firstlys and his secondlys, as
methodical 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 en-
croachment on the prerogative of a folio. These
things should be considered as pills to purge melan-
choly ; they should l)e made up in our splenetic ch-
mate to be taken as physic, and not so as to be used
when we take it.
However, by the power of one single monosyl-
lable, our critics have almost got the victory over
humour amongst us. Does the poet paint the ab-
surdities of the vulgar, then he is low ; does he ex-
aggerate 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, but have lit-
tle to laugh at ; nature seems to present us with a
universal blank of silk, ribands, smiles, and whis-
pers. Absurdity is the poet's game, and good-
breeding is the nice concealment of absurdities.
The truth is, the critic generally mistakes hu-
mour 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 steige. But to put the same thought in
a different light, when an unexpected similitude in
two objects strikes the imagination ; in other words,
when a thing is wittily expressed, all our pleasure
<urns into admiration of the artist, who had fancy
enough to draw the picture. When a thing is
humorously described, our burst of laughter pro-
ceeds from a very different cause ; we compare the
absurdity of the character represented with our own,
tind triumph in our conscious superiority. No na-
tural 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
lorror. We only laugh at those instances of mo-
jal aosurdity, to which we are conscious we our-
selves are not liable. For instance, should I de-
Ktioe a man as wanting; his nose, there is no hu-
mour 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 man without his nose as
extremely curious in the choice of his snuff-box,
we here see him guilty of an absurdity of which
we imagine it impossible for ourselves to be guilty,
and therefore applaud our own good sense on the
comparison. Thus, then, the pleasure we receive
from wit turns to the admiration of another; that
which we feel from humour, centres in the admi-
ration of ourselves. The poet, therefore, must
place the object he would have the subject of hu-
mour in a state of inferiority ; in other words, the
subject of humour must be low.
The solemnity worn by many of our 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
terwporibus ridere possit : on my conscience, I be-
lieve 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 com-
mendations which the reader pays his own discern-
ment, 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 that 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 dress-
ing up trifles with dignity. For, to use an obvi-
ous 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 hunt after lofty expressions to
deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping, when
we only mean to deliver a whisper.
CHAPTER XI.
Of the Stage.
Opr theatre has been generally confessed to
share in this general decline, though partaking of
the show and decoration of the Italian opera with
the propriety and declamation of French perform-
ance. The stage also is more magnificent with ua
than any other in Europe, and the people in gene-
ral 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 influence. The managers, and all who espouse
their side, are for decoration and ornament; the
critic, and all who have studied French decorum,
are for regularity and declamation. Thus it is al-
most impossible to please both parties ; and the po-
et, by attempting it, finds himself often incapable of
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
K9
pleasing either. If he introduces stage pompi, the
critic consigns his performance to the vulgar; if he
indulges in recital and simplicity, it is accused of
insipidity, or dry affectation.
From the nature, therefore, of our theatre, and
the genius of our country, it is extremely difficult
for a dramatic poet to please his audience. But
happy would he be, were these the only difBculties
he had to encounter; there are many other more
dangerous combinations against the little wit of the
age. Our poet's performance must undergo a pro-
cess truly chemical before it i« presented to the pub-
lic. It must be tried in the manager's fire, strain-
ed through a licenser, suffer from repeated correc-
tions, till it may be a mere caput mortuum 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 cabinet than on the
theatre. While we are readers, every moral senti-
ment strikes us in all its beauty, but the love scenes
are frigid, tawdry, and disgusting. When we are
spectators, all the persuasives to vice receive an ad-
ditional lustre. The love scene is aggravated, the
obscenity heightened, the best actors figure in the
most debauched characters, while the parts of mo-
raUty, as they are called, are thrown to some mouth-
ing machine, who puts even virtue out of counte-
nance 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 soli-
tary 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 permitted to appear; the pub-
lic are again obliged to ruminate over those hashes
of absurdity, which were disgusting to our ances-
tors even in an age of ignorance ; and the stage, in-
stead of serving the people, is made subservient to
the interests of avarice.
We seem to be pretty much in the 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 every change
makes our wretched cheer more unsavoury. What
must be done? only sit down contented, cry up all
that comes before us, and admire even the absurdi-
ties of Shukspeare.
Let the reader suspend his censure. I admire
the beauties of this great father of our stage as
much as they deserve, but could wish, for the hon-
our of our country, and for his honour too, that
many of his scenes were forgotten. A man blind
of one eye should always be painted in profile. Let
the spectator, who assists at any of these newly-re-
vived pieces, only ask himself whether he would
approve such a performance if written by a modern
poet? I fear he will find that much of his applause
proceeds merely from the sound of a name, and an
empty veneration for antiquity. In fact, the revi-
val of those pieces of forced humour, far-fetched
conceit, and unnatural hyperbole, which have been
ascribed to Shakspeare, is rather gibbeting than
raising a statue to his memory; it is rather a tnck
to the actor, who thinks it safest acting in exagge-
rated characters, and who, by outstepjiing nature,
chooses to exhibit the ridiculous outre of a harle-
quin under the sanction of that venerable name.
What strange vamped comedies, farcical trage-
dies, or what shall I call them, speaking panto-
mimes, have we not of late seen? No matter what
the play may be, it is the actor who dravss an audi-
ence. He throws hfe into all ; all are in spirits and
merry, in at one door and out at another; the
spectator, in a fool's paradise, knows not vidiat all
this means, till the last act concludes in matrimo-
ny. 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 pre-
cedes 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 understand the force of combina-
tions, trained up to vociferation, clapping of hands
and clattering of sticks : and though a man micht
have strength sufficient to overcome a lion in sin-
gle combat, he may run the risk of being devoured
by an army of ants.
I am not insensible, that third nights are disa-
greeable drawbacks upon the annual profits of
the stage. I am confident it is much more to the
manager's advantage 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 have a right to demand respect, and surely
those newly-revived plays are no instances of the
manager's deference.
I have been informed that no new play can bo
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 familiarity with
the stage, by which alone he can hope to succeed;
140
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
nor can the most signal success relieve immediate
want. Our Saxon ancestors had but one name for
wit and witch. 1 will not dispute the propriety of
uniting those characters then, but the man who,
under the present discouragements, ventures 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 our
theatre, we may easily foresee whether it is likely
to unprove or decline ; and whether the free-born
muse can bear to submit to those restrictions which
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 either fame or subsistence, when he must
at once flatter an actor and please an audience.
CHAPTER XII.
Gn Universities.
Instead of losing myself in a subject of such
extent, I shall only offer a few thoughts as they
occur, and leave their connexion 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 in-
firmary, the student who only attends to the disor-
ders of a few patients, is more likely to understand
his profession than he who indiscriminately exam-
ines them all.
A youth just landed at the Brille resembles a
clown at a puppet-show; carries his amazement
from one miracle to another; from this cabinet of
curiosities to that collection of pictures : but won-
dering 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 Europe there are to be
found Englishmen residing either from interest or
choice. These generally lead a life of continued
debauchery. Such are the countrymen a traveller
is likely to meet with.
This may be the reason why Englishmen are all
thought to be mad or melancholy 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 de poche.
Countries wear very different appearances to
travellers of different circumstances. A man who
is whirled through Europe in a post-chaise, and the
pilgrim, who walks the grand tour on foot, will
form very different conclusions.*
To see Europe with advantage, a man should
appear in various circumstances of fortune, but the
experiment would be too dangerous for young men.
There are many things relative to other coun-
tries which can be learned to more advantage at
home ; their laws and policies are among the
number.
The greatest advantages which result to youth
from travel, are an easy address, the shaking off
national prejudices, and the finding nothing ridicu-
lous in national peculiarities.
The time spent in these acquisitions could have
been more usefully employed at home. An edu-
cation in a college seems therefore preferable.
We attribute to universities either too much or
too little. Some assert that they are the only
proper places to advance learning; while others
deny even their utility in forming an education.
Both are erroneous.
' Learning is most advanced in populous cities,
where chance often conspires with industry to pro-
mote it : where the members of this large univer
sity, if I may so call it, catch manners as they rise,
study life not logic, and have the world for corres-
pondents.
The greatest number of universities have ever
been founded in times of the greatest ignorance.
New improvements in learning are seldom
adopted in colleges until admitted every where
else. And this is right; we should always be
cautious of teaching the rising generation uncer-
tainties for truth. Thus, though the professors in
universities have been too frequently found to op-
pose the advancement of learning ; yet when once
established, they are the properest persons to dif'
fuse it.
There is more knowledge to be acquired from
one page of the volume of mankind, if the scholar
only knows how to read, than in volumes of anti-
quity. We grow learned, not wise, by too long a
continuance at college.
This points out the time at which we should
leave the university. Perhaps the age of twenty-
one, when at our universities the first degree is
generally taken, is the proper period.
The universities of Europe may be divided into
three classes. Those upon the old scholastic es-
tablishment, where the pupils are immured, talk
nothing but Latin, and support every day syllo-,
gistical disputations in school philosophy. Would,
not one be apt to imagine this was the proper edu-
cation to make a man a fool? Such are the uni-
versities of Prague, Louvain, and Padua. The
second is, where the pupils are under few restric-
■ In the first edition our autlior added, Haud inexpertua
loquor; for he U'a veiled through France etc. on foot.
THE PRESENT STATE OF POLITE LEARNING.
U%
tions, where all scholastic jargon is banished, where
they take a degree when they think proper, and
live not m the college but the city. Such are Ed-
inburgh, Leyden, Gottingen, Geneva. The tliird
Is a mixture of the two former, where the pupils are
restrained but not confined ; where many, though
not all of the absurdities of scholastic 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 ap-
parent to admit of a parallel. It is disputed which
of the two last are more conducive to national im-
provement.
Skill in the professions is acquired more by prac-
tice than study; two or three years may be sufii-
cient for learning their rucUments'. The universi-
ties of Edinburgh, etc. grant a license for practising
them when the student thinks proper, wliich our
universities refuse till after a residence of several
years.
The dignity of the professions may be supported
by this dilatory proceeding; but many men of learn-
ing are thus too long excluded from the lucrative
advantages wliich superior skill has a right to ex-
pect.
Those universities must certainly be most fre-
quented which promise to give in two years the
advantages which others will not under twelve.
The man who has studied a profession for three
years, and practised it for nine more, will certainly
know more of his business than he who has only
studied it for twelve.
The universities of Edinburgh, etc. must certain-
ly be most proper for the study of those professions
in which men choose to turn their learning to pro-
fit as soon as possible.
The universities of Oxford, etc. 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 learning is lessened, and conse-
quently the advancement of learning retarded.
This slowness of conferring degrees is a rem-
nant of scholastic barbarity. Paris, Louvain, and
those universities which still retain their ancient
institutions, confer the doctor's degree slower even
than we.
-^^ The sta^u^j)f every university should be consi-
,^ered asadapted to the laws of its respective gov-
ernment. Those should alter as these happen to
fluctuate.
Four years spent in the arts (as they are called
in colleges) is perhaps laying too laborious a foun-
dation. Entering a profession without any previ-
ous acquisitions of this kind, is building too bold a
superstructure.
Teaching by lecture, as at Edinburgh, may mak3
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 learn-
ed.
In a word, were I poor, I should send my son to
Le3'-den or Edinburgh, though the annual expense
in each, particularly in the first, is very great
Were I rich, I would send him to one of our own
universities. By an education received in the firsti,
he has the best likelihood of living; by that receiv-
ed in the latter, he has the best chance of becoiiimg
great.
We have of late heard much of the necessity of
studying oratory. Vespasian was tlie first who
paid professors 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 King Charles the
First. These men never studied the rules of ora-
tory.
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 mathe-
matics if they would.''
The most methodical manner of lecturing, whe-
ther on morals or nature, is first rationally to ex-
plain, and then produce the experiment. The
most instructive method is to show the experiment
first ; curiosity is then excited, and attention awa-
kened to every subsequent deduction. Hence it is
evident, that in a well formed education a course
of history should ever precede a course of ethics.
The sons of our nobility are permitted to enjoy
greater liberties in our universities than those of
private men. I should blush to ask the men of
learning and virtue who preside in our seminaries
the reason of such a prejudicial distinction. Out
youth should there be inspired with a love of phi-
losophy; and the first maxim among pliilosophers
is. That merit only makes distinction.
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 honours on its parent university
than all the labours of the chisel.
Surely pride itself lias dictated to the fellows of
our colleges the absurd passion 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 implies a contra-
diction, for men to be at once learning the liberal
arts, and at the same time treated as slaves ; at once
studying freedom, and practising servitude.
142
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
CHAPTER XIII.
Tae Conclusion.
Every subject acquires an adventitious import-
ance to him who considers it with application. He
finds it more closely connected with human happi-
ness 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 fre-
quently becomes ridiculously earnest in trifles or
absurdity.
It will perhaps be incurring this imputation, to
deduce a universal degeneracy of manners from so
slight an origin as the depravation of taste; to as-
sert that, as a nation grows dull, it sinks into de-
bauchery. Yet such probably may be the conse-
quence of litcrffi'/ 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 va-
rying its pleasures; new amusements are pursued
with studious attention; the most childish vanities
are dignified with titles of importance; and the
proudest boast of the most aspiring philosopher is
no more, than that he provides liis httle play- fellows
the greatest pastime with the greatest innocence.
Thus the mind, ever wandering after amuse-
ment, when abridged of happiness 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 long-
er, feel an ambition of being foremost at a horse-
course; or, if such could be the absurdity of the
times, of being himself a jockey. Reason and ap-
petite are therefore masters of our revels in turn ;
and as we incline to the one, or pursue the other,
we rival angels, or imitate the brutes. In the pur-
suit of intellectual pleasure lies every virtue; of
eensual, every vice.
It is this difference 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
luxuries consist in the refinement of reason; and
reason can never be universally cultivated, unless
guided by taste, which may be considered as the
Imk between science and common sense, the medi
um through which learning should ever be seen bj
society.
Taste will therefore often be a proper standard,
when others fail, to judge of a nation's improve
ment or degeneracy in morals. We have often nc
permanent characteristics, by which to compar*
the virtues or the vices of our ancestors with oui
own. A generation may rise and pass away with-
out leaving any traces of what it really was; and
all complaints of our deterioration may be only
topics of declamation or the cavillings of disappoint-
ment: but in taste we have standing evidence; we
can with precision compare the literary performan-
ces of our fathers with bur own, and from their ex-
cellence or defects determine the moral, as well as
the literary, merits of either.
If, then, there ever comes a time when taste is
so far depraved among us that critics shall load
every work of genius with unnecessary comment,
and quarter their empty performances with the
substantial merits 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 ship-
wreck in either; if there be a time when the Muse
shall seldom be heard, except in plaintive elegy, as
if she wept her own decline, while lazy compilations
supply the place of original thinking; should there
ever be such a time, may succeeding critics, both
for the honour of our morals, as well as our learn-
ing, say, that such a period bears no resemblance
to the present age!
POEMS.
A PROLOGUE,
Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Ro-
man Knight, whom Ccesar Jbrced upon the
stage. Preserved by Macrobius*
What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age !
Scarce half alive, opprest vrith many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide.
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear.
With honest thrift I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store.
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cffisar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame ;
No more my titles shall my children tell.
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fiite extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION;
A TALE.t
Srclitded from domestic strife ,
Jack Book-worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-live ^. •
Made him the happiest man alive; ' '
He drank his glass, and crack' d his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unallay'd with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix ^. .
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six? '.. ■
O had the archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town !
• Tliis translation was first printed in one of our author's
carl ie.1t works. " The Present State of Learninj in Europe,"
12mo. 1759; but was omitted in the second edition, which ap-
peared in 1774.
t This and the following poem were published by Dr. Gold-
smith in his volume of Essays, which appeared in 1705.
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop.
O had her eyes forgot to blaze !
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze !
! but let exclamations cease,
Her presence banish' d all his peace.
So with decorum all things carried; <'
Miss frown'd, and blush' d, and then was — mamoi
Need we expose to vulgar sight
The raptures of the bridal night?
Need we intrude on hallow'd groiuid,
Or draw the curtains closed around ?
Let it suflice, that each had charms;
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; , '
And though she felt his usage rough, ,. '
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. ■''
The honey-moon like Ughtning flew,
The second brought its transports too; ••. ■
A third, a fourth, were not amiss.
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss:
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away.
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace; j_
But still the worse remain'd behind.
That very face had robb'd her mind.
Skill'd in no other arts was she,
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace,
Half naked at a ball or race ;
But when at home, at board or bed.
Five greasy night -caps wrapp'd her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend ?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing ?
In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ; ,
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations :
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suft'ocating smoke ;
While all their hours were past between
Insulting repartee or spleen.
144
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Thus as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown ;
He fancies every vice she shows,
Or thins her Up, or points her nose :
Whenever age or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes !
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose.
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life.
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower : —
Lo ! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell'd its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace.
Left but the remnant of a face.
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright :
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her paste and creams.
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ;
Her country beaux and city cousins.
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The 'squire himself was seen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.
Poor madam now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old :
With modesty her cheeks are dyed,
Humility displaces pride ;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean ;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good nature every day :
Serenely gay, and strict in duty.
Jack finds Ms wife a perfect beauty.
A NEW SIMILE
IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.
Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbUng kind :
The modern scribbling kind, who write.
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
Till reading, I forget what day on,
A. <;hapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there
To siul my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius
You'll find him pictured at full length,
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, Pray observe his hat.
Wings upon either side — mark that.
Well ! what is it from thence we gather"?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right.
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A just comparison, — proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air :
And here my simile unites.
For in the modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term'd caduceus.
And highly famed for several uses.
To wit — most wondrously endued,
No poppy water half so good ;
For let folks only get a touch.
Its soporific virtue' s such.
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell.
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then ; —
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined,
Denote him of the reptile kind ;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod.
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf.
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript.
Yet grant a word by way of postcript.
Moreover Mcrc'ry had a failing;
Well! what of that? out with it — stealing.
In which all modern bards agree.
Being each as great a thief as he
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards ! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks t
POEMS.
145
DESCRIPTION
OF AN
AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER.
Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt,- and Parson's black cham-
pagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ;
There, in a lonely room, from bailifls snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The ro3"al game of goose was there in view.
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, framed with hsting, found a place,
And brave Prince Wilham show'd his lamp-black
face.
The morn was cold, he views vrith keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire :
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored.
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-
board ;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night — a stocking all the day!
THE HERMIT.
A BALLAD.
The following letter, addressed to the Printer of
he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that pa-
per in June, 1767.
Sir, •
As there is nothing I dishke so much as news-
paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit
me to be as concise as possible in informing a cor-
respondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's
Travels because I thought the book was a good
one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the
bookseller that it was then first pubhshed; but in
that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading
was not extensive enough to set me riglit.
Another correspondent of yours accuses me of
having taken a ballad I pubUshed some time ago,
from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not
think there is any great resemblance between the
two pieces m question. If there be any, his ballad
is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some
years ago ; and he (as we both considered these
* The Friar of Orders Gray.
L book 2. No. 18.
10
"Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol.
things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good-
humour, the next time I saw him, that he had
taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare
into a ballad of his own. He then read me his lit-
tle Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approv-
ed it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely
worth printing ; and, were it not for the busy dis-
position of some of your correspondents, the pub-
lic should never have known that he owes me the
hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friend-
ship and learning for communications of a much
more important nature. ; •
lam, Sir,
Yours, etc.
.^. Oliver Goldsmith.
Note. — On the subject of the preceding letter,
the reader is desired to consult " The i^xfe of Dr.
Goldsmith," under the year 1765.
THE HERMIT;
A BALLAD '
" Torn, 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,
AVith fainting steps and slow ;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go."
" Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
To tempt the dangerous gloom ;
' For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
" Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
" Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows,
My rushy couch and frugal fare.
My blessing and repose.
" No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them :
"But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
" Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego)
All earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that Utile long."
I4G
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell :
The modest stranger lowly bends,
' And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest.
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press' d, and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries.
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackUng faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe ;
For grief was heavy at his heart.
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied.
With answering care opprest;
" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
" The sonows of thy breast?
"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove 7
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?
"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
" And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
" And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush.
And spurn the sex," he said;
Rut while he spoke, a rising blush
Ffis love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view :
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
" And ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
" Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
" But let a maid thy pity share.
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
" My father lived 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;
Who praised me for imparted charms,
And feltj or feign' d a flame.
" Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd
But never talk'd of love.
" In humble, simplest habit clad.
No wealth nor power had he ;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
" And when, beside me in the dale.
He Carroll' d lays of love.
His breath lent fragrance to thf gale^
And music to the grove.
" The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of Heaven refined.
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
" The dew, the blossom on tne tree.
With charms inconstant shine ;
Their charms were his, but, woe to iue\
Their constancy was mine.
" For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch'd my heait,
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.
POEMS.
147
" Rut mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my Ufe shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay, • ■ -
"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die ;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did.
And so for him will I." ^
"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried.
And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide-
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd.
" Turn, Angelina, ever dear, _■
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.
" Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign :
And shall we never, never part.
My life — my all that's mine?
" No, never from this hour to part.
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart.
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
AN ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OP A MAD DOG.*
Good people all of every sort.
Give ear unto my song.
And if yon find it wondrous short,
It can iiot hold you long.
tn 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 nalved every day he clad, ' • ■
When he put on liis clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be.
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and houiid.
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were Iriends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the ncighb'ring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran.
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
This, and the foUcwhig poem, appeared in " The Vicar
Wakefield," which was published in the year 1765.
of
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 show'd the rogues they Ued :
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it Was that died. .
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
When lovely woman stoops to folly.
And finds too late that men betray,
What charms can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt awayl
The only art her guilt to cover.
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom — is to die.
THE TRAVELLER;
OB,
A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
TO TIIE REV. HENRY GOLDSJIITH.
Dear Sir,
I AM sensible that the friendship between us can
acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedi-
cation ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to
prefix your name to my attempts, which you de-
cline giving with your own. But as a part of this
poem was formerly written to you from Switzer-
land, the whole can now, with propriety, be only
inscribed to .you. It will also throw a light upon
many parts of it, when the reader understands, that
it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and
fortune, has retired early to hapj)iness and obscuri-
ty, with an income of forty pounds a-year.
I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of
your humble choice. You have entered upon a
sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the
labourers are but few ; while you have left the field
of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the
harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds
of ambition, what from the refinement of the times,
from difiTerent systems of criticism, and from the
tlivisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame
is the wildest.
Poetry makes a principal amusement among un-
polished nations; but in a country verging to tho
extremes ot refinement, painting and music como
in for a shaie. As these offer the feeble mind a
less laborious entertainment, they at first rival
148
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
poetry, and at length supplant her ; they engross all
that favour once shown to her, and though but
younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right.
Yet, however this art may be neglected by the
powerful, it is still in great danger from the mis-
taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What
criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of
blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests
and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence !
Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it;
and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he
has always much to say; for error is ever talkative.
But there is an enemy to this art still more dan-
gerous, — I mean party. Party entirely distorts
the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the
mind is once infected with this disease, it can only
find pleasure in what contributes to increase the
distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from
pursuing man, after having once preyed upon hu-
man flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his
appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most
agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such
readers generally admire some half-witted thing,
who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost
the character of a wise one. Him they dignify
with the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons are
called satires ; his turbulence is said to be force, and
ills phrensy fire.
What reception a poem may find, which has
neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it,
I can not tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My
aims are right. Without espousing the cause of
any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage
of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may
be equal happiness in states that are differently
governed from our own ; that every state has a par-
ticular principle of happiness, and that this princi-
ple in each may be carried to a mischievous excess.
There are few can judge better than yourself how
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Eternal blessings crovm my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.
But me, not destined such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent and care;
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies.
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ;
And placed on high above the storm's career.
Look downward where an hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
far these positions are illustrated in this poem.
am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother,
Oliver Goldsmith.
THE TRAVELLER;
OR,
A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.'
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
• In this poem, as il passed through different editions, seve-
ral alterations were niade, and some additional verses intro-
duced. We have fiJowed the ninth edition, which was the
£si that appeared in the lifetime of the author.
When thus Creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain 7
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can.
These little things are great to Httle man ;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour
crown'd ;
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round j
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine :
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine !
As some lone miser, visiting his store.
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still :
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise.
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup-
plies ;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ;
A nd oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,
POEMS.
149
Where my wora soul, each wand' ring hope at rest,
May gather bUss to see my fellows blest.
But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ;
Extols the treasures of liis stormy seas.
And his lonsr nichts of revelry and ease :
The naked negro, panting at the line.
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave.
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare.
And estimate the blessings which they share.
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ;
As different good, by art or nature given.
To different nations makes their blesshigs even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all.
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ;
And though the rocky crested summits frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings sent —
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content.
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive to the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails,
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state to one loved blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the favourite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ;
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
TMs favourite good begets pecuUar pain.
But let us try these truths with closer eyes.
And trace them through the prospect as it lies;
Here for a while my proper cares resign'd,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ;
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast.
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.
Far to the right where Appenine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ;
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in different climes were found.
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ;
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ;
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ;
And e'en in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind.
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date,
When commerce proudly flourish' d through the
state ;
At her command the palace learn'd to rise.
Again the Ion g- fall' n column sought the skies;
The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form:
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale.
Commerce on other shores display 'd her sail;
WWle nought remain'd of all that riches gave,
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave.
And late the nation found with fruitless skill
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ;
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'^ mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;
Processions form'd for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,
The sports of children satisfy the child ;
Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control.
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meaimess occupy the mind :
As in those domes, where Ca:sars once bore sway
Defaced by time and tottering in decay.
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, -'"
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ;
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile
My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display.
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion treat I,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread
No product here the barren hills afford.
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword-
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array.
But winter lingering chills the lap of May .
IbO
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though
small,
He sees his little lot the lot of all ;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil.
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from^hort repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep.
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way.
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze:
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board:
And haply too some pilgrim thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
Thus every good his native wilds impart,
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ;
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise
Enhance the bliss his scanty funds supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms.
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest.
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.
Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ;
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined.
Yet let them only share the praises due,
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ;
For every want that stimulates the breast.
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest;
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies,
That first excites desire, and then supplies ;
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ;
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame.
Their level life is but a smouldering fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfonn'd by strong desire;
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a-year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow;
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unalter'd, ummproved the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the
way,
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn ; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease.
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire !
Where shading elms along the margin grew.
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew ;
And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still.
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill;
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away :
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear;
For honour forms the social temper here.
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains.
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand.
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays.
And all are taught an avarice of praise ;
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise ;
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought.
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace.
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ;
Here beggar pride defrauds her uaily cheer.
To boast one splendid banquet once a-year ;
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
To men of other minds my fancy flies.
Embosom' d in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand.
Where the broad ocean leans against the land
THE TRAVELLER.
151
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, metliinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow;
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore.
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ;
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, ■_ •
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, '•• ' ■
A new creation rescued from his reign.
Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil.
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, : .
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that springs.
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings.
Are here display'd. Their much loved wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts :
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,
E'en liberty itself is barter'd here.
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves.
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform.
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old !
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ;
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow —
How much unlike the sons of Britain now !
Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride.
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspcs glide ;
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on every spray ;
Creation's mildest charms are there combined,
Extremes are onl}^ in the master's mind!
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state
With daring aims irregularly great ;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind ])ass by ;
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band.
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand,
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul.
True to imagined right, above control.
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.
Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured'here,
Thine are those cnarms that dazzle and endear;
Too blest indeed were such without alloy.
But fostcr'd e'en by freedom ills annoy ;
That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ;
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ;
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held.
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd.
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round her shore.
Till, over-wrought, the general system feels
Its motion stop, or phrensy fire the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway.
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to thee alone.
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown :
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms,
The laud of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame.
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie.
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die.
Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state,
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great :
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire.
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ;
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ;
Thou transitory flower, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun.
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure,
I only would repress them to secure : - -
For j ust experience tells, in every soil.
That those that think must govern those that toil;
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach.
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow.
Its double weight must ruin all below.
O then how blind to all that truth requires,
Who think it freedom when a part aspires !
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms.
Except when fast approaching danger warms :
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ;
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom when themselves are free ;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw.
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roani,
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start.
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.
Yes, brother, curse me with that baleful hour,
When flrst ambition struck at regal power ;
And thus polluting honour in its source,
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double foice
152
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore?
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste.
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste?
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain.
Lead stern depopulation in her train,
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose,
In barren solitary pomp repose?
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call.
The smiling long-frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd.
The modest matron, and the blushing maid.
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train.
To traverse climes beyond the western main;
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thund' ring sound?
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous
ways;
Where beasts with man divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim;
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise.
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories shine,
And bids liis bosom sympathize with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind :
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose,
To seek a good each government bestows?
In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure.
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find :
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy.
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE;
A POEM.
TO DR. GOLDSMITH,
.il'TBOR OF THE DESERTED VILLAGE, BY MISS AIKIN,
AFTERWARDS MRS. BARBAULD.
In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains •,
She moves our envy who so well complains:
In vain hath proud op[)ression laid her low ;
Siifi wears a garland on her faded brow.
Now Auburn, now, absolve impartial Fate,
Which, if it makes thee wretched, makes thee great.
So unobserved, some humble plant may bloom.
Till crush'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,
Unhonour'd genius, and her swift decay :
O, patron of the poor! it can not 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.
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
Dear Sir,
I CAN have no expectations, in an address of thii
kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish
my own. You can gain nothing from my admira-
tion, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are
said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity
of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in
poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside,
to which I never paid much attention, I must be
indulged at present in following my aflections.
The only dedication I ever made was to my bro-
ther, because I loved him better than most other
men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe
this Poem to you.
How far you may be pleased with the versifica-
tion 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,) that the depopu-
lation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the dis-
orders 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 alledge; and that
all my views and inquiries have led me to believe
those miseries real, which I here attempt to dis-
play. But this is not the place to enter into an in-
quiry, whether the country be depopulating or not ;
the discussion would take up much room, and I
should prove myself, at best, an indiflerent politi-
cian, to tire the reader with a long preface, when 1
want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.
In regretting the depopulation of the country, I
inveicrh asainst the increase of our luxuries; and
here also 1 expect the shout of modern politicians
against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it
has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of
the greatest national advantages; and all the wis-
dom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous.
Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient
on that head, and continue to think those luxuries
POEMS.
153
prejudicial to states by which so many vices are in-
troducetl, 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
Df novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish
to be in the right. I am, dear Sir, your sijicere
friend, and ardent admirer,
Oliver Goldsmith.
THE
DESERTED VILLAGE.
SwKET Auburn ! 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 lingering blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have 1 loiter'd o'er thy green.
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm.
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade.
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day.
When toil remitting lent its turn to play.
And all the \'illage train from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went
round ;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sougtit renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swiun mistrustless of his smutted face.
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love.
The matron's glance that woidd those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports hlce
these.
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence
shed.
These were thy charms — but all these charms are
lied.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn.
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole donuiin,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ;
1,
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day.
But choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall ;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hanti^
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade :
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. ,
A time there was. ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man j
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more :
His best companions, innocence and health,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose ;
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that asked but little room.
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful
scene.
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green ;
These, far daparting, seek a kinder shore.
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and niin'd grounds.
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care.
In all my griefs — and God has given mj' share — •
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humlilc howers 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,
Amid.st the swains to show my book-Iearn'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 llcw,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return — and die at home at last.
151
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease ;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, leanis to fly?
For him no wretches, born to work and weep.
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep;
Nor surh' 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 .0 the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way ;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven, commences &re the world be past.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
tip yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung;
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ;
The playful children just let loose from school ;
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering
wmd.
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale.
No busy steps the grass -grown foot-way tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled :
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing.
That feebly bends beside the plashy pring;
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread.
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn.
To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn ;
She only left of all the harmless train.
The sad historian of the pensive plai .
Near yonder copse, where once the arden smii'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year ;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd t change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrmes fasliion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His nouse was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ;
The long remember'd beggar was his guest.
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd j
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay.
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd-his crutch and show'd how fields were
won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to
glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ;
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call.
He watch' d and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged ofl^spring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay.
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to rais^
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise
At church, with meek and unafl!ected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain' d to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile.
And pluck' d his gown, to share the good man's
smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, -
Theirwelfare pleased him, and their caresdistress'd;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall clifl'that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolUng clouds are
spread.
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way.
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school:
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Convey 'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd:
POEMS.
155
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught.
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew,
•Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge:
In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill.
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length, and thund'ring
sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, —
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. —
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts
inspired,
Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talk' d with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor.
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspin boughs, and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, gUsten'd in a row.
Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's talo,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be Ibund
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train,
- To me more dear, congenial to my heart.
One native charm, than all the gloss of art :
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and own their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade.
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain :
And e'en wliile fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joyi
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey v
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a namoii
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth.
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their
growth ;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, .
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
Wliile thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all .
In barren splendour feebly wait.s 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 ;
B ut when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail.
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd;
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd.
But verging to decline, its splendours rise, ;
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ;
While, scourged by famine from the smiling laaj,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms — a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride7
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd.
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped — What waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share ;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury and thin mankind ;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade •
156
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis-
play,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;
Tuntrultuous grandeur crowns the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare,
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts'? — Ah, turn thine
eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female hes.
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 pinched with cold, and shrinking from the
shower.
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town.
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train.
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led.
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene.
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
'J'hrough torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
{Where wild Altama murmurs to their wd^
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 chng ;
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance
crown'd
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ;
W here crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murderous still than they ;
Wnile oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene.
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove.
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that part-
ing day
That call'd them from their native walks away ;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past.
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats Uke these beyond the western main •
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire, the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself in conscious virtue brave,
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears.
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ;
While her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions with insidious joy.
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own ;
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ;
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, 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 pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land,
Down where yon anchoring vessels spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale.
Downward they move, a melancholy hand.
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care.
And kind connubial tenderness are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ;
Unfit in those degenerate times of shame.
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried.
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried.
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow.
Or wmter wraps the polar world in snow.
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time.
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid, slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain.
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ;
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
1
POEMS.
157
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 GIFT.
TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake.
Dear mercenary beauty, " • -
What annual offering shall I make \ .
Expressive of my duty 1
My heart, a victim to thine eyes, . ,
Should I at once dehver.
Say, would tlie angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver ?
A bill, a jewel, watch or toy,
My rivals give — and let 'em ;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy, j
I'll give them — when I get 'em.
I'll give — but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion :
Such short-lived offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere, than civil :
I'll give thee — ah! too charming maid.
I'll give thee-
-to the devil.
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
Ma}' speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart \)ut feels his sweetly moral lay,
Thafts leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry
way!
Celestial thttiics confcss'd his tuneful aid ;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below .
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
EPILOGUE
TO THE OOMEDY OF 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 speaking masquerade ;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain o.
thinking :
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade ? — I will.
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] — I've go ,
my cue ;
The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you,
you, you.
[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.
Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and falsa
spouses !
Statesmen with bridles on ; and close beside 'em,
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.
There Hebes, tum'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 tiling — ^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 1
[Mimicking.
Strip but this vizor oif, and sure I am
You'll find his honship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume.
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight.
And seems, to every gazer, all in white.
If with a bribe his candour you attack.
He bows, turns round, and wliip — the man in
black !
Yon critic, toe — but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well then a truce, since she requests it too : i
Do you. spare her, and I'll for once spare you.
EPILOGUE, - .
SPOKEN BY MRS. BOLKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.
Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low as beginning
to speak. Then enter Miss Caller/, who stands full befo£0
her, and courtesies to the Audience.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's youi busi-
ness here ?
?8
OLDSMITH'S WORKS.
MISS CATLEY.
The Epilogue.
MRS. EULKLEY.
The Epilogue 1
MISS CATLEY.
Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.
MRS. BOLKLEY.
Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue, /bring it.
MISS CATLEY.
Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it.
Recitative.
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Why, sure 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 etiquette.
MISS CATLEY.
What if we leave it to the house 1
MRS. BULKLEY.
The house ! — Agreed.
MISS CATLEY.
Agreed.
MRS. BULKLEY.
And she whose party's largest shall proceed.
And first, I hope you'll 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! 1 find too late, 1 fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
MISS CATLEY.
I'm for a different set. — Old men whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.
Recitative.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair with voice beguilins.
Air — Cotillon.
Turn my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon 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,
Ves, I shall die, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Da capo.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit ;
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travel!' d tribe, ye macaroni train.
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once a-year
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here;
Lend me your hands. — O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.
MISS CATLEY.
Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed !
Crive me my bonny Scot, that travels from the
Tweed.
Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. .
Air — A bonny young lad is my Jockey.
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay ,
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away
With Sand}"^, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one va toute :
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
"I hold the odds. — Done, done, with you, with you.'
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,
" My lord, — Your lordship misconceives the case."
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner,
" I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:"
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty.
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
MISS CATLEY.
Air— Ballinamony.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack ;
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are caUing, to blush and hang back.
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive.
And death is your only preventive :
Your hands and your voices for me.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
Miss CATLEY.
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspokenl
MRS. BULKLEY.
Agreed.
MISS CATLEY.
Agreed.
MRS. BULKLEY.
And now with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit,
[Exeunt
AN EPILOGUE,
INTENDED FOR MRS, BULKLEY.
There is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things :
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he ; — but I affirm, the Stage ;
At least in many tilings, I tlrink, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
POEMS.
159
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses ;
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day.
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the aflected city dame advancing.
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
duits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too; — with angry phrases stored,
As " Dam'me, sir," and " Sir, I wear a sword ;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here comes 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 lace7
Without a star, a coronet, or garter.
Flow 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
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter.
The haunch was a picture for painters to study.
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce
help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view.
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu ;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so.
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ;
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in.
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
'This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Gnklsinilli to Dr.
Percy (late Uislioj) of Dromore); but lor what coniCLly it was
intended is not remembered.
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pro-
nounce,
This tale of he bacon's a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet maj' try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to 6y.
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn,
It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.*
To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch,
So 1 cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest.
To pamt itj or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next todispo.se;
Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Mon-
roe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again.
With the how, and the who, and the where, and
the when.
There's H— d, andC— y, and H— rth, and H— IT;
I think they love venison — 1 know they love beef.
There's my countryman, Higgins — Oh ! let him
alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone. -
But hang it — to poets who seldom can eat, f
Your very good mutton is 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 centred.
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, en-
ter'd;
An under-bred, fine spoken fellow was he,
And he 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 1 with a flounce;
" I get these things often " — but that was a bounce :
" Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the na-
tion.
Are pleased 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;
No words — 1 insist on't — precisely at three;
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will
be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't. as 1 am a sinner 1
We wanted this venison to make out a dinnei
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-ena ;
No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear
friend!"
Thus snatching his hat, hebrush'd ofl"Iikethe wind,
Anil the porter and eatables followed behind.
* Lord Clare's nephew
160
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And " nobody with me at sea but myself';"*
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman
hasty,
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life.
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife,
So next day in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A ehair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite
dumb.
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not
come ;
"For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t' other with
Thrale;
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They're both of them merry, and authors like you :
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna — he ownstoPanurge."
While thus he described 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 sjiinage, and pudding made
hot;
In the middle a place were the pasty — was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion.
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound.
While the bacon and liver went merrily round :
But what vex'd me mo^t was that d d Scottish
rogue.
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his
brogue,
And " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my
poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on :
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst.
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst."
" The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate
cheek,
" I could (line on this tripe seven days in a week :
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small;
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothingat all."
»'0 — 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."
* See tlie letters that passed between his Royal Hishness,
Henry Diike of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.— l2nio,
" What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot,
" Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that "
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
" We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid :
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright.
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake
her?
That she came with some terrible news from the
baker :
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop —
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste ;
You' ve got an odd something — a kind of discerning,
A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known.
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss.
You may make a mistake, and thinli slightly of this.
FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.
SONG.
The wretch condemn'd with Ufe to part,
Still, still on hope relies ;
And every pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
SONG.
O Memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain.
To former joys recurring ever.
And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever fmd a foe.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
John Trott was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears;
POEMS.
161
' An't please j'ou,
letters,
quoth John, " I'm not given to
Nor dare I'pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved ! without thinking on asses."
Edinbui'gh, 1753.
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
AN ELEGY
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord.
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word, —
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,—
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove tne neignbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow' d wicked ways, —
Unless when she was sinning
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size ;
She never slumber'd in her pew, —
But when she shut her eyes.
I
Her love was sought, 1 do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her, —
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all ;
The doctors found, when she was dead, —
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore, i
For Kent-street well may say.
That had she lived a twelvemonth more, —
She had not died to-day.
RETALIATION;
A POEM.
[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dineil '
at the St. James's Coflee-house. — One day it was proposed t«
wrrite epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person,
furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Ke-
taliation, and at their next meeting produced the following
poem.]
Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was
united;
If our landlord* supplies uswith beef, and with fish.
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the
best dish ;
Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the
plains;
Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of
brains ;
Our Willi shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour
And Dickll with his pepper shall heighten the sa-
vour ;
Our Cumberland'sTT sweet-bread its place shall
obtain.
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick'stt a sallad ; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge tt is anchovy, and Reynolds§9 is Iamb;
That Hickey'sllll a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith 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 thiidv of the dead.
I'his gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin;
but having wa<ited his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier.
Growing tired of that emiiloymeiit, he obtained liis discharge,
and became a scribbler in tlie newspapers He translated
Voltaire's Henriade.
11 • .
* The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, wliere th«
doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, oc-
casionally dined.
I Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland.
X Tlie Right Hon. Edmtnid Burke.
§ Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway,
and member for Bed win.
II Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.
T^Mr. Richard Cunfocrland, author of "The West Indian."
"Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other
productions.
• • Dr. Dnusla.', canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop ol
Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less dis-
tinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound
critic in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forge-
ries) of his countrymen ; particularly Lauder on Milton, and
Bower's History of the Popes.
it David Garrick. Esq.
tt Coimsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to tht
Irish bar.
§1 Sir .loshua Reynolds
III An eminent attorney.
169
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with
mirth :
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em.
Thai sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund,t whose genius was
such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind.
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his
throat
To persuade Tommy Townshendt to lend him a
vote:
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refin
ing.
And thought of convincing, while they thought of
dining:
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit.
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir.
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, § whose heart was a
mint.
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that
was in' t;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along.
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam.
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home :
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were
his own.
Here lies honest Richard, II whose fate I must
sigh at;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet?
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim !
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb !
Now wrangUng and grumbling 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;
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;
* Doctor Bernard.
t The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
J Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
§ Mr. William Burlje.
I Mr. Richard Burke; (vide pa^e 161.) This gentleman
having sliglitly fractured one of his arms and legs at different
times, tb? doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind
of retritjutive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. I
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feeling, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone.
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own;
Say, where has our poet this malady caught.
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
CLuite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf.
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax.
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks;
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines.
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant
reclines :
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector.
Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall
lecture;
Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com-
pile:
New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
over.
No countryman Uving their tricks to discover
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the
dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can.
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ;
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread.
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a-day :
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick :
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle
them back.
" The Rev. Dr. Dodd.
tDr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under
the title of " The School of Shakspeare."
}. Tames Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere furct
of his style, wrote down the &xeX. poet of all antiquity.
POEMS.
163
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puffof a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
"Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallst so grave,
What a commerce was yours, wliile you got and
you gave !
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you
raised.
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-
praised !
But peace to his spirit 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 where he will,
Old Shakspeare receive liim with praise and with
love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.t
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant
creature.
And slander itself must allow him good nature ;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper,
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer no, no, for he always was wiser.
' Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the
Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, etc. etc.
t Mi. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
t The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some mea-
sure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith in
respect to that gentleman.
JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.
Here Hermes, says .Tove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay — I will make an oddfeUoin!
Right and wrong shall be jumbled, — much gold and some
dross;
Without cause be he plea.<!cd, without cause be he cross;
Re sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in tlie baking,
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the loveof a wench let his writings be cha.ste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake iind the jjoet o'er all may prevail.
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail:
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Chrislian, dupe, gamester, and poet ;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals — be Goldsmith his name;
When on earth tliis strange meteor no more shall appear.
You, Hermes, shall fetch him — to make us sport here.
ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL
COOKERY.
A JEU D'ESPRIT.
Arc these the choice dishes the doctor has sent usT
Is this the great poet whose works so content us 7
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine booksl
Heaven sends us good meat, but tlie Devil sends cooks.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go.
And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no!
T hen what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye :
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind ;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland :
Still born to improve us in every part.
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart :
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard
of hearing :
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,
and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.
• POSTSCRIPT.
After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the pub-
lisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,t
from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.
Here Wliitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man -.t
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear ;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill :
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content " if the table he set in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit.
Yet happy if Woodfall§ confess'd him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come.
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb.
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no lofis)
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the
press.ll
* i?ir .loshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be un-
der the necespily of using an ear-trumpet in company.
tMr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorinis espays,
♦Mr. W. w<Ls so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goklsn>ith
used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without
being ir.fccted with the itch of punning.
§ Mr. H. )*. Wooilfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
B Mr. Whitefoord has frefitiently indulged the town with hu-
morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser,
164
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Merry White foord, farewell ! for thy «ake I ad-
mit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said
wit.
This debt to thy mem'ry I can not refuse,
•'Thou best humour'd man with the worst hu-
mour'd Muse."
SONG:
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.*
Ah me! when shall I marry me7
Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me.
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But 1 will rally, and combat the miner :
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.
PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE;
A TRAGEDY:
WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESa. ACTED AT THE
THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, MDCCLXXII.
SPOKEN BY MR. ttUICK.
In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates, and the savage shore ;
When wise astronomers to India steer.
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters.
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading —
Yet ere he lands 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 dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder :
[Upper Gallery.
* SIR — I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold-
smith, which has never been published, and which might per-
haps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended
it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi-
5abre comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out,
as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung
it himself in private companies very agreeably. Tlie tune is a
pretty Ifish air, called "The Humours of Balamagairy," to
■which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words;
but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I
could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to
give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London,
and bidd;i,g him adieu for that season, little apprehending
tha. « was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his
own haiid-writing, with an afTectionate care.
I am, Sir, your humble servant,
James Boswell,
There mangroves spread, and larger than P ve seen
'em —
CPiL
Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em
rr . . . [Balconiea
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound —
[Stage.
And apples, bitter apples strew the ground :
[Tasting 'Jieni.
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing — there are serpents here!
O, there the people are — best keep my distance :
Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance.;
Our ship's well stored — in yonder creek we've laid
her.
His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure, lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from
far.
Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What, no reply to promises so ample!
Pd best step back — and order up a sample.
EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OP
HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT
Hold ! Prompter, hold ! a word before your non-
sense :
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said.
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ;
That I found humour in a piebald vest.
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
[Takes off his mask.
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth 1
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 fiU'd the scene w'ih all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued !
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Wliose only plot it is f o break our noses ;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,.
And from above the dangling deities ;
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do !
No — I will act, I'll vindicate the stage :
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns !
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme :
Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds !— •
soft — 'twas but a dream.
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat-
ing,
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that ^Esop's stag, a creature blameless
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless^
POEMS.
165
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavill'd at his image in the flood.
" The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick
shanks,
They never have my gratitude nor thanks ;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
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."
Wliilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen
drew;
Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from be-
hind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind :
He quSa the woods, and tries the beaten ways ;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length, his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore ;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself, like me.
[Taking a jump through tlie stege door.
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED,
IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT,
Logicians have but ill defined
As rational the human mind ;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision.
With definition and division.
Homo est ratione procditum ;
But for my soul I can not credit 'em ;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain ;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide,
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
i\.nd that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima hrutorum.
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 their mind ;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court ;
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend, a foe ;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place
Nor undertake a dirty job.
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob :
Fraught with invective they ne'er "'o
To folks at Pater-Noster Row ;
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confcst, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape :
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him 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,
Thefr masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords, and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all. '
STANZAS
ON THE TAKING OF aOEBEC, ■
Amidst the clamour of exulting joys.
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piprcing voice.
And quells the raptures which from pleasure
start.
O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Q,uebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled.
And saw thee fall with joy-jironouncing eyes :
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead I
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH
struck blind bv lightning..
Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate.
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
A SONNET
Weeping, murmuring, complaining.
Lost to every gay delight ;
Myra, too sincere for feigning, ■• '
Fears th' approaching bridal night
Yet why impair thy bright perfection 1
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
^mm ©©©©^sf^swiBUE) m^m
E CometJfi;
AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.
PREFACE.
When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess
I was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets
of tne last age, and strove to imitate them. The
term, genteel comedy, was then unknown amongst
ns, and little more was desired by an audience,
tlian nature and humour, in whatever walks of life
they were most conspicuous. The author of the
following scenes never imagined that more would be
expected of him, and therefore to delineate charac-
ter has been his principal aim. Those who know
any tiling of composition, are sensible that, in pur-
suing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the
recesses of the mean; I was even tempted to look
for it in the master of a spunging-house ; but in
deference to the public taste, grown of late, per-
Iiaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was re-
trenched in the representation. In deference also
to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a
particular way, the scene is here restored. The
author submits it to the reader in his closet ; and
hopes that too much refinement will not banish hu-
mour and character from ours, as it has already
done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French
comedy is now become so very elevated and senti-
mental, that it has not only banished humour and
Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all
spectators too.
Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks
to the public for the favourable reception which
' The Good-Natured Man" has met with; and to
Mr. 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
tus piotection.
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON,
AND ^
SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLEY.
Prest by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of human kind ;
"With cool submission joins the lab' ring train,
And social sorrow loses half its pain ;
Our anxious bard without complaint, may share
This bustling season's epidemic care.
Like Ca;sar's pilot, dignified by fate.
Tost in one common storm with all the great ;
Distrest alike, the statesman and the wit.
When one a borough courts, and one the pit.
The busy candidates for power and fame
Have hopes and fears, and wishes, just the same;
Disabled both to combat or to fly,
Must bear all taunts, and hear without reply.
Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.
Th' ofiended burgess holds his angry tale,
For that blest year when all that vote may rail ;
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss.
Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss.
" This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,"
Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's vote."
" This night our wit," the pert aj>prentice cries,
" Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies."
The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe ;
The bard may supplicate, but can not bribe.
Yet judged by those, whose voices ne'er were sold,
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ;
But confident of praise, if praise be due.
Trusts, without fear, to merit, and to yoiu
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
167
DRAMATIS PERSONiE.
MEN. , - •
Mr. HoNErwooD .... Mr. Powell.
Croaker Mr. Shuter.
Lofty Mr. Woodward.
Sir William HoNEYwooD . Mr. Clarke.
Leontine Mr. Bensley.
Jartis . Mr. Dunstall.
Bctler Mr. Gushing.
Bailiff Mr. R. Smith.
DuBARDiEU Mr. Holtam.
Postboy Mr. Uuick.
WOMEN.
M'ss RrcHLAND .... Mrs. Bulkley.
Olivia Mrs. Mattocks.
Mrs. Croaker Mrs. Pitt.
Garnet Mrs. Green.
Landlady Mrs. White.
Scene — London. ,
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
ACT I.
scene — AN APARTMENT IN YOUNG HONEYWOOD'S
HOUSE.
Enter SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, JAE.VIS.
Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies
for this honest liluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is
the best excuse for every freedom.
Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very
ancrry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so
good, so worthy a young gentleman as your ne-
phew, my master. All the world loves him.
Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the
world ; that is his fault.
Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more
dear to him than you arc, though he has not seen
you since he was a child.
Sir William. What signifies his affection to
me ; or how can I be proud of a place in a hearty
where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy
entrance 1
Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good-
natured ; that he's too much every man's man ; that
he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next
with another ; but whose instructions may he thank
for all this?
Sir William. Not mine, sure ? My letters to
Lira during my employment in Italy, taught him
only that philosophy which might prevent, not de-
fend his errors.
Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour's pardon,
I'm sorry they taught him any philosophy at all; it
has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy
is a good horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on
a journey. For my own part, whenever I hear
him mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's
going to play the fool.
Sir William. 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 de-
serving happy.
Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know.
But to be sure, every body has it, that asks it.
Sir William. 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 liis dis-
sipation. , ■> .
Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name
or other for them all. He calls his extravagance,
generosity; and his trusting every body, universal
benevolence. It was but last week he went se-
curity for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, and
that he called an act of exalted mu — mu — munifi-
cence ; ay, that was the name he gave it.
Sir William. And upon that I proceed, as my
last effort, though with very little hopes to reclaim
him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I
have taken up the security. 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 officer upon him, and
then let him see which of his friends will come to
his relief.
Jarvis. Well, if 1 could but any way see him
thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be mu-
sic 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 William. 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 opportuni-
ties 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 lum-
self, as to require correction ! Yet we must touch
his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are
some faults so nearly allied to excellence, that we
can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating
the virtue. [Exit.
Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Ho-
neywood. It is not without reason, that the world
allows thee to be the best of men. But here conies
his hojieful nephew; the strange, good-natured,
foolish, open-hearted— And yet, all his faults aie
such that one loves him still the better for them.
EnteT HONEYWOOD.
Hoveywood. Well, Jarvis, what mes.sajje<? fmvu.
my friends this morning? ■
163
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Jarvis. You have no friends.
Honeijwood. Well; from my acquaintance then?
Jarvis. [pullmg 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 b»^en at a great deal of trouble to get back the
money you borrowed.
Honeywood. That I don't know; but I am sure
we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to
lend it.
Jarvis. He has lost all patience.
Honeywood. Then he has lost a very good thing.
Jarvis. 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 foi
a while at least.
Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their
mouths in the meantime 7 Must I be cruel, because
he happens to be importunate; and, to relieve his
avarice, leave them to insupportable distress?
Jarvis. 'Sdeatli! sir, the question now is how
to relieve yourself; yourself — Haven't I reason to
be out of my senses, when I see things going at
sixes and sevens ?
Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have
for being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow
that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in
mine.
Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your pre-
sent 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.
Honeywood. I'm no man's rival.
Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disin-
herit you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and no-
thing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a
pack of drunken servants that your kindness has
made unfit for any other family.
Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion
for being in mine.
Jarvis. Soh ! What will you have done with
him that I caught stealing your plate in the pan-
try? In the fact; I caught him in the fact.
Honeywood. In the fact ? If so, I really think
that we should pay him his wages, and turn him
off.
Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the
dog; we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the
rest of the family.
Honeywood. No, Jarvis; it's enough that we
have lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to it
the loss of a fellow -creature !
Jarvis. Very fine ! well, here was the footman
just now, to conijjlain of the butler : he says he
does most work, and ought to have most wages.
Honeywood. That's but just; though perhaps
h.ere comes the butler to complain of the footman.
Jarvis. Ay, it's the waj' with them all, from th«
scullion to the privy-counsellor. If they have a bad
master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if thev
have a good master, they keep quarrelling with one
another.
Enter BUTLER, drunk.
Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jona-
than ; you must part with him, or part with me,
that's the ex — ex — exposition of the matter, sir.
Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But
what's his fault, good Philip?
Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I
shall have my morals corrupted by keeping such
company.
Honeywood. Ha! ha! he has such a diverting
way-
Darin's. O, quite amusing.
Butler. I find my wine's a-going, sir; and li-
quors don't go without mouths, sir; I. hate a drunk-
ard, sir.
Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you
upon that another time ; so go to bed now.
Jarvis. To bed ! let him go to the devil.
Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and beg
ging your pardon. Master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed,
nor to the devil neither. I have enough to do to
mind my cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr.
Croaker is below. I came on purpose to tell you.
Honeywood. Why didn't you show him up,
blockhead?
Butler. Show him up, sir! With all my heart,
sir. Up or down, all's one to me. [Exit.
Jarvis. 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 returned from Paris, and Miss
Richland, the young lady he's guardian to.
Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker know-
ing my friendship for the young lady, has got it
into his head that I can persuade her to what I
please.
Jarvis. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as
well as she loves you, we should soon see a mar-
riage that would set all things to rights again.
Honeywood. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream.
No, no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to
more than friendship — mere friendship. That she
is the most lovely woman that ever warmed the
human heart with desire, I own. But never let
me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by
a connexion with one so unworthy her merits as I
am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my study to serve her,
even in spite of my wishes ; and to secure her hap-
piness, though it destroys my own.
Jarvis. Was ever the like? I want patience.
Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could ob-
tain Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could
succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his
wife i who, though both very fine in their way, ara
\
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
169
Richland and my son much reUshed, either by one
side or t' other,
Honeywood. I thought otherwise.
Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a Uttle of your
fine serious advice to the young lady might go far:
I know she has a very exalted opinion of your un-
derstanding.
Honeywood. But would not that be usurping an
authority that more properly belongs to yourself?
Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of
my authority at home. People think, indeed, be-
cause they see me come out in a morning thus, with
a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that
all's well within. But I have cares that would
break a heart of stone. My wiiie has so encroach-
ed upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now
no more than a mere lodger in my own house.
Honeywood. But a little spirit exerted on your
dde might perhaps restore your authority.
Croaker. No, though 1 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.
Honeywood. It's a melancholy consideration in-
deed, that our chief comforts often produce our
greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our pos-
sessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes.
Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the
very words of poor Diek Doleful to me not a week
before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr.
Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in
mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected
for you ! and so true a friend ! we loved each other
for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend
him a single farthinjj.
Honeywood. Pray what could induce him to com-
mit so rash an action at last 1
Croaker. I don't know: some people were ma-
licious enough to say it was keeping company with
me; because we used to meet now and then and
open our hearts to each other. To be sure I loved
whom they pervert in a country that has scarce any I to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk;
wo yet a little opposite in their dispositions, you
know.
Jarvis. Opposite enough. Heaven knows! the
very reverse of each other : she, all laugh and no
joke; he always complaining and never sorrowful ;
a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every
hour in the four-and-tvvcnty —
Honeywood. Hush, hush, he's coming up, he'll
hear you.
Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing-bell —
. Honeyxoaod. Well, well ; go, do.
Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief;
a coffin and cross bones; a bundle of rue; a sprig of
deadly night-shade ; a — [Honeywood stopping
his mouth, at last pushes him off. '
Exit JARVIS.
Honeywood. I must own my old monitor is not
entirely wrong. There is something in my friend
Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me.
His very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and
his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits
than an undertaker's shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is
such a satisfaction —
Enter CROAKER.
Croaker. A pleasant mornitig 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 notliing —
But God send we be all better this day three months.
Honeywood. I heartily concur in the wish,
though, I own, not in your apprehensions.
Croaker. May-be not. Indeed what signifies
what weather we have in a country going to ruin
like ours'] taxes rising and trade falling. Money
flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming
into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred
and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing-cross
and Temple-bar.
Honeywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert
you or me, I should hope.
Crocker. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies
religion to lose ! I'm only afraid for our wives and
daughters.
Honeywood. I have no apprehensions for the
ladies, I assure you.
Croaker. May-be not. Indeed, what signifies
whether they be perverted or no 7 the women in my
time were good for something. I have seen'a lady
drest from top to toe in her own manufactures for-
merly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their
own manufacture's about them, except their faces.
Honeywood. But, however these faults may be
practised abroad, you don't find them at home,
either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland?
Croaker. The best of them will never be canon-
ized for a saint when she's dead. By the bj, my
«r«r Iriend, I don't find this match between Miss
poor dear Dick. He used to say that Croaker rhymed
to joker; and so we used to laugh — Poor Dick.
[Going to cry.
Honeywood. His fate affects me.
Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life,
where we do nothing but eat and grow humrry.
dress and undress, get up and lie down; while rea-
son, that should watch hke a nurse by our side,
falls as fast asleep as we do.
Honeywood. To say truth, if we compare that
part of life which is to come, by that which we have
past, the prospect is hideous.
Croaker. Life at the greatest and best is but a
froward child, that must be humoured and coaxed
a little till it falls asleep, and Iher all the care vt
is over.
270
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Honeyxcood. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed
the vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pur-
BUits. We wept when we came into the world,
and every day tells us why.
Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satis-
faction to be miserable with you. My son Leon-
tine shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation.
I'll just step home for him. I am willing to show
him so much seriousness in one scarce older than
himself — And what if I bring my last letter to the
Gazetteer on the increase and progress of earth-
quakes? 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 Palmyra to Constantino-
ple, and so from Constantinople back to London
again. [Exit.
Honeywood. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves
the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits
these three days. Sure to live upon such terms is
worse than death itself And yet, when I consider
my own situation, — a broken fortune, a hopeless
passion, friends in distress, the wish but not the
power to serve them — {pausing and sighing.]
Enter BUTLER.
Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker
and Miss Richland; shall I show them upl but
they're showing up themselves. [E.vit.
Enter MRS. CROAKER and MSS RICHLAND.
Miss Richland. You're always in such spirits.
Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear
Honeywood, from the auction. There was the
old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury
against herself And then so curious in antiques !
herself the most genuine piece of antiquity in the
whole collection.
Honeywood. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasi-
ness from friendship makes me unfit to share in this
good-humour : I know you'll pardon me.
Mrs. Croaker. I vow he seems as melancholy as
if he had taken a dose of my husband this morning.
Well, if Richland here can pardon you I must.
Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate,
madam, that I have particular reasons for being dis-
posed to refuse it.
Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear,
don't be so ready to wish an explanation.
Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr.
Honeywood's long friendship and mine should be
misunderstood.
Honeywood. There's no answering for others,
madam. But I hope you'll never find me presum-
ing to offer more than the most delicate friendship
may readily allow.
Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such
a tribute from you, than the most passionate pro-
fessions fr">m others.
Honeywood. My own sentiments, madam ; friend-
ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ;
love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and
slaves.
Miss Richland. And, without a compliment, I
know none more disinterested, or more capable oJ
friendship, than Mr. Honeywood.
Mrs. Croaker. And, indeed, I know nobody that
has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss
Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom,
praise him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy
Bundle, she's his professed admirer.
Miss Richland. Indeed ! an admirer !— I did not
know, sir, you were such a favourite there. But
is she seriously so handsome 7 Is she the mighty
thing talked of 1
Honeywood. The town, madam, seldom begins
to praise a lady's beauty, till she's beginning to
Jose it. [Smiling
Mrs. Croaker. But she's resolved never to lose
it, it seems. For, as her natural face decays, her
skill improves in making the artificial one. Well,
nothing diverts me more than one of those fine,
old, dressy things, who thinks to conceal her age.
by every where exposing her person; sticking her-
self up in the front of a side box ; trailing through
a minuet at Almack's; and then in the public gar-
dens, looking for all the world like one of the paint-
ed ruins of the place.
HoneyiBood. Every age has its admirers, ladies.
While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer
climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry
on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes be-
yond fifty.
Miss Richland. But, then, the mortifications
they must suffer, before they can be fitted out for
traffic. I have seen one of them fret a whole
morning at her hair-dresser, when all the fault was
her face.
Honeywood. And yet, I'll engage, has carried
that face at last to a very good market. This
good-natured town, madam, has husbands, Hke
spectacles, to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore
Mrs. Croaker. Well, you're a dear good-natured
creature. But you know you're engaged with us
this morning upon a strolling party. I want to
show Olivia the town, and the things; I believe I
shall have business for you for the whole day. '
Honeywood. I am sorry, madam, I have an ap-
pointment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossi-
ble to put off.
Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husband ? then
I'm resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest
you must. You know I never laugh so much as
with you.
Honeyxcood. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear
you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you
find jest, and I'll find laugh I promise you. We'll
wait for the chariot in the next room. [Exeunt.
Enter LEOXTINE and OLmA.
Leontine. There they go, thoughtless and hap
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
171
py. My dearest Olivia, what would 1 give to see | addresses. I consider every look, every oxpiession
you capable of sharing in their amusements, and I of your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly
as cheerful as they are.
Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheer-
ful, when I have so many terrors to oppress me 7
The fear of being detected by this family, and the
apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must
be detected —
Leontine. 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 dis-
liked, you formed a resolution of flying with the
man of your choice ; that you confided in his hon-
our, and took refuge in my father's house ; the only
one where yours could remain without censure.
Olivia. But consider, Leontine, your disobedi-
ence and my indiscretion; your being sent to
France to bring home a sister, and instead of a
sister, bringing home
Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters.
One that I am convinced will be equally dear to
the rest of the family, when she comes to be known.
Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be.
Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think
proper to make the discovery. My sister, you
know, has been with her aunt at Lyons, since she
was a child, and you find every creature in the
family takes you for her.
Olivia. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt
write 1
Leontine. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all
my sister's letters are directed to me.
Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland,
for whom you know the old gentleman intends
you, create a suspicion 1
Leontine. There, tlierc's my master-stroke. I
have resolved not to refuse her; nay, an hour
hence I have consented to go with my father to
make her an ofler of my heart and fortune.
Olivia. Your heart and fortune !
Leontine. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can
Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love,
as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from
any but her? No, my Olivia, neither the force,
nor, permit me to add, the delicacy of my passion,
leave any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss
Richland a heart I am convinced she will refuse ;
as 1 am confident, that without knowing it, her af-
fections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood.
Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! you'll excuse my ap-
prehensions ; but when your merits come to be put
:n the balance —
Leontine. You view them with too much par-
tiality. However, by maliing this oiler, 1 show a
seeming compliance with my father's command ;
and perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his con-
sent to choose for myself.
Olii'ia. Well, 1 submit. And yet, my Leon-
line, I owji, I shall envy her even your pretended
perhaps : 1 allow it ; but it is natural to suppose,
that merit which has made an impression on one's
own heart, may be pov^^erful over that of another.
Leontine. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us
make imaginary evils, when you know we have
so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you
know, if Miss Richland should consent, or my
fiither refuse his pardon, it can but end in a trip to
Scotland : and
fintcr CTIOAKER. -
Croaker. Where have you been boy 1 I have
been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here
has been saying such comfortable things. Ah!
he's an example indeed. Where is hel 1 leil him
here.
Leontine. Sir, I believe you may see him, and
hear him too, in the next room; he's preparing to
go out with the ladies.
Croaker. Good gracious ! can 1 believe my eyes
or my ears! I'm struck dumb with his vivacity
and stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was
there ever such a transformation ! [A laugh be-
hind the scenes, Croaker mimics it.'] Ha ! ha ! ha !
there it goes: a plague take their balderdash! yet
I could expect nothing less, when my precious wife
was of the party. On my conscience, I believe she
could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a
tabernacle.
Leontine. Since you find so many objections to
a wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recom-
mending one to me?
Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again,
boy, that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out
of the family ; one may find comfort in the money,
whatever one does in the wife.
Leontine. But, sir, though, in obedience to your
desire, 1 am ready to marry her, it may be possible
she has no inclination to me.
Croaker. I'll tell you once for all how it stands.
A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune con-
sists in a claim upon government, which my good
friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the treasury will al-
low. One half of this she is to forfeit, by her fa-
ther's will, in case she refuses to marry you. So,
if she rejects you, we seize half her fi)rtune ; if
she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine girl
into the bargain.
Leontine. But, sir, ifyouwillbutlistcntoreason--
Croaker. Come, theji, produce your reasons. I
tell you, I'm fixed, determined; so now produce
your reasons. When I'm determined, 1 always
listen to reason, because it can then do no harm.
Leontine. You have alleged that a mutual choice!
was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness.
Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a
mutual choice. She has her choice — to marry yoa.
or lose half her fortune; and you haveyour choice—
173
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
to marry her, or pack out of doors without any
fortune at all.
Leontine. An only son, sir, might expect more
indulgence.
Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more
obedience : besides, has not your sister here, that
never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as
you? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would
take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he
shan't, for you shall have your share.
Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced,
that I can never be happy in any addition to my
fortune, which is taken from his.
Croaker. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no
more ; but come with me, and we shall see some-
tliing that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I
promise you ; old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker,
lying in state : I am told he makes a very hand-
some corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously.
He was an intimate friend of mine, and these are
friendly things we ought to do for each other.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
.SCENE croaker's HOUSE,
mSS RICHLAND, GARNET.
Miss Richland. Olivia not his sisterl Olivia not
Leontine's sister ? You amaze me !
Garnet. No more his sister than I am ; I had it
all from his own servant : 1 can get any thing from
that quarter.
Miss Richland. But how? Tell me again, Gar-
net.
Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, in-
stead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister,
who has been there with her aunt these ten years,
he never went farther than Paris .- there he saw
and fell in love with this young lady, by the by, of
a prodigious family.
Miss Richland. And brought her home to my
guardian as his daughter ?
Garnet. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If
he don't consent to their marriage, they talk of try-
ing what a Scotch parson can do.
Miss Richland. Well, I own they have deceiv-
ed me — And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! —
Would you believe it. Garnet, I told her all my se-
crets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from
me?
Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don't
much blame her : she was loath to trust one with
her secrets that was so very bad at keeping her
own.
Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the
young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me
senous proposals. My guardian and he are to be
here presently, to open the affair in form. Yoa
know I am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him.
Garnet. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as
you arc, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam —
3Iiss Richland. How! idiot, what do you mean?
In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke
me?
Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with
him ; I meant nothing more than friendship, as I
hope to be married ; nothing more.
Miss Richland. Well, no more of this : As to
my guardian and his son, they shall find me pre-
pared to receive them : I'm resolved to accept their
proposal with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by
compliance, and so throw the refusal at last upon
them.
Garnet. Delicious! and that will secure your
whole fortune to yourself Well, who could have
thought so innocent a face could cover so much
'cuteness !
Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my
prudence to their cunning, and practise a lesson
they have taught me against themselves.
Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want
employment, for here they come, and in close con-
ference.
Enter CROAKER, LEONTINE.
Leontine. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate
upon the point of putting to the lady so important
a question.
Croaker. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ;
you're so plaguy shy, that one would think you had
changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half
or the whole. Come, let me see with what spiril
you begin: Well, why don't you? Eh! what?
Well then — I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my
dear, I believe you guess at our business, an affaii
which my son here comes to open, that nearly con
cerns your happiness.
Miss Richland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not
to be pleased with any thing that comes recom-
mended by j'ou.
Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer
opening ? Why don't you begin, I say ?
[ To Leontine.
Leontine. 'Tis true, madam, my father, madam,
has some intentions — hem — of explaining an jiiTair
— which — himself — can best explain, madam.
Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from
my son ; it's all a request of his own, madam. And
I will permit him to make the best of it.
Leontine. The whole affair is only this, madam ;
my father has a proposal to make, which he insists
none but himself shall deliver.
Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will
never be brought on. [Aside.'] In short, madam,
you see before you one that loves you ; one whose
whole happiness is all in you.
Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of vour
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
173
regard, sir ; and I hope you can have none of my
duty.
Croaker. That's not the thing, my Uttle sweet-
ing ; 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,
weepintr, speaking soliloquies and blank verse,
sometimes melancholy, and sometimes absent —
Miss Richland. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or
such a declaration would have come most properly
from himself.
Croaker. Himself! madam, he would die before
he could make such a confession ; and if he had
not a channel for his passion through me, it would
ere now have drowned his understanding.
Miss Richland. I must grant, sir, there are at-
tractions In modest diffidence above the force, of
words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence
of sincerity.
Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any
Other language ; silence is become his mother tongue.
Miss Richland. And it must be confessed, sir,
it speaks very powerfully in his favour. And yet
I shall be thought too forward in making such a
confession; shan't I, Mr. Leontine?
Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me.
But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may dis-
gust her. I'll try. [^side.] Don't imagine from my
silence, madam, that 1 want a due sense of the hon-
our and happiness intended me. My father, mad-
am, tells me, your humble servant is not totally in-
different to you. He admires you ; I adore you ; and
when we come together, upon my soul I believe
we shall be the happiest couple in all St. James's.
Miss Richland. If I could flatter myself you
thought as you speak, sir —
Leontine. Doubt my sincerity, madam 1 By your
dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire
glory ? ask cowards if they covet safety
Croaker. Well, well, no more questions about it.
Leontine. Ask the sick if they long for health ?
ask misers if they love money 1 ask
Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense 9
What's come over the boy 1 What signiiies asldng,
when there's not a soul to give you an answer? If
you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's con-
sent to make you happy.
Miss Richland. Why indeed, sir, his uncom-
mon ardour almost coini)ols me — forces me to com-
ply. And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest
gained with too much ease ; won't you, Mr. Leon-
tine 1
Leontine. Confusion ! [Aside.] Oh, by no means,
madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talk-
ed of force. There is nothing I would avoid so
much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No,
madam, 1 will still be generous, and leave you at
liberty to refuse.
Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at
liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing.
Silence gives consent.
Leontine. But, sir, she talked of force. Consi-
der, sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations.
Croaker. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't
you know, blockhead, that girls have always a
roundabout way of saying yes before company 1
So get you both gone together into the next room,
and hang him that interrupts the tender explana-
tion. Get you gone, I say : I'll not hear a word.
Leontine. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — '
Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave tf>
insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp !
But I don't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his
mother.
[Exeunt MTS.S RICHLAND and LEONTINE.
Enter MRS. CROAIiER.
Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you some-
thing, my dear, that I believe will make you smile.
Croaker. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear.
Airs. Croaker. A letter; and as I knew the
hand, I ventured to open it.
Croaker. And how can you expect your break-
ing open my letters should give me pleasure ?
Mrs. Croaker. Poo ! it's from your sister at
Lyons, and contains good news ; read it.
Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here !
That sister of mine has some good qualities, but I
could never teach her to fold a letter.
Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick. Read what
it contains.
CROAKER [reading.]
"Dear Nick,
"An English gentleman, of large fortune, has
for some time made private, though honourable pro-
posals to your daughter Olivia. They love each
other tenderly, and I find she has consented, \vith-
out letting any of the family know, to crown his
addresses. As such good offers don't come every
lay, your own good sense, his large fortune and
family considerations, will induce you to forgive
her. " Yours ever,
" Rachael Cpoaufr.
My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a
man of large fortune ! Tlus is good news indeed.
My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how
slily the little baggage has carried it since she came
home ; not a word on't to the old ones for the world.
Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to con-
ceal.
Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed
their amour, they shan't conceal their wedding;
that shall l)c {>ub]ic, I'm resolved.
Croaker. I tell tliec, woman, the wedding is the
most foolish part of the ceremony, 1 can never get
this woman to think of the most serious part of the
nuptial engagement.
Mrs. Croaker. What, would you have me thinfc
174
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
of their funeral 7 But come, tell me, my dear, don't
you owe more to me than you care to confess?
Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty,
•who has undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the
Treasury, but for me 7 Who was it first made him
an acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout? Who
got hiin to promise us his interest 7 Is not he a
back -stairs favourite, one that can do what he
pleases with those that do what they please 7 Is
not he an acquaintance that all your groaning and
lamentation could never have got us 7
Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant
you. And yet what amazes me is, that, while he
is giving away places to all the world, he can't get
one for himself
Mrs. Croaker. That perhaps may be owing to
his nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied.
Enter French SERVANT.
Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty.
He vil be vait upon your honours instrammant.
He be only giving four five instruction, read two
tree memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He
vil be vid you in one tree minutes.
Mrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear. What
an extensive department! Well, friend, let your
master know, that we are extremely honoured by
this honour. Was there any thing ever in a higher
ptyle of breeding? All messages among the great
are now done by express.
Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things
with more solemnity, or claims more respect, than
he. But he's in the right on't. In our bad world,
respect is given where respect is claimed.
Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear;
you were never in a pleasanter place in your hfe.
Let us now think of receiving him with proper re-
spect — [a loud rapping at the door,] — and there
he is, by the thundering rap.
Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon
the heels of his own express as an endorsement
upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to re-
ceive 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, speaking to his Servant.
Lofty. " And if the Venetian ambassador, or
that teasing creature the marquis, should call, I'm
not at home. Dam'me, I'll be a pack-horse to
none of them." My dear madam, I have just
snatched a moment — " And if the expresses to his
grace be ready, let them be sent off; they're of im-
portance." — Madam, I ask a thousand pardons.
Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour.
Lofty. "And, Dubardieu! if the person calls
about the commission, let him know that it is made
nut. As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it
can keep cold: you understand me." — Madam, I
faSK ten inousand pardons.
Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour
Lofty. "And, Dubardieu! if the man cornea
from the Cornish borough, you must do him ; you
must do him, I say." — Madam, I ask ten thousand
pardons. — " And if the Russian ambassador calls;
but he will scarce call to-day, I believe." — And
now, madam, I have just got time to exj)ress my
happiness in having the honour of being permitted
to profess myself your most obedient humble ser-
vant. '
Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour
are all mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the public
while I detain you.
Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair
are to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so
charmingly devoted! Sincerely, don't you pity us
poor creatures in affairs? Thus it is eternally; so-
licited for places here, teased for pensions there, and
courted every where. I know you pity me. Yes.
I see you do.
Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir, " Toils of em
pires pleasures are," as Waller says.
Lofty. Waller, Waller, is he of the house?
Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name,
sir.
Lofty. Oh, a modern ! we men of business de-
spise the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we havo
no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing
enough for our wives and daughters ; but not for
us. Why now, here I stand that know nothing
of books. I say, madam, I know nothing of
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. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr
Lofty's eminence in every capacity.
Lofty. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush.
I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere
obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two
of the present ministers are pleased to represent mc
as a f(trmidable man. I know they are pleased to
bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet,
upon my soul, I wonder what they see in me to
treat me so! Measures, not men, have always been
my mark ; and I vow, by all that's honourable, my
resentment has never done the men, as mere men,
any manner of harm — that is as mere men.
Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what
modesty !
Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, jhadam, there,
I own, I'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foi
ble : it was so the Duke of Brentford used to say
of me. " I love Jack Lofty," he used to say : ' no
man has a finer knowledge of things ; quite a man
of information; and, when he speaks upon his legs,
by the Lord he's prodigious, he scouts them ; and
yet all men have their faults ; too much modesty is
his," says his grace.
Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
175
want assurance when you come to solicit for your
friends.
Lofly. O, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apro-
pos! I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's
case to a certain personage ; we must name no
names. When I ask, I'm not to be put off^ madam.
No, no, I take my friend by the button. A fine
girl, sir; great justice in her case. A friend of
mine. Borough interest. Business must be done,
Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her busi-
ness must be done, sir. That's my way, madam.
Mrs. Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to the
secretary of state, did youl
Lofty. 1 did not say the secretary, did I "] Well,
curse it, since you have found me out, I will not
deny it. It was to the secretary.
Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain-
head at once, not applying to the understrappers,
as Mr. Honeywood would have had us.
Lofty. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was, indeed, a
fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has
just happened to him?
Mrs. Croaker. Poor dear man; no accident, I
hope ?
Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His credi-
tors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in
his own house.
Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house!
How? At tins very time? I'm quite unhappy for
him.
Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure,
was immensely good-natured. But then 1 could
never find that he had any thing in him.
Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was ex-
cessive harmless; some, indeed, thought it a little
dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion.
Lofty, It can't be concealed, madam; the man
was dull, dull as the last new comedy ! a poor im-
practicable creature ! I tried once or twice to know
if he was fit for business; but he had scarce talents
to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow.
Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Rich-
land think of him! For, I believe, with all his
faults, she loves him.
Lofty. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure
her of that by all means. Let me see ; what if she
were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful
situation? My life for it, that works her cure.
Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we
join her in the next room? Miss Richland is a line
girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown
away. Upon my honour, madam. I have a regard
for Miss Richland ; and rather than she should be
thrown away, I should think it no indignity to
marry her myself \Excunt.
Enter OUVIA and LEONTINE.
Leontine And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every
reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as 1 did
every thing in my power to deserve it. Her in-
delicacy surprises mo.
Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so in-
delicate in being sensible of your merit. If so, 1
fear 1 shall be the most guilty thing alive.
Leontine. But you mistake, my dear. The
same attention I ased to advance my merit with
you, I practised to lessen it with her What more
could I do?
Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to
he done. We have both dissembled too long. — I
have always been ashamed — I am now quite weary
of it. Sure I could never have undergone so much
for any other but you.
Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal
to your kindest compliance. Though our friends
should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon
content for the deficiencies of fortune.
Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme
of humble happiness, when it is now in our pow-
er? I may be the favourite of your father, it is true ;
but can it ever be thought, that his present kind-
ness to a supposed child will continue to a known
deceiver?
Leontine. I have many reasons to believe it will.
As his attachments are but few they are lasting.
His own marriage was a private one, as ours may
be. Besides, I have sounded him already at a dis-
tance, and find all his answers exactly to our wisli.
Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from
him, I am induced to think he knows of this affair.
Olivia. Indeed! But that would be a happiness
too great to be expected.
Leontine. However it be, I'm certain you have
power over him ; and I am persuaded, if you in-
formed him of our situation, that he would be dis-
posed to pardon it.
Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine,
from your last scheme with Miss Richland, which
you find has succeeded most wretchedly.
Leontine. And that's the best reason for trying
another.
Olivia. If it must be so, I submit.
Leontine. As we could wish, he comes this way.
Now my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just re-
tire within hearing, to come in at a proper time,
either to share your danger, or confirm your vic-
tory. ' [Exit.
■ Enter CROAKEU.
Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not
too easily neither. It will be proper to keep up the
decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to im
press her with an idea of my authority.
Olivia. How I treinl)le to approach him !—
Mitrht I presume, sir, — if I interrupt you —
Croaker. No, child, where I have an affection,
it is not a little thing that can interrupt me. Af-
fection gets over little things.
176
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how
ill I deserve this partiaUty ; yet, Heaven knows,
there is nothing I would not do to gain it.
Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded,
you httle 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 of-
fence indeed.
Olivia. But mine is such an offence — When
you know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it,
though I feel the greatest pain in the confession.
Croaker. Why, then, if it be so very great a
pain, you may spare yourself the trouble; for I
know every syllable of the matter before you begin.
Olivia. Indeed ! then I'm undone.
Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match,
without letting me know it, did you 7 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 fami-
ly lumber ; a piece of cracked china to be stuck up
in a corner.
Olivia. Dear sir, notliing but the dread of your
authority could induce us to conceal it from you.
Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ;
I'm as little minded as a dead Russian in winter,
just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till there
:omes a thaw — It goes to my heart to vex her.
[Aside.
Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and
despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask
it. But your severity shall never abate my affec-
tion, as my punishment is but justice.
Croaker. And yet you should not despair nei-
ther, Livy, We ought to hope all for the best.
Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir?
Can I ever expect to be forgiven 1 But hope has
too long deceived me.
Croaker. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you
now, for I forgive you this very moment ; I forgive
you all ! and now you are indeed my daughter.
Olivia. O transport! this kindness overpowers
me.
Croaker. I was always against severity to our
children. We have been young and giddy our-
selves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be old
before their lime.
Olivia. What generosity! But can you forget
the many falsehoods, the dissimulation
Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin
you ; but Where's the girl that Won't dissemble for
a husband? My wife and I had never been mar-
ried, if we had not dissembled a little beforehand.
Uhvia. It shall be my future care never to put
Buch 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, 1 can
answer for him that
Enter LEONTINE.
Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for him-
self [Kneeling.'] Thus, sir, let me speak my
gratitude for this unmerited ibrgiveness. Yes, sir,
this even exceeds all your former tendernesf. I
now can boast the most indulgent of fathers. The
life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling
blessing.
Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with
that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner?
I don't know what we have to do with your grati-
tude upon this occasion.
Leontine. How, sir ! Is it possible to be silent,
when so much obliged ? Would you refuse me
the pleasure of being grateful? of adding my thanks
to my Olivia's? of sharing in the transports that
you have thus occasioned?
Croaker. I^ord, sir, we can be happy enough
without your coming in to make up the party. I
don't know what's the matter with the boy all this
day; he has got into such a rhodomontade manner
all this morning !
Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part
in the benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy?
is the being admitted to your favour so slight an
obligation? is the happiness of marrying my Oli-
via so small a blessing ?
Croaker. Marrying Olivia! marrying Olii-ia!
marrying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of
his senses. His own sister.
Leontine. My sister !
Olivia. Sister! How have I been mistaken!
[Aside.
Leontine. Some cursed mistake in all this, I find.
[Aside.
Croaker. What does the booby mean ? or has
he any meaning? Eh, what do you mean, you
blockhead, you?
Leontine. Mean, sir, — why, sir — only when my
sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of
marrying her, sir, that is, of giving her away, sir,
— I have made a point of it.
Croaker. O, is that all ? Give her away. You
have made a point of it. Then you had as good
make a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm
going to prepare the writings between you and
Miss Richland this very minute. What a fuss is
here about nothing ! Why, what's the matter now?
I thought I had made you at least as happy as yoa
could wish.
Olivia. O ! yes, sir ; very happy.
Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You
look as if you did. I think if any thing was to be
foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another;
and yet I foresee nothing. [Exit.
LEONTINE, OLIVIA.
Olivia. What can it mean?
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
177
Leontine. He knows something, and yet for my
life I can't tell what.
Olivia. It can't be the connexion between us,
I'm pretty certain. '. • . •
Leonline. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm re-
solved to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our
mortification. I'll haste and prepare for our jour-
ney to Scotland this, very evening. My friend
Honeywood has promised me his advice and assist-
ance. 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 uneasi-
nesses, he will at least share them. [Exeunt
ACT III. ■
SCENE — YOUNG HONEYWOOD'S HOUSE,
BAILIFF, HONEYWOOD, FOLLOWER.
Bailiff. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men
as you in my time : no disparagement of you nei-
ther : men that would go forty guineas on a game
of cribbage. I challenge the town to show a man
in more genteeler practice than myself.
Honeywood. Without all question, Mr. . I
forget your name, sir.
Bailiff. How can you forget what you never
knewl he! he! he!
■ ,Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name 1
' Bailiff. Yes, you may.
Honeywood. Then, pray, sir, what is your namel
Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. He!
he ! he ! A joke breaks no bones, as we say among
Us that practise the law.
Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping
it a secret, perhaps?
Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason.
I'm ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If
you can show cause, as why, upon a special capus,
that I should prove my name — But, come, Timo-
thy Twitch is my name. And, now you know
my name, what have you to say to that 7
Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr.
Twitch, but that 1 have a favour to ask, that's all.
Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than
granted, as we say among us that practise the law.
1 have taken an oath against granting favours.
Would you have me perjure myself?
Honeywood. But my request will come recom-
mended in so strong a manner as, I believe, you'll
have no scruple. [Pulling out his purse.] The
thing is only this : I believe 1 shall be able to dis-
charge this trifle in two or three days at farthest ;
but as I would not have the affair known for the
world, I have thoughts of keeping yon, and your
gooti friend here, about me, till the debt is discharg-
ed; for which I shall be properly grateful.
Bailiff. Oh! that's another maxum, and alto
12
gether within my oath. For certain, if an honest
man is to get any thing by a thing, there's no re!^-
son why all things should not be done in civility.
Honeywood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr
Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one.
[ Gives him money
Bailiff. Oh! your honour : I hope your honouj
takes nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing
but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can
say I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman,
ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentle-
O too
man, I have taken money not to see him for ten
weeks together.
Honeywood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch.
Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to
see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know,
but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all
that I have lost by my heart was put together, it
would make a — but no matter for that.
Honeywood. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch.
The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us
of the conscious happiness of having acted with
humanity ourselves.
Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better
than gold. I love humanity. People may say,
that we in our way have no humanity ; but I'll show
you my humanity this moment. There's my fol-
lower here. Little Flanigan, with a wife and four
children, a guinea or two would be more to him
than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't
show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave
you'll do it for me.
Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours
is a most powerful recommendation.
[Giving money to the follower.
Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman, 1 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, he is a little seedy, as we say
among us that practise the law. Not well in
clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes.
Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied with-
out delay.
Enter SERVANT. ^
Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below.
Honeywood. How unlucky i Detain her a mo-
ment. We must improve my good friend little
Mr. Flanigan's api>carance first. Here, let Mr.
Flanigan have a suit of my clothes — quick — the
brown and silver — Do you hear 9
Servant. That your honour gave away to tha
bcgcring gentleman that makes verses, because it
was as good as new.
Honeyicood. The white and gold then.
Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to
sell, because it was good for nothing.
HoneyTVoofl. Well, the first that comes to hand
1
178
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
then. The blue and gold then. I believe Mr.
Flanigan will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan.
Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look
well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that
bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love
with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four
counties after a shy-cock than he; scents like a
hound : sticks like a weasel. He was master of
the ceremonies to the black queen of Morocco,
when I took him to follow me. [Re-enter Flani-
gan.^ Heh, ecod, I think he looks so well, that I
don't care if I have a suit from the same place for
myself.
Honeywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coining.
Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend di-
rections not to speak. As for yourself, I know you
will say nothing without being directed.
Bailiff. Never you fear me; I'll show 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 diflerence
between them.
Enter MISS RICHLAND and her Maid.
Miss Richland. You'll be surprised, sir, with
this visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for
choosing my little library.
Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ;
as it was I tliat was obliged by your commands.
Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr.
Twitch and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit
■without ceremony.
Miss Richland. Who can these odd-looking
men be; I fear it is as I was informed. It must be
so. [Aside.
Bailiff [after a 'pause.'] Pretty weather ; very
pretty weather for the time of the year, madam.
Follower. Very good circuit weather m the
country.
Honeywood. You officers are generally favourites
among the ladles. My friends, madam, have been
upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The
fair should in some measure recompense the toils
of the brave!
Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve
every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine
service, I presume sir?
Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasional-
ly serve in the fieet, madam. A dangerous ser-
vice!
Miss Richland. I'm told so. And I ovm it has
often surprised me, that while we have had so ma-
ny instances of bravery there, we have had so few
of wit at home to praise it.
Honeywood. 1 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 Richland. I'm quite displeased when I see
a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer.
Honeywood. We should not be so severe against
dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but the dullest
writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who
presumes to despise him.
Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, an»l
all that belongs to them.
Miss Richland. Sir!
Honeywood. Ha ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan.
A true English officer, madam ; he's not content-
ed with beating the French, but he will scold them
too.
Miss Richland. Yet, Mr. Honey wood, this does
not convince me but that severity in criticism is
necessary. It was our first adopting the severity
of French taste, that has brought them in turn to
taste us.
Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they
devour us. Give monse3rs but a taste, and I'll be
damn'd but they come m for a bellyfull.
Miss Richland. Very extraordinary this !
Follower. But very true. What makes the
bread rising ? the parle vous that devour us. What
makes the mutton fivepence a pound? the parle
vous that eat it up. What makes the beer three-
pence-halfpenny a pot?
Honeywood. Ah ! the vulgar rogues; all will be
out. [^sicZe.] Right, gentlemen, very right, upon
my word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a
parallel, madam, between the mental taste and that
of our senses. We are injured as much by the
French severity in the one, as by French rapacity
in the other. That's their meaning.
Miss Richland. Though I don't see the force
of the parallel, yet I'll own, that we should some-
times pardon books, as we do our friends, that have
now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend
them.
Bailiff. That's all my eye. The king only can
pardon, as the law says : for set in case
Honeywood. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I
see the whole drift of your argument. Yes, cer-
tainly, our presuming to pardon any work, is ar-
rogating a power that belongs to another. If all
have power to condemn, what writer can be free 1
Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus
can set him free at any time : for, set in case —
Honeywood. I'm obhged to you, sir, for the hint.
If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so
careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to
be equally careful of his dearer part, his fame.
Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd you
know —
Honeywood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever,
you could not improve the last obser\'ation. For
my own part, I think it conclusive.
Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap —
THE GOOD-NATUREjl; MAN.
179
Honeywood. Nay, sir, give me leave in this in-
itance to be positive. For where is the necessity
of censuring works without genius, which must
shortly sink of themselves 1 what is it, but aiming
an unnecessary blow against a victim already under
the hands of justice 1
Bailiff. Justice ! O, by the elevens, if you talk
about justice, I think I am at home there : for, in a
course of law —
Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern
what you'd be at perfectly ; and 1 believe the lady
must be sensible of the art with which it is intro-
duced. I suppose you perceive the meaning, ma-
dam, of his course of law.
Mis-i Richland. I protest, sir, I do not. I per-
ceive only that you answer one gentleman before
he has finished, and the other before he has well
begun.
Bailif. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I
will make the matter out. This here question is
about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like
of they. Now, to explain the thing —
Honeywood. O ! curse your explanations.
[Aside.
Enter SERVANT. .. -
Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to
epeak with you upon earnest business.
Honeywood. That's lucky {Aside.] Dear ma-
dam, 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 fi-iends. After you, sir.
Excuse me. Well, if I must. But 1 know your
natural politeness.
Bailiff. Before and behind, you know.
Folloicer. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and
behind.
[Exeunt Honeyicood, Bailiff, and FoUoicer.
Miss Richland. What can all this mean, Gar-
net?
Garnet. Mean, madam! why, what should it
mean, but what Mr. Lol'ty sent you here to see?
These people he calls officers, are officers sure
enough; sheriff's officers; bailiffs, madam.
Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well,
though his perplexities are far from giving me
pleasure, yet I own there's something very ridicu-
lous in them, and a just punishment for his dis-
simulation.
Garnet. And so they are. But I wonder, ma-
dam, that the lawyer you just eni[)loyed 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 tnem.
Enter SIR WnXUM HONEYWOOD.
Sir William. For Miss Kichland to undertake
setting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. I
has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him.
Yet it gives me pleasure to find, that among a
number of worthless friendsliips, he has made one
acquisition of real value ; for there must be some
softer passion on her side that prompts this gene-
rosity. Ha ! here before me : I'll endeavour to
sound her affections. — Madam, as I am the person
that have had some demands upon the gentleman
of this house, I hope you'll excuse me, if, before I
enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself.
Miss Richland. The precaution was very un-
necessary, sir. I suppose your wants were only
such as my agent had power to satisfy.
Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also
wilhng you should be fully apprised of the charac-
ter of the gentleman you uitended to serve.
Miss Richland. It must come, sir, with a very
ill grace from you. To censure it after what you
have done, would look like malice ; and to speak
favourably of a character you have oppressed, would
be impeaching your own. And sure, his tender-
ness, his humanity, his universal friendship, may
atone for many faults.
Sir William. That friendship, madam, which
is exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally
useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disap-
pears when diffused too widely. They, who pre-
tend most to this universal benevolence, are either
deceivers, or dupes : men who desire to cover their
private ill-nature, by a pretended regard for all ; or
men who, reasoning themselves into false feelings,
are more earnest in pursuit of splendid, than of
useful virtues.
Miss Richland. I am surprised, sir, to hear one,
who has probably been a gainer by the folly of
others, so severe in his censure of it.
Sir William. Whatever I may have gained by
folly, madam, you see 1 am willing to prevent your
losing by it.
Miss Richland. Your cares for me, sir, are un-
necessary. I always suspect those services which
are denied where they are wanted, and offered, per-
haps, in hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions
have been given, and I insist upon their being com-
plied with.
Sir William. 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 him — his
uncle !
Miss Richland. Sir William Honey wood ! You
amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion ? I
fear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in
my services. I confess I —
Sir William. Don't make any apologies, ma-
dam. I only find myself unable to repay the onu-
l80
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
gallon. And yet, I have been trying my interest
of late to serve you. Having learnt, madam, that
you had some demands upon Government, 1 have,
though unasked,' been your solicitor there.
Miss Richland. Sir, Tm infinitely obliged to
5'our intentions. But my guardian has employed
another gentleman, who assures him of success.
■ Sir 'William. Who, the important httle man
that visits here? Trust me, madam, he's quite
contemptible among men in power, and utterly
unable to serve you. Mr. Lofty's promises are
much better known to people of fashion,, than his
person, I assure you. ■" ^
Miss Richland. How have we been deceived !
As sure as can be here he comes.
Sir William. Does he 7 Remember I ' m to con-
tinue unknown. My return to England has not
as yet been made public. With what impudence
he enters!
Enter LOFTY.
Lofty. Let the chariot — let m)' chariot drive off;
I'll visit to his grace's in a chair. Miss Richland
here before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls
ii humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of
this kind should happen, especially to a man I have
shown every wh^re, and carried amongst us as a
particular acquaintance.
Miss Richland. I find, sir, you have the art of
making the misfortunes of others your own.
Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man
like me do? One man can't do every thing; and
then, I do so much in this way every day : — Let
me see ; something considerable might be done for
him by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried
the list. I'll undertake to set down a brace of
dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house,
at my own peril.
Sir William. And, after all, it's more than pro-
bable, sir, he might reject the oft'er of such power-
ful patronage.
Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do? You
know I never make promises. In truth, I once or
twice tried to do something with him in the way of
business ; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir Wil-
liam Honeywood, the man was utterly impracti-
cable.
Sir William. His uncle ! then that gentleman,
I suppose, is a particular friend of yours.
Lofty. Meaning me, sir? — Yes, madam, as I
often said, my dear Sir William, you are sensible
I would do any thing, as far as my poor interest
goes, to serve your foniily : but what can be done?
there's no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate
abilities.
Miss Richland. I have heard of Sir William
Honeywood ; he's abroad in employment : he con-
fided in your judgment, I suppose?
Luftv. Why, yes, madam, I believe Sir William
had some reason to confide in my judinnent: one
little reason, perhaps.
Miss Richland. Pray, sir, what was it?
Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no farther-
it was I procured him his place.
Sir William. Did you, sir ?
Lofty. Either you or I, sir.
Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind
indeed.
Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some
amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be a toast-
master to a club, or had a better head.
Miss Richland. A better head 1
Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was a3
dull as a choice spirit : but, hang it, he was grate-
ful, very grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude
of faults.
Sir William. He might have reason, perhaps.
His place is pretty considerable, I'm told.
Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of
business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill
up a greater.
Sir William.. Dignity of person, do you mean,
sir? I'm told he's much about my size and figure,
sir.
Lofty. Ay, tall enoagh for a marching regiment ;
but then he wanted a something — a consequence
of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives
my meaning.
Miss Richland. O, perfectly ; you courtiers can
do any thing, I see.
Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere
exchange ; we do greater things for one another
every day. Why, as thus, now : let me suppose
you the first lord of the treasury ; you have an em-
ployment in you that I want ; I have a place in
me that you want ; do me here, do you there : in-
terest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done,
and it's over.
Sir William. A thought strikes me. [Aside.l
Now you mention Sir William Honeywood, ma-
dam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours,
you'll be glad to hear he is arrived from Italy; I
had it from a friend who knows him as well as lie
docs me, and you may depend on my information.
Lofty. The devil he Is ! If I had known that,
we should not have been quite so well acquainted.
[Aside.
Sir William. He is certainly returned ; 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 affairs that
require dispatch, and his inspection.
Miss Richland. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is
a person employed in my affairs : I know you'll
serve us.
Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you.
Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you tlunk
proper to command it.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
181
Sir William. That would be quite unnecessary.
Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call
upon me — let me see — ay, in two days.
Sir William. Now, or the opportunity will be
lost for ever.
Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it he.
But damn it, that's unfortunate ; my Lord Grig's
cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hour,
and I'm engaged to attend — another time —
Sir William. A short letter to Sir WiUiam will
do.
Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a
letter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to
face, that's my way.
Sir William. The letter, sir, will do quite as
well. ' ''' ■' -■ \ V ■
Lofty. Zounds! sir, do you pretend to direct
me ? direct me in the business of office ? Do you
know me, sir? who am 17
Miss Richland. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is
not so much his as mine; if my commands — but
you despise my power.
Lofty. Delicate creature! your commands could
even control a debate at midnight: to a power so
constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquilUty.
He shall have a letter: where is my secretary?
Dubardieu? And yet, I protest I don't like this
way of doing business. I think if I spoke first
to Sir William — But you will have it so.
[Exit with Miss Richland.
Sir William [alone.] Ha, ha, ha! — This too is
one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity,
thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to
exalt, serve but to sink us ! Thy false colourings,
like those employed to heighten beauty, only seem
to mend that bloom which they contribute to de-
stroy. I'm not displeased at this interview: ex-
posing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it
deserves, maybe of use to my design; at least, if he
can reflect, it will be of use to himself.
Enter JAEVIS.
Sir William,. How now, Jarvis, where's your
master, my nephew?
Jarvis. At his wit's ends, I believe: he's scarce
gotten out of one scrape, but he's running his head
into another.
Sir William. How so?
Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of
the bailiffs, and now he's again engaging tooth and
nail in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a
clandestine match with the young lady that passes
in the house for his sister.
Sir William. Ever busy to serve others.
Jarvis. Ay, any body but himself. The young
couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland;
dfid he supplies them with money for the journey.
Sir William. Money ! how is he able to supply
others, who has scarce any for himself?
Jarvis. Why, there it is: he has no money,
that'3 true; but then, as he never said No to any
request in liis life, he has given them a bill, drawn
by a friend of his upon a merchant in the city
which I am to get changed ; for you must know
that I am to go with them to Scotland myself.
Sir William. How?
Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged
to take a different road from his mistress, as he is
to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the
way, in order to prepare a place for their reception
when they return ; so they have borrowed me from
my master, as the properest person to attend the
young lady down.
Sir William. To the land of matrimony? A
pleasant journey, Jarvis. . ,
Jarvis. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues
on't.
Sir William. Well, it may be shorter, and less
fatiguing, than you imagine. I know but too
much of the young lady's family and connexions,
whom I have seen abroad. I have also discovered
that Miss Richland is not indifferent to my thought-
less nephev/; and will endeavour, though I fear in
vain, to establish that connexion. But, come, the
letter I wait for must be almost finished ; I'll let
you further into my intentions in the next room.
• ' •, . [Exeunt.
ACT IV. • - •'
SCENE — croaker's HOUSE. .
Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for
running my head into such defiles, as nothing but
a genius like my own could draw me from. 1 was
formerly contented to husband out my places and
pensions with some degree of frugality ; but, curse
it, of late I have given away the whole Court Re-
gister in less time than they could print the title-
page : yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to come
at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for
nothing. Ha! Honey wood here l>efore me. Could
Miss Richland have set him at hberty?
Enter HONEYWOOD.
Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad
again. I find my concurrence was not necessary
in your unfortunate affairs. I had put things in a
train to do your business; but it is not for me to
say what I intended doing.
Honeywood. It was unfortunate indeed, sir.
But what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you
seem to be acquainted with my misfortune, I my-
self continue still a stranger to my benefactor.
Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served
you?
Honeywood. Can't guess at the person.
Lofty. Inquire. ■■.•■.'
182
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Honcywood. I have ; but all I can learn is, that
he chooses to remain concealed, and that all in-
quiry must be fruitless.
Lofty. Must be fruitless!
Honeywood. Absolutely fruitless.
Lofty. Sure of that?
Honeywood. Very sure.
' Lofty. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever
know it from me.
Honeywood. How, sir?
Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you
think my rent-roll very considerable, and that 1
have vast sums of money to throw away; I know
you do. The world, to be sure, says such things
of me.
Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no
stranger to your generosity. But where does this
tend ?
Lofty. To nothing; nothing in the world. The
town, to he sure, when it makes such a thing as
me the subject of conversation, has asserted, that
I never yet patronised a man of merit.
Honeywood. I have heard instances to the con-
trary, even from yourself
Lofty. Yes, Honeywood; and there are in-
stances to the contrary, that you shall never hear
from myself
Honeywood. Ha! dear sir, permit me to ask you
but one question.
Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions; I say, sir, ask
me no questions ; I'll be damn'd if I answer them.
Honeywood. I will ask no further. My friend!
my benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am in-
debted for freedom, for honour. Yes, thou wor-
thiest of men, from the beginning I suspected it,
but was afraid to retiirn thanks; which, if unde-
served, might seem reproaches.
Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this,
Mr. Honeywood : you treat me very cavalierly. I
do assure you, sir — Blood, sir, can't a man be per-
mitted to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings,
without all this parade?
Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an
action that adds to your honour. Yoiu" looks, your
air, your manner, all confess it.
Lofty. Confess it, sir! torture itself, sir, shall
never bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I
have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't
let us fall out ; make me happy, and let this be
buried in oblivion. You know I hate ostentation ;
you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you
know I always loved to be a friend, and not a pa-
tron. I beg this may make no kind of distance
between us. Come, come, you and I must be
more familiar — Indeed we must.
Honeywood. Heavens! Can I ever repay such
friendship? Isthere anyway? — Thou best of men,
can I ever return the obligation?
Lofty. A bagatelle a mere bagatelle ! But I see
your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall
be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you.
Honeywood. How! teach me the manner. Is
there any way?
Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yea,
my friend, you shall know it — I'm in love,
Honeywood. And can I assist you?
Lofty. Nobody so well.
Honeywood. In what manner? I'm all impa-
tience.
Lofty. You shall make love for me.
Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your
favour ?
Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great in-
terest, I assure you ; Miss Richland.
Honeywood. Miss Richland !
Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck
the blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter.
Honeywood. Heavens ! was ever any thing moro
unfortunate ? It is too much to be endured.
Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed! And yet can I en-
dure it, till you have opened the affair to her foi
me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm
not apt to boast, but I think she does.
Honeywood. Indeed ! but do you know the per-
son you apply to ?
Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine :
that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the
success of my passion. I'll say no more, let friend-
ship do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any
time my Uttle interest can be of service — but, hang
it, I'll make no promises — you know my interest is
yours at any time. No apologies, my friend, I'll
not be answered ; it shall be so. {Exit.
Honeywood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man!
He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such
an ardent passion ! — But then it was ever but a
vain and hopeless one ; my torment, my persecu-
tion ! What shall I do ? Love, friendship ; a hope-
less passion, a deserving friend ! Love, that has
been my tormentor ; a friend that has, perhaps, dis-
tressed himself to serve me. It shall be so. Yes,
I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom,
and exert all my influence in his favour. And
yet to see her in the possession of another ! — In-
supportable ! But then to betray a generous, trust-
ing friend! — Worse, worse! Yes, I'm resolved.
Let me but be the instrument of their happiness,
and then quit a country, where I must for ever de-
spair of finding my own. [Exit.
Enter OLIVIA, and GARNET, who carries a milliner's box.
Olivia. Dear me, I wishthis journey were over.
No news of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peevish
creature delays purely to vex me.
Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear
him say, a little snubbing before marriage would
teach you to bear it the better afterwards.
Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he 'lai
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
183
only to get a bill changed in the city ! How pro-
voking.
Garnet. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had
twice as much to do, is setting off by this time
from his inn ; and here you are left behind.
Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming,
however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing,
Garnet ?
Garnet. Not a stick, madam— all's here. Yet
I wish you would 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, the bridegroom and she had a miff
before morning.
Olivia. No matter. I'm all impatience till we
are out of the house.
Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot
the wedding ring!— The sweet httle thmg— I don't
thuik it would go on my little finger. And what
if I put in a gentleman's mght-eap, in case of ne-
cessity, madam ? — But here's Jarvis.
Enter JARVIS.
Olivia. O Jarvis, are you come at last 1 We
have been ready this half hour. Now let's be go-
ing. Let us fly !
Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho; for we shall have no
going to Scotland this bout, I fancy.
Olivia. How ! what's the matter?
Jarvis. Money, money, is the matter, madam.
We have got no money. What the plague do you
send me of your fool's errand for 7 My master's bill
upon the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs.
Garnet may pin up her hair with it.
Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve
us so 1 What shall we do 1 Can't we go without it?
Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To
Scotland without money ! Lord, how some people
understand geography ! We might as well set soil
for Patagonia upon a cork-jacket.
Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base
msincere man was your master, to serve us in this
manner ! Is this his good-nature 1
Jarvis Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam.
I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but
myself.
Garnet. Bless us! now I think on't, madam, you
need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr.
Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just
before he set out, and be can't yet have left the inn.
A short letter will reach him there.
Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet ; I'll write
immediately. How's this! Bless me, my hand
trembles so, I can't write a word. Do you write.
Garnet; and, upon second thought, it will be bet-
ter from you.
Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but
poorly. I never was 'cute at my learning. But
I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see. AH
out of my own head, I suppose !
Olivia. Whatever you please.
Garnet [ivriting.^ Muster Croaker — Twenty
guineas, madam? . . . . • ,,.
Olivia. Ay, twenty will do.
Garnet. At the bar of the Talbot till called for.
Expedition — Will be blown up — All of a flame —
Cluick dispatch — Cupid, the little god of love. — I
conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to see &
love-letter end hke poetry.
Olivia. Well, well, what you please, any thing.
But how shall we send it ? I can trust none of the
servants of this family.
Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood' s but-
ler is in the next room : he's a dear, sweet man,
he'll do any thing for me.
Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some
blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day.
Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we
can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.] Well, Jarvis,
now we can have nothing more to interrupt us ;
you may take up the things, and carry them on to
the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis ?
Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that
are going to be married, think things can never be
done too fast ; but we, that are old, and know what
we are about, must elope methodically, madam.
Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to
be done over again
Jarvis. My hfe for it, you would do them ten
times over.
Olivia. Why will you talk so? If you knew
how unhappy they made me
Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt: I was once
just as unhappy when I was going to be married
myself. I'll tell you a story about that
Olivia. A story! when I'm all impatience to be
away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! —
Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why
we will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we
have still forgot one thing : we should never travel
without — a case of good razors, and a box of "hav-
ing powder. But no matter, I beheve we shall be
pretty well shaved by the way. [Going.
Enter G.VRNET.
Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Ml.
Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death,
Mr. Honey wood's rogue of a drunken butler drop
ped the letter before he went ten yards from the
door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up,
and is this moment reading it to himself in the hall.
Olivia. Unfortunate! we shall be discovered.
Garnet. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can
make neitlver 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 horrors!
184
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant,
for fear he should ask further questions. In the
mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off just
such another. ■, , .... [Exeunt.
Enter CROAKER.
Croaker. Death and destruction! Are all the
horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at
me? Am I only to be singled cm for gunpowder
plots, combustibles and conflagration? Here it is—
An incendiary letter dropped at my door. " To
Muster Croaker, these with speed." Ay, ay,
plain enough the direction : all in the genuine
incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil.
" With speed." O, confound your speed. But
let me read it once more. [Reads.] "Muster
Croaker, as sone as yowe see this, leve twenty
guineas at the bar of the Talboot tell called for, or
yowe and yower experetion will be all blown up."
Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every
line of it. Blown up! Murderous dog ! All blown
up ! Heavens ! what have I and my poor family
done, to be all blown up 1 [Reads.] " Our pockets
are low, and money we must have." Ay, there's
the reason ; they'll blow us up, because they have
got low pockets. [Reads.] " It is but a short time
you have to consider ; for if this takes wind, the
house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman
monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ! 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, blazing brimstone, and barrels
of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me
up into the clouds. Murder ! We shall be all burnt
in our beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds.
Enter MISS RICHLAND.
Miss Richland. Lord, sir, what's the matter?
Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all
blown up in our beds before morning.
Miss Richland. I hope not, sir.
Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam,
when 1 have a certificate of it here in my hand ?
Will nothing alarm my family? Sleeping and eat-
ing, sleeping and eating is the only work from
morning till night in my house. My insensible
crew could sleep though rocked by an earthquake,
and fry beef-steaks at a volcano.
Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them
60 often already ; we have nothing but earthquakes,
famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year's end
to year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above
a month ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among
the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept
the family a week upon potatoes.
Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them.
But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when
I should be facing the enemy without ? Here, John,
Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cel-
lars, 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 Richland [alone.] What can he mean by
all this? Yet why should I inquire, when he
alarms us in this manner almost every day. But
Honeywood 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 showed any thing in his conduct
that seemed particular. Sure he can not mean to
but he's here.
Enter HONEYWOOD.
Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview
madam, before I left town, to be permitted
Miss Richland. Indeed! Leaving town, sir ? —
Honeywood. Yes, madam; perhaps the king-
dom. I have presumed, I say, to desire the favour
of this interview, — in order to disclose something
which our long friendship prompts. And yet my
fears
Miss Richland. His fears ! What are his fears
to mine ! [^sirfe.] We have indeed been long ac-
quainted, sir ; very long. If I remember, our first
meeting was at the French ambassador's. — Do you
recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon
my complexion there ?
Honcyicood. Perfectly, madam; I presumed to
reprove you for painting ; but your warmer blushe?
soon convinced the company, that the colouring
was all from nature.
Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in
your good-natured way, to make me pay a compli-
ment to myself. In the same manner you danced
that night with the most awkward woman in com-
pany, because you saw nobody else would take her
out.
Honeywood. Yes, and was rewarded the next
night, by dancing with the finest woman in com-
pany, whom every body wished to take out.
Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so
then, I fear your judgment has since corrected the
errors of a first impression. We generally show
to most advantage at first. Our sex are like poor
tradesmen, that put all their best goods to be seen
at the windows.
Honeywood- The first impression, madam, did
indeed deceive me. 1 expected to find a woman
with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty : I
expected to find her vain and insolent. But every
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
185
day has since taught me, that it is possible to pos-
sess sense without pride, and beauty without affe'c-
tafion.
Miss Richland. 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.
Honeywood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from
our long friendship, I presumed I might have some
right to offer, without oflence, what you may re-
fuse, without offending.
Mi^s Richland. Sir! I beg you'd reflect: though,
I fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a
request of yours, yet you may be precipitate : con-
sider, sir.
Honeywood. 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 Richland. I fear, sir, I shall never find
whom you mean, by this description of him.
Honeywood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly
points him out; though he should be too humble
himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest
to understand them.
Miss Richland. Well; it would be affectation
any longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own,
sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It
was but natural to wish to make his heart mine, as
he seemed himself ignorant of its value.
Honeywood. I see she always loved him. \^Asidc.^
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 Richland. Your friend, sir ! What friend 7
Honeytcood. My best friend — my friend Mr.
Lofty, madam.
Miss Richland. He, sir!
Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed,
what your warmest wishes might have formed him;
and to his other (jualities he adds that of the most
passionate regard for you.
Miss Richland. Amazement ! — No more of this,
I beg you, sir.
Honeyivood. 1 see your confusion, madam, and
know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly
read the language of your heart, shall I make my
friend happy, by comnmnicating your sentiments'?
Miss Richland. By no means.
Honeywood. Excuse mc, I must ; I know you
desire it.
Miss Richland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell
you, that you wrong my sentiments and yourself.
When I first applied to your friendship, I expected
advice and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is
in vain to expect happiness from him who has been
60 Dad an ecoiioiuisl of Ms own j and that 1 must
disclaim his friendship who ceases to be a friend to
himself. [Exit.
Honeyxnood. How is this ! she has confessed she
loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displea-
sure. Can I have done any thing to reproach my
self with 7 No ; I believe not : yet after all, these
things should not be done by a third person : I
should have spared her confusion. My friendship
carried me a little too far.
Enter CROAKER, with the letter in his hand, and MRS,
CROAKER.
Mrs. Croaker. Hal ha! ha! And so, my dear,
it's your supreme wish that I should be quite
wretched upon this occasion? ha! ha!
Croaker [Mimicking']. Ha! ha! ha! And so,
my dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no
better consolation?
Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear ; what is this
incendiary stuff!" and trumpery to me 7 our house
may travel through the air like the house of Loret-
to, for aught I care, if I am to be miserable in it.
Croaker. Would (o Heaven it were converted
into a house of correction for your benefit. Have
we not every thing to alarm us 7 Perhaps this very
moment the tragedy is beginning.
Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress
till the rising of the curtain, or give them the mo-
ney they want, and have done with them.
Croaker. Give them my money! — And pray,
what right have they to my money?
Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right then have
you to my good-humour?
Croaker. And so your good-humour advises me
to part with my money ? Why then, to tell your
good-humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part
with my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood, see what
he'll say to it. My dear Honeywood, look at this
incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze
you with terror ; and yet lovey here can read it —
can read it, and laugh.
Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honey-
wood.
Croaker. If he does, I'll suflfer to be hanged the
next minute in the rogue's place, that's all.
Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood; is there
any thing more foolish than my husband's fright
upon this occasion 7
Honeyxcood. It would not become me to decide,
madam ; but doubtless, the greatness of his terrors
now will but invite them to renew their villany
another time.
Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opimon.
Croaker. How, sir! do you maintain that I
should lie down under such an injury, and show,
neither by my tears nor complaints, that I have
something of the spirit of a man in mc 7
Hoveyn-ood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to
make the loudest complaints, if you desire redress.
186
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
The surest way to have redress, is to be earnest in
the pursuit of it.
Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now?
Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laugh-
ing off our fears is the best way ?
Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can
say ; but I'll maintain it to l)e a very wise way.
Croaker. But we're talking of the best. Surely
the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and
not wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber
Honeyicood. Why sir, as to the best, that —
that's a very wise way too.
Mrs. Croaker. But can any thing be more ab-
surd, than to double our distresses by our appre-
hensions, and put it in the power of every lov? fel-
low, that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling,
to torment us.
Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more ab-
surd.
Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to
despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake 1
Honeywood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd.
Croaker. Then you are of my opinion 7
Honeywood. Entirely.
Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine ?
Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam ! No sure,
no reasoning can be more just than yours. We
ought certainly to despise malice if we can not op-
pose it, and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal
to our repose as the highwayman's pistol.
Mrs. Croaker. O! then you think I'm quite
right.
Honeywood. Perfectly right.
Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both
right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad.
My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off.
Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opin-
ions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't
be perfectly right.
Honeywood. And why may not both be right,
madam? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress,
and you in waiting the event with good-humour?
Pray, let mc see the letter again. I have it. This
letter requires twenty gumeas to be left at the bar
of the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary
letter, what if you and I, sir, go there; and when
the writer comes to be paid for his expected booty,
seize him.
Croaker. My dear friend, it's the very thing ;
the very thing. While I walk by the door, you
shall plant yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst
out upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; ex-
tort a confession at once, and so hang him up by
surprise.
Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to ex-
ercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sii', that
crimes generally punish themselves.
Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little,
I suppose ? {Ironically.
Honeywood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly.
Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own be-
nevolence.
Honeywood. Well, I do; but remember that
universal benevolence is the first law of nature.
[E.xeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker
Croaker. Yes; and my universal benevolence
will hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a
hydra.
ACT V
SCENE — AN INN.
Enter OLIVIA, JARVIS.
Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn,
however. Now, if the post-chaise were ready —
Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ;
and, as they are not going to be married, they
choose to take their own time.
Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives
to my impatience.
Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses
must take their own time ; besides, you don't con-
sider we have got no answer from our fellow tra-
veller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontuie,
we have only one way left us.
Olivia. What way?
Jarvis. The way home again.
Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go,
and nothing shall induce me to break it.
Jarvis. Ay; resolutions are well kept, when
they jump with inclination. However, I'll go
hasten things without. And I'll call, too, at the
bar, to see if any thing should be left for us there.
Don't be in such a plaguy hurry, madam, and we
shall go the faster, I promise you. [Exit Jarvis.
Enter LANDLADY.
Landlady. What! Solomon, why don't you
move? Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. —
Will nobody answer? To the Dolphin; quick.
The Angel has been outrageous this half hour.
Did your ladyship call, madam?
Olivia. No, madam.
Landlady. I find as you're for Scotland, madam,
— But that's no business of mine ; married, or not
married, I ask no questions. To be sure we had
a sweet little couple set off from this two days ago
for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor,
was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew
froth from a full pot. And the young lady so bash-
ful, it was near half an hour before we could get
her to finish a pint of raspberry between us.
Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going
to be married, I assure you.
Landlady. May-be not. That's no business of
mine; for certain, Scotch marriages seldom tura
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
187
Oiit. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss Mac-
fag, that married her father's footman — Alack-a-
day, she and her husband soon parted, and now
keep separate cellars in Hcdge-Iane.
Olivia. A very pretty picture of what lies before
me ! [Aside.
Enter LEONTINE.
Leontine. 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.
Olivia. May every thing you do prove as fortu-
nate. Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cru-
elly disappointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the
city has, it seems, been protested, and we have
been utterly at a loss how to proceed.
Leontine. How ! an offer of his own too. Sure,
he could not mean to deceive us 1 -
Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis-
took the desire for the power of serving us. But
let us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise
is ready by this.
Landlady. Not quite yet; and, begging your
ladyship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship quite
ready for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold
place, madam. I have a drop in the house of as
pretty raspberry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just
a thimble-fuU to keep the wind off your stomach.
To be sure, the last couple we had here, they said
it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, 1 sent them both
away as good-natured — Up went the blinds, round
went the wheels, and drive away post-boy was the
word.
Enter CROAKER.
Croaker. Well, while my friend 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 1 My son and daughter !
What can they be doing here?
Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you
good ; I think I know by this time what's good for
the north road. It's a raw night, madam. — Sir —
Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I
should now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten
the horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself.
Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solo-
mon ! are you all dead there 7 Wha, Solomon, I
say ! [Exit, bawling.
Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun
in fear, should end in repentance. — Every moment
we stay increases our danger, and adds to my ap-
prehensions.
Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear;
there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with
honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in
employment till we are out of danger, nothing can
interrupt our journey.
Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's
sincerity, and even his desires to serve us. My
fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind
so disposed to be alarmed without a cause, will be
but too ready when tJierfc's a reason.
Leontine. Why let him when we are out of his
power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great
reason to dread his resentment. His repining tem-
per, as it does no manner of injury to himself, so
will it never do harm to others. He only frets to
keep himself employed, and scolds for his private
amusement.
Olivia. I don't know that; but, I'm sure, on
some occasions it makes him look most shockingly.
Croaker [discovering himself.] How does he
look now? — How does he look now?
Olivia. Ah!
Leontine. Undone.
Croaker. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your
very humble servant. Madam, I am yours. What,
you are going off, are you ? Then, first, if you
please, take a word or two from me with you before
you go. Tell me first where you are going ; and
when you have told me that, perhaps I shall know
as little as I did before.
Leontine. If that be so, our answer might but
increase your displeasure, without adding to your
information.
Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy :
and you too, good madam, what answer have you
got? Eh! [A cry without, stop him.l 1 think I
heard a noise. My friend Honeywood without —
has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now
I hear no more on't.
Leontine. Honeywood without! Then, sir, it
was Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither ?
Croaker. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood con-
ducted me hither.
Leontine. Is it possible ? ''
Croaker. Possible ! Why he's in the house now,
sir ; more anxious about me than my own son, sir.
Leontine. Then, sir, he's a villain.
Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes
most care of your father? I'll not bear it. I tell
you I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the
family, and I'll have him treated as such.
Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship
as it deserves.
Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly
he entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means
to detect them, you would love him as I do. [A
cry without, stop him.'] Fire and fury ! they have
seized the incendiary : they have the villain, '.ne
incendiary in view. Stop him ! stop an incendia-
ry ! a murderer ! stop him ! [Exit.
Olivia. 0, my terrors ! What can this tumul*
mean? •
1S8
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr.
Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have satis-
faction : he shall give me instant satisfaction.
Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you
value my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be
our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes —
Consider that our innocence will shortly be all that
we have left us. You must forgive him.
Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every
instance betrayed us 7 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 liim to the very
scene of our escape 1
Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be
mistaken.
Enter POSTBOY, dragging in JARVIS; HONEYWOOD
entering soon after.
Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough.
Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the
reward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the
money at the bar, and then run for it.
Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us
see him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes.
[Discovering his mistake.] Death ! what's here?
Jarvis, Leontine, OUvia ! What can all this mean?
Jarvis. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that
I was an old fool, and that you are my master —
that's all.
Honeywood, Confusion !
Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your
word with me. After such baseness, I wonder
how you can venture to see the man you have in-
jured?
Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my
honour —
Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not
continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I
know you, sir, I know you.
Honeywood. Why won't you hear me ? By all
that's just, I know not —
Leontine. Hear you, sir, to what purpose? 1
now see through all your low arts; your ever com-
plying with every opinion; your never refusing
any request: 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.
Honeywood. Ha! cohtemptible to the world!
that reaches me. [Aside.
Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your
professions, I now find, were only allurements to
betray; and all your seeming regret for their con-
sequences, only calculated to cover the cowardice
of your heart. Draw, villain !
Enter CROAKER, out of breath.
Croaker. Where is the villain? Where is the
incendiary? [Sei-ing- the Postboy.] Hold him
fast, the dog : he has the gallows in his face. Come,
you dog, confess ; confess all, and hang yourself.
Postboy. Zounds! master, what do you throttle
me for?
Croaker [beating him.] Dog, do you resist? do
you resist ?
Postboy. Zounds! master, I'm not he: there's
the man that we thought was the rogue, and turns
out to be one of the company.
Croaker. How!
Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been un-
der a strange mistake here; I find there is nobody
guilty ; it was all an error; entirely an error of our
own.
Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in an error ;
for there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned
Jesuitical, pestilential plot, and I must have proo '
of it.
Honeywood. Do but hear me.
Croaker. What, you intend to bring 'em off, I
suppose? I'll hear nothing.
Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm
enough to hear reason.
Olivia. Excuse me.
Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it
to you.
Jarvis. What signifies explanations when the
thing is done ?
Honeywood. Will nobody hear me? Was there
ever such a set, so bhiided by passion and preju-
dice ! [ To the Postboy.] My good friend, I be-
lieve, you'll be surprised when I assure you —
Postboy. Sure me nothing— I'm sure of nothing
but a good beating.
Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever
hope for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sincere-
ly all you know of this affair.
Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the
cause of your suspicions : you see before you, sir,
one that with false pretences has stepped into your
family to betray it ; not your daughter —
Croaker. Not my daughter ?
Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean de-
ceiver — who — support me, I can not —
Honeywood. Help, she's going; give her air.
Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the
air; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whosever
daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither.
[Exeunt all but Croaker.
Croaker. Yes, yes, all's out; I now see the
whole affair ; my son is either married, or going to
be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as
his sister. Ay, 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 be-
forehand, we never feel them when they come.
Enter mSS RICHLAND and SIR WILLIA3I.
Sir William. Bui how do you know, madam.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
189
that my nephew intends setting off from this
place } ' 1- • ■
Miss Richland. My maid assufed me he was
come to this inn, and my own knowledge of his in-
tending to leave the kingdom suggested the rest.
But what do I see! my guardian here before us!
Who, my dear sir, could have expected meeting
you here? to what accident do we owe this plea-
sure?
Croaker. To a fool, I believe. ^■
Miss Richland. But to what purpose did you
come 1
Croaker. To play the fool.
Miss Richland. But with whom ?
Croaker. With greater fools than myself.
Miss Richland. Explain.
Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me
here to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is
oing to be married to I don't know who, that is
here : so now you are as wise as I am.
3Iiss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir ?
Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her
to be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter
she is, I know no more than the man in the moon.
Sir William. Then, si?, 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 —
Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the
west 1
Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the
care of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was
to secure her fortune to himself, she was sent to
France, under 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 inform-
ed upon my arrival at Paris ; and, as I had been
Cjnce her father's friend, 1 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 stepped in with more pleasing vio-
lence, gave hor liberty, and you a daughter.
Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my
own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose for-
tune, 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 William. Yes, sir; and know that you are
deceived in him. But step this way, and I'll con-
vince you.
[ Croaker and Sir William seem to confer.
Enter HONEYWOOD.
-Honeyjcood. Obstinate man, still to persist in
his outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I
now begin to grow contemptible even to myself.
How have I sunk by too great an assiduity to
please ! How have I over-taxed all my abilities,
lest the approbation of a single fool should escape
me ! But all is now over ; I have survived my repu-
tation, my fortune, my iViendships, and nothing
remains henceforward for me but soUtude and re-
pentance.
Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, tha
you are setting off, without taking leave of your
friends? The report is, that you are quitting En
gland : Can it be ?
Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so
unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure,
yet, thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness ; to
one who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one
who has power to procure you affluence, and gene-
rosity to improve your enjoyment of it.
3Iiss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the
gentleman you mean is what you describe him ?
Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it —
his serving me. He does indeed deserve the high-
est happiness, and that is in your power to confer.
As for me, weak and wavering as I have been,
obliged by all, and inca})able of serving any, what
happiness caia I find but in solitude ? what hope,
but in being forgotten?
Miss Richland. A thousand ! to live among
friends that esteem you, whose happiness it will be
to be permitted to oblige you.
Honeywood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed.
Inferiority' among strangers is easy; but among
those that once were equals, insupportable. Nay,
to show you how far my resolution can go, I can
now speak with calmness of my former follies, my
vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even
confess, that, among the number of my other pre-
sumptions, I had the insolence to think of loving
you. Yes, madam, while 1 was pleading the pas-
sion of another, my heart was tortured with its
own. But it is over: it was unworthy our friend
ship, and let it be forgotten.
Miss Richland. You amaze me!
Honeywood. But you'll forgive it, I khow you
will ; since the confession should not have come
from me even now, but to convince you of tht sin-
cerity of my intention of — never mentioning it
more. [ Going
Miss Richland. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha!
he here — " • •
' , Enter LOFTY.
Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends? 1
have followed you here with a trifling piece of in-
telligence ; but it goes no farther, things are not yet
ripe for a discovery. I have spirits workmg at a
certain board; your aflair at the treasury will be
done in less than — a thousand years. Mum !
Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope.
Lofty. Why, yes, 1 believe it may, if it falls
into proper hands, that know where to push aut^
190
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
h,
where to parry ; that know how the land hes-
Honey wood 7
Miss Richland. It has fallen into yours.
Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense,
your thing is done. It is done, I say — that's all.
I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout,
that the claim has been examined, and found ad-
missible. Quietus is the word, madam.
Hnneywood. But howl his lordship has been at
Newmarket these ten days.
Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must
have been most damnably mistaken. I had it of
him.
Miss Richland. He! why Sir Gilbert and his
family have been in the country this month.
Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so —
Sir Gilbert's letter did come to me from New-
market, so that he must have met his lordship there ;
and so it came about. I have his letter about me;
I'll read it to you. [ Taking out a large bundle.]
That's from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Mar-
quis of Squilachi. — Have you a mind to see a letter
from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? —
Honest Pon [Searching.] O, sir, what are you
here too 7 I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you
have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir Wil-
liam Honeywood, you may return it. The thing
will do without him.
Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must
inform you, it was received with the most mortify-
ing contempt.
Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that
mean?
Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say.
You'll find it come to something presently.
Sir William. Yes, sir; I believe you'll be
amazed, if after waiting some time in the ante-
chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curi-
osity by the passing servants, I was at last assured,
that Sir William Honeywood knew no such per-
son, and 1 must certainly have been imposed upon.
Lofty. Good! let me die; very good. Ha! ha!
ha!
Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half
the goodness of it.
Lofty. You can't. Ha! ha!
Croaker. No, for the soul of me! I think it was
as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from
one private gentleman to another.
Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the
message 1 Why, 1 was in the house at that very
time. Ha! ha! It was I that sent that very an-
swer to my own letter. Ha ! ha !
Croaker. Indeed! How? Why?
Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William
and me must be behind the curtain. A party has
many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side
with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the
mystery.
Croaker. And so it does, indeed ; and all my sus-
picions are over.
Lofty. Your suspicions ! What, then, you have
been suspecting, j'ou have been suspecting, have
you ? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends ; we
are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over ;
I say, it's over.
Croaker. As 1 hope for your favour I did not
mean to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discom-
posed.
Lofty. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, ant}
will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who
am I ? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by
ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer,
and praised in the St. James's? have I been chaired
at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant-Tailor's
Hall ? have I had my hand to addresses, and my
head in the print-shops ; and talk to me of suspects?
Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can
you have but asking pardon ?
Lufty. Sir, I will not be pacified — Suspects!
Who am I ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court
to men in favour to serve my friends ; the lords of
the treasury. Sir William Honeywood, and the
rest of the gang, and talk^o me of suspects 1 Who
am I, I say, who am I?
Sir William. Since, sir, you are so pressing for
an answer, I'll tell you who you are: — A gentle-
man, as well acquainted with politics as with men
in power ; as well acquainted with persons of fash-
ion as with modesty ; with lords of the treasury as
with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir Wil-
liam Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood.
[Discovering his ensigns of the Bath.
Croaker. Sir William Honeywood !
Honeywood. Astonishment ! my uncle ! , [Aside.
Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been
all this time ordy leading me up to the garret, in
order to fling me out of the window.
Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these
your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been
dreaded by the ins and outs; you, who have had
your hands 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.
Loft y. Ay, stick it where you will ; for by the
lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks
at present.
Sir William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you
now see how incapable this gentleman is of serv-
incr you, and how little Miss Richland has to ex-
pect from his influence.
Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it; and I can't
but say I have had some boding of it these ten
days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed
his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be
satisfied with his choice, and not run the hazard o(
another Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better.
Sir William. I approve your resolution; and
1
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
Wl
here they come to receive a coniirmation of your
pardon and consent.
Enter MRS. CROAKER, .TARMS, I.EONTINE, and
OUVIA.
3Irs. Croaker. Where's my husband? Come,
come, lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here
has been to tell me the whole affair; and I say, you
must forgive t.hem. Our own was a stolen match,
you know, my dear ; and we never had any reason
to repent of it.
Croaker. 1 wish we could both say so. Howev-
er, this gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has
been beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon.
So if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I
think we can tack them together without crossing
the Tweed for it. [Joini7rg their hands.
Leontine. How blest and unexpected! What,
what can we say to such goodness? But our fu-
ture obedience shall be the best reply. And as for
tliis gentleman, to whom we owe
Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your
thanks, as I have here an interest that calk me.
[ Turning to Honeyuood.] Yes, sir, you are sur-
prised to see me ; and I own that a desire of cor-
recting your follies led me hither. I saw with in-
dignation the errors of a mind that only sought ap-
plause from others ; that easiness of disposition
which, though inclined to the right, had not cou-
rage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret
those splendid errors, that still took name from
some neighbouring duty ; yourcharity, that was but
injustice ; your benevolence, that was but weak-
ness; and your friendship but credulity. I saw
with regret, great talents and extensive learning
only employed to add sprightliness to error, and in-
crease your perplexities. I saw your mind with
a thousand natural charms ; but the greatness of its
beauty served only to heighten my pity for its
prostitution.
Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir: I have
for some time but too strongly felt the justice of
your reproaches. But there is one way still left ine.
Ves, sir, 1 have determined this very hour to quit
forever a place wrherel have made myself the volun-
tary slave of all, and to seek among strangers that
fortitude which may give strength to the mind, and
marshal all its dissipated virtues. Yet ere I de-
part, permit me to solicit favour for this gentle-
man; who, notwithstanding what has happened,
has laid me under the most signal obligations. Mr.
Lofty
Lofty. Mr. HoneyTvood, I'm resolved upon a re-
formation as well as you. I now begin to find that
the man who first invented the art of speaking
truth, was a mucli cunninger fellow than I thought
him. And to prove that 1 design to speak trutli
for the future, 1 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 prefermenf,
he may take my place; I'm determined to resign.
[Exil.
Honeyicood. How have I been deceived !
Sir William. 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, 1 should then forget all, and be as blest
as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make
me.
Miss Richland. After what is past it would be
but afiectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I
will own an attachment, which 1 find was more
than friendship. And if my entreaties can not alter
his resolution to quit the country, 1 will oven try
if my hand has not power to detain him. [^Givinrj
her hand.]
Honeyicood. Heavens! how can I have deserved
all this 7 How express my happiness, my gratitudel
A moment like this overpays an age of apprehen-
sion.
Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face;
but Heaven send we be all better tliis day three
months !
Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to re-
spect yourself. He who seeks only for applause
from without, has all his happiness in another's
keeping.
Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too i)lain]y per-
ceive my errors; my vanity in attempting to please
all by fearing to offend any ; my meanness, in ap-
proving folly lest fools should disapprove. Hence-
forth, therefore, it shall be my study to reserve my
pity for real distress ; my friendship for true merit ;
and my love for her, who first taught me what it
is to be happy
EPILOGUE."*
SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. ^. . ,'
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 teased each rhyming friend to help him out.
An epilogue, things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.
* The author, in expectation of an Epiloiue from a frienii at
Oxford, deferred writing one.himself till ihc very last lioiir.
Wliat is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful man-
ner of the actress wlw spoke it.
192
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS
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, 1 1 dear sir, the doctor interposes :
What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses!
No, no, I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go ask your manager — Who, me ! Your pardon ;
Those things are not our forte at Covent-Garden.
Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance,
Give liim good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away,
While oft with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eye*
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise :
He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd our bard must now conform
" To 'bide the pelting of this pit'less storm."
Blame where you must, be candid where you cas^
And lie each critic the Good-natured Man.
' ' OR,
THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.
. , .. . ^ Colliers; -...-■/ .
AS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN,
DEDICATION.
TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, L L. D.
Dear Sir,
B V inscribing this slight performance to you, I
do not mean so much to comphment you as myself.
It may do me some honour to inform the pulihc,
that 1 have hved many years in intimacy with you.
It may serve the interests of mankind also to in-
form them, that the greatest wit may be found in
a character without impairing the most unaflected
piety.
I have, particularly, reason to thank you for
your partiality to this performance. The under-
taking a Comedy, not merely sentimental, was
very dangerous; and Mr. Cohnan, who saw this
piece in its various stages, always thought it so.
However, I ventured to trust it to the public ; and.
though it was necessarily delayed till late in the
Bcason, I have every reason to be grateful.
I am, Dear Sir,
Your most sincere friend and admirer,
Oliver Goldsmith.
PROLOGUE.
BY DAVID GARRICK, ESa
Enter RIR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a
liandlvercliief to liis eyoa.
Excuse me, sirs, I pray, — I can't yet speak, —
I'm crying now — and have been all the week.
" 'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters :
' I've that within" — for which there arc no plasters!
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying ?
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying !
And if she goes, my tears will never stop ;
For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop :
I am undone, that's all — shall lose my bread —
I'd rather, but that's nothing — lose my head.
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 speaJi Greek as sentiments ! , ■ ,
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.
What shall we do 7 — If Comedy forsake us, . •
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us.
But why can't I be moral 7 — Let me try —
My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye—
With a sententious look that notliing 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' ranee enters, folly is at hand:
Learning is better far than house or land.
Let not your virtue trip ; who trips may stumble
And virtue is not virtue if she tumble."
I give it up — morals won't do for me ;
To make you laugh, I must play tragedy.
One hope remains — hearing the maid was ill,
A Doctor comes this night to show his skill.
To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motioii,
He, in five draughts prepared, presents a potion :
A kind of magic charm — for be assured.
If you will sv^'allow it the maid is cured ;
But desperate the Doctor, and lier case is,
If you reject the dose, and make wry faces !
This truth he boasts, will boast it wliile he lives,
No pois'nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives.
Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree;
If not, within ho will receive no fee !
The college, you, must his pretensions back,
Pronounce him Regular, oi dub him QuacL
»94
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
MEN.
Sir Charles Marlow . . Mr.
YouKG Marlow (his son) . Mr.
Hardcastle Mr.
Hastings . .
Tony Lumpkin
Diggory . .
Mr.
Mr.
Mr.
Gardner.
Lewis.
Shuter.
dubellamy.
Q,OICK.
Saunders.
WOMEN.
Mrs. Hardcastle
Miss Hardcastle
Miss Neville
Maid
Mrs. Greene.
Mrs. Bulkley.
Mrs. Kniveton.
Miss Willems.
Landlord, Servants, &c. &c.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER;
OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGIIT.
ACT L
eCENE— A CHAMBER IN AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE.
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're
very particular. Is there a creature in the whole
country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to
town now and then, to rub off the rust a Uttle ?
There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour
Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's pohsliing every
winter.
Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affec-
tation to last them the whole year. I wonder why
London can not keep its own fools at home ! In
my time, the folhes of the town crept slowly among
«s, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach.
Its fopperies come down not only as inside passen-
gers, but in the very basket.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, your times were fine times
indeed ; you have been telling us of them for many
a loner year. Here we live in an old rumbling
mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn,
but that we never see company. Our best visiters
are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little
Gripplegate, the lame dancing-master: and all our
entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene
and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-
fashioned trumpery.
Hardcastle. And I love it. I love every thing
that's old ; old friends, old times, old manners, old
books, old wines ; and, I believe, Dorothy, [taking
her hand] you'll own I have been pretty fond of an
old wife.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're
for ever at your Dorothys and your old wives. You
niay be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you.
I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one
good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make mo-
ney of that.
Hardcastle. Let me see : twenty added to twen-
ty makes just fifty and seven.
Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle ; I
was but twenty when I was brought to bed of To-
ny, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ;
and he's not come to years of discretion yet.
Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him.
Ay, you have taught him finely.
Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin
has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his
learning. I don't think a boy wants much learn-
ing to spend fifteen hundred a-year.
Hardcastle. Learning quotha ! a mere composi-
tion of tricks and mischief.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Humour, my dear, nothing but
humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow
the boy a little humour.
Hardcastle. I'd sooner allow him a horsepond.
If burning the footman's shoes, frightening the
maids, and worrying the kittens be humour, he has
it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the
back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow,
I popped my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face.
Mrs. Hardcastle. 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?
Hardcastle. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle.
No, no; the alehouse and the stable are the only
schools he'll ever go to.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the
poor boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long
among us. Any body that looks in his face may see
he's consumptive.
Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the
symptoms.
Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes.
Hardcastle. Yes, when his hquor goes the wrong
1
way.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.
Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he some-
times whoops like a speaking trumpet — [ Tony hal-
looing behind the scenes.] — O, there he goes— a
very consumptive figure, truly.
Enter TONY, crossing the ?tage.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony, where are you going, my
charmer? Won't you give papa and I a httle of
your company, lovey ?
Tony. I'm in haste, mother; I can not stay.
Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this
raw evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly.
Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three
Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's
some fun going forward.
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
195
Hardcasile. Ay; the alehouse, the old place; I
thought so.
Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows.
Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Mug-
gins the exciseman. Jack Slang the horse doctor,
little Aminidab that grinds the music box, and
Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappoint
them for one night at least.
Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not
so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint
myself.
Mrs. Hardcastle [dctainivg himl. You shan't
go-
Tony, I will, I tell you.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't.
Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or I.
[Exit, hauling her out.
Hardcastle [alone\ Ay, there goes a pair that
only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in
a combination to drive sense and discretion out of
doors'? There's my pretty darling Kate ! the fash-
ions of the times have almost infected her too. By
living a 3'ear or two in town, she's as fond of gauze
and French frippery as the best of them.
Enter MLSS IL\RDCASTLE.
Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence I
dressed out as usual, my Kate. Goodness! What
a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about
thee, girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age,
that the indigent world could be clothed out of the
trimmings of the vain.
Miss Hardcastle. You know our agreement, sir.
You allow me the morning to receive and pay
visits, and to dress in my own manner; and in the
evening I put on my housewife's dress to please
you.
Hardcasile. Well, remember I insist on the
terms of our agreement ; and by the by, I believe I
shall have occasion to try your obedience this very
evening.
Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, 1 don't compre-
hend your meaning.
Hardcastle. Then to be plain with 3'ou, Kate, I
expect the young gentleman I have chosen to be
your husband from town this very day. I have his
father's letter, in which he informs me his son is
set out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly
after.
Miss Hardcasile. Indeed! 1 wish I had known
something of this before. Bless me, how shall I
behave? It's a thousand to one I shan't like him;
our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing
3f business, that I shall find no room for friendship
or esteem.
Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will
control your choice; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have
pitched upon, is the son of my old friend. Sir
Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard mc
talk so often. The young gentleman has been
bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment
in the service of his country. 1 am told he's a
man of an excellent understanding.
Miss Hardcastle. Is he ?
Hardcastle. Very generous.
Miss Hardcastle. 1 believe I shall like Iiim.
Hardcasile. Young and brave.
Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure I shall like him.
Hardcastle. And very handsome.
Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more,
[kissing his hand] he's mine; I'll have him.
Hardcastle. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of
the most bashful and reserved young fellows in aU
the world.
Miss Hardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to
death again. That word reserved has undone all
the rest of lus accomplishments. A reserved lover,
it is said, always makes a suspicious husband.
Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom
resides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler
virtues. It was the very feature in his character
that first struck me.
Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking
features to catch me, I promise you. However, if
he be so young, so handsome, and so every thing
as you mention, I believe he'll do still. 1 think Til
have him.
Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an ob-
stacle. It's more than an even wager he may not
have you.
Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you
mortify one sol Well, if he refuses, instead of break-
ing my heart at his indiflcrence, I'll only break my
glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer
fashion, and look out for some less difficult admirer.
Hardcasile. Bravely resolved! In the meantime
I'll go prepare the servants for his reception: as we
seldom see company, they want as much training
as a company of recruits the first day's muster.
[Exit.
Miss Hardcastle [alone]. Lud, this news of
papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ;
tiiese he put last; but I put them foremost. Sen-
sible, good natured; I like all that. But then re-
served and sheepish, that's much against him. Y'et
can't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught
to be proud of his wife? Y^cs; and cant I — But I
vow I'm disposingof the husband before I have se-
cured the lover.
Enter MISS NEVILLE.
Miss Hardcastle. I'm glad you're come, Ne-
ville, my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do 1 look
this evening? Is there any thing whimsical about
196
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
me 7 Is it one of my well-looking days, child? Am
I in face today!
Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I
look again — liless nie ! — sure no accident has hap-
pened among the canary birds or the gold fishes.
Has your brother or the cat been meddling 1 or has
the last novel been too moving?
Miss Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. I
nave been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I
have l)een threatened with a lover.
Miss Neville. And his name —
Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow.
Miss Neville. Indeed!
Miss HcM-dcasile. The son of Sir Charles Mar-
low.
Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend
of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never
asunder. I believe you must have seen him when
we lived in town.
Miss Hardcastle. Never.
Miss Neville. He's a very singular character, I
assure you. Among women of reputation and
virtue he is the modestest man alive; but his ac-
quaintance give him a very different character
among creatures of another stamp : you understand
me.
Miss Hardcastle. An odd character indeed. I
shall never be able to manage him. What shall I
do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust to oc-
currences for success. But how goes on your own
affair, my dear? has my mother been courting you
for my brother Tony as usual?
Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our
agreeable tete-d-tetes. She has been saying a hun-
dred tender things, and setting off her pretty mon-
ster as the very pink of perfection.
Miss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such,
that she actually thinks him so. A fortune Uke
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 Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly
consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation.
But, at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but con-
stant, 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 Hardcastle. My good brother holds out
stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so.
Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at
bottom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married
to any body but himself. But my aunt's bell rings
for our afternoon's walk round the improvements.
Allans! Courage is r.ecessary, as our affairs are
sritical.
Miss Hardcastle. " Wovild it were bed-time, and
all Were well." "" Exeunt.
SCENE — AN ALEHOUSE ROOM. ' .
Several shabby Fellows witli punch and tobacco. TONY at
the heaJ of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallei
in his hand.
Omnes. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo!
First Fellow. Nov/, gentlemen, silence for a
song. The 'Squire is going to knock himself down
for a song.
Om nes. Ay, a song, a song !
Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song 1
made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons.
SONG.
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain,
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning,
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives genus a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians,
Their quis, and their quses, and their quods,
They're all but a parcel of pigeons.
Tcioddle, toroddle, toroll.
When methodist preachers come down,
A-preaching that drinkmg is sinful,
I'll wager the rascals a crown,
They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence,
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I'll leave it to all men of sense,
But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Then come put the jorum about.
And let us be merry and clever,
Our hearts and our liquors are stout.
Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever.
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;
But of all the gay birds in the air,
Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Omnes. Bravo ! bravo !
First Fellow. I'he 'Squire has got spunk in
liim.
Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeaya
he neVer gives us nothing that's low.
Third Fellow. O damn any thing that's low, I
can not bear it.
Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the gen-
teel thing at any time : if so be that a gentleman
bees in a concatenation accordingly.
Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, M".ster
Muggins. What, though I am obligated to danc«
a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that.
May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
197
to the very genteelest of tunes ; " Water Parted,"
or " The minuet in Ariadne."
Second Fellow. What a pity it is the 'Squire is
not come to his own. It would be well for all the
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 com-
pany.
Second Fellow. 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 wind-
ing the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a
hare, or a wench, he never had his fellow. It was
a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses,
dogs, and girls, in the whole county.
Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll be no
bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of
Bet Bouncer and the miller's gray mare to begin
with. But come, my boys, drink about and be
merry, for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo,
what's the matter 7 • •
Enter LANDLORD.
Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-
chaise at the door. They have lost their way upo'
the forest ; and they are talking something about
Mr. Hardcastle.
Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be
the gentleman that's coming down to court my sis-
ter. Do they seem to be Londoners 1
Landlord. 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 Land-
lord.] Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough
company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll
be with you in the squeezing of a lemon.
[Exeu7it Moh.
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 grum-
blctonian. But then I'm afraid — afraid of what ?
I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a-year, and
let him frighten me out of that if he can.
Enter LANDLORD, conducting RLVRLOW and
HASTINGS. (
Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day
have we had of it ! We were told it was but forty
miles across the country, and we have come above
threescore.
Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unac-
sountable reserve of yours, that would not let us
inquire more frequent ly on the way.
Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to
lay myself under an obligation to every one I meet,
and often stand the chance of an unmannerly an-
swer.
Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely
to receive any answer.
Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told
you have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle in
these parts. Do you know what part of the coun-
try you are in 1
Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank
you for information.
Tony. Nor the way you came ?
Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us
Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither
the road you are going, nor where you are, nor the
road you CEmie, the first thing I have to inform you
is, that — you have lost your way.
Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that.
Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to
ask the place from whence you came ?
Alar low. That's not necessary towards directing
us where we are to go.
Tony. No oifence ; but question for question is
all fair, you know. — Pray, gentlemen, is not this
same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned,
whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter,
and a pretty son ?
Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ;
but he has the family you mention.
Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trollop-
ing, talkative maypole — the son, a pretty, well-
bred, agreeable youth, that every body is fond of?
Marlote. Our information differs in this. The
daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful; the
son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at
his mother's apron-string. • '
Tony. He-he-hem! — Then, gentlemen, all I
have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hard-
castle's house this night, I believe,
Hastings. Unfortunate!
Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty,
dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the
way to Mr. Hardcastle's ! [ Winking upon the
Landlord.] Mr. Hardcastle's, of Gluagmire Marsh,
you understand me.
Landlord. Master Hardcastle's! Lack-a-daisy,
my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong!
When you came to the bottom of the liill, you
should have crossed down Squash-Lane.
Marlow. Gross down Squash Lane !
Landlord. Then you were to keep straight for-
ward, till you came to four roads.
Marlow. Come to where four roads meet!
Tony. Ay, but you must be sure to take only
one of them.
Marlow. O, sir, you're facetious.
Tony. Then keeping to the nght, you are to
go sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull Com
nion ; there you must look sharp for the track of
198
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the V, heel, 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.
Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find
out the longitude !
Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow?
Marlow. This house promises but a poor re-
ception ; though perhaps the landlord can accom-
modate us.
Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one
spare bed in the whole house.
Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken
up by three lodgers already. \_AfLer a pause, in
which the rest seem disconcerted.^ I have hit it.
Don't you think. Stingo, our landlady could ac-
commodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, with —
three chairs and a bolster ?
Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side.
Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a
bolster.
Tony. You do, do you? — then, let me see —
what if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's
Head ; the old Buck's head on the hill, one of the
best inns in the whole county 7
Hastings. O ho! so we have escaped an adven-
ture for this night, however.
Landlord [apart to Tony."] Sure, you ben't
sending them to your father's as an inn, be you?
Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that
out. [To them.] You have only to keep on
straight forward, till you come to a large old house
by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns
over the door. That's the sign. Drive up the
yard, and call stoutly about you.
Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The
servants can't miss the way 1
Tony. No, no : but I tell you, though, the land-
lord is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he
wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your pre-
sence, he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his
company ; and, ecod, if you mind him, he'll per-
suade you that his mother was an alderman, and
his aunt a justice of peace.
Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ;
but a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the
whole country.
Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we
shall want no further connexion. We are to turn
to the right, did you say 7
Tony. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step
myself, and show you a piece of the way. j| To
the Landlord.] Mum !
Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet,
pieasaut damn'd mitchievous son of a wh"re.
Exeuia.
ACT II.
SCENE — AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE.
Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward
servants.
Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the
table exercise I have been teaching you these three
days. You all know your posts and your places,
and can show that you have been used to good
company, without ever stirring from home.
Omnes. Ay, ay.
Hardcastle. When company comes, you are not
to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like
frighted rabbits in a warren.
Omnes. No, no.
Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken
from the barn, are to make a show at the side-ta-
ble ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from
the plough, are to place yourself behind my chair.
But you're not to stand so, with your hands in
your pockets. Take your hands from your pock-
ets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead
you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're
a little too stiff indeed, but that's no great matter.
Diggory. Ay, mind how 1 hold them. I learned
to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill
for the militia. And so being upon drill
Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Dig-
gory. You must be all attention to the guests.
You must hear us talk, and not think of talking ;
you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ;
you must see us eat and not think of eating.
Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that's
parfectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees
yeating going forward, ecod he's always wishing
for a mouthful himself.
Hardcastle. Blockhead ! Is not a belly-full in
the kitchen as good as a belly-full in the parlour 7
Stay your stomach with that reflection.
Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make
a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beel
in the pantr}'.
Hardcastle. Diggor}', 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 compan}'.
Diggory. Then ecod your worship must not
tell the story of ould Grouse in the gun-room : I
can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the
soul of me. We have laughed at that these twen-
ty years — ha ! ha ! ha !
Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good
one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at
that — ^l)Ut still remember to be attentive. Supposa
one of the company should call for a glass of wine,
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
199
how will you behave! A glass of wine, sir, if you
please — [to Diggorj/] — eh, why don't you move?
Diggary. Ecod, your worship, I never have cou-
rage till I see the eatables and drinkables broujrht
upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion.
Hardcastle. What, will nobody move?
First Servant. I'm not to leave this place.
Second Servant. I'm sure it's no place of mine.
Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartin.
Diggory.^ 'Wanns, and I'm sure it canna be
mine.
Hardcastle. You numskulls! and so while, like
your betters, you are quarreling for places, the
guests must be starved. O you dunces! I find I
must begin all over 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 son a hearty reception at the gate.
[Exit Hardcastle.
Diggory. By the elevens, my place is gone quite
out of my head.
Roger. I know that my place is to be every
where.
First Servant. Where the devil is mine?
Second Servant. My place is to be nowhere at
all; and so I'ze go about my business. [E.reunt
Servants, running about as if frighted, different
ways.
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
Enter SERVANT with candles, showing in MARLOW and
HASTINGS.
Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome!
This way.
Hastings. 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.
Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion.
Having first ruined the master by good house-keep-
ing, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn.
Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be
taxed to pay all these fineries. I have often seen
a good sideboard, or a marble chimney-piece, though
not actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning
confoundedly,
Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all
places ; the only difference is, thct in good inns you
pay dearly for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced
and starved.
Hastings. You have lived very much among
them. In truth, I have been often surprised, that
you who have seen so much of the world, with your
natural good sense, and your many opportunities,
could never yet acquire a requisite share of assur-
ance.
Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell
me, George, where could I have learned that as-
surance you talk of? My life has been chiefly
spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that I carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in
Hastings. Ay, among them you are impudent
enough of all conscience.
Marlow. They are of us, you know.
Hastings. But in the company of women of
reputation I never saw such an idiot, such a trem-
bler; you look for all the world as if you wanted an
opportunity of stealing out of the room.
Marloxc. Why, man, that's because I do want
to steal out of the room. Faith, I have often form-
ed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at
any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance
from a pair of fine eyes has totally overset my reso-
lution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit mo-
desty, but I'll be hanged if a modest man can
ever counterfeit impudence.
Hastings. If you could but say half the fine
things to them that I have heard you lavish upon
the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college bed-maker.
Marlow. Why, George, I can't say fine things
to them; they freeze, they petrify me. They may
talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some
such bagatelle; but tome, a modest woman, dress-
ed out in all her finery, is the most tremendous ob-
ject of the whole creation. . - ' ■ • ■, ■
Hastings. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how
can you ever expect to marry ?
Marlovi. Never, unless, as among kings and
princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If,
indeed, like an eastern bridegroom, one were to be
introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might
be endured. But to go through all the terrors of a
formal courtship, together with the episode of
aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to
blunt out the broad staring question of, Madam,
will you marry me? No, no, that's a strain much
above me, I assure you.
Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend
behaving to the lady you are come down to visit at
the request of your father?
Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow
very low, answer yes or no to all her demands —
But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to
look in her face till I see my father's again.
Hastings. V m surprised that one who is so warm
a friend can be so cool a lover.
Marloic. To be cxphcit, my dear Hastings, my
chief inducement down was to be instrumental in
forwarding your happiness, not my own. Misa
Neville loves you, the family don't know you! as
my friend you are sure of a reception, and let hon
our do the rest.
Hastings. My dear Marlow! But I'll suppress
the emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to
£00
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the world I would apply to for assistance. But ]
Miss Neville's person is all 1 ask, and that is
mine, both from her deceased father's consent,
and her own inclination.
Marlow. Happy man! You have talents and
art to captivate any woman. I'm doomed to adore
the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it
I despise. This stammer in my address, and this
awkward unprepossessing visage of mine can never
permit me to soar above the reach of a milliner's
'prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury-lane.
Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt us.
Enter HARDCASTLE.
Ilardcastlc. Gentlemen, once more you are
heartily welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow 1 Sir, you
are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to
receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like
to give them a hearty reception in the old style at
my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks
taken care of.
Marlow [aside]. He has got our names from
the servants already. — [ To Hardcasile.] We ap-
prove your caution and hospitality, sir. — [ To Has-
tings.] I have been thinking, George, of changing
our travelling dresses in the morning. I am grown
confoundedly ashamed of mine.
Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no
ceremony in this house.
Marlow. I fancy, Charles, you're right: the first
blow is half the battle. I intend opening the cam-
paign with the white and gold.
Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — ^gen-
tlemen — pray be under no restraint in this house.
This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do
just as you please here.
Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign
too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition be-
fore it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery
to secure a retreat.
Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Mar-
low, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough,
when we went to besiege Denain. He first sum-
moned the garrison
Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or waist-
coat will do with the plain brown 1
Hardcastle. He first summoned the garrison,
which might consist of about five thousand men —
Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix
but very poorly.
Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling
you, he summoned the garrison, which might con-
sist of about five thousand men
MarloiD. The girls like finery.
Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five
thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammu-
nition, and other implements of war. Now, says
the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that
Stood next to him — You must have heard of
George Brooks — I'll pawn my dukedom, says he,
but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of
blood. So
Marlow. What, my good friend, if you gave us
a glass of punch in the mean time ; it would help us
to carry on the siege with vigour.
Hardcastle. Punch, sir! [aside.] This is the
most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met
with.
Marlow. Yes, sir. punch. A glass of warm
punch, after our journey, will be comfortable. This
is Liberty-hall, you know.
Hardcastle. Here's a cup, sir.
MarloxD [aside]. So this fellow, in his Liberty-
hall, will only let us have just what he pleases.
Hardcastle [taking the cwp]. I hope you'll find
it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own
hands, and I beUeve you'll own the ingredients are
tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me.
sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better ac-
quaintance. [Drinks.
Marlow [aside]. A very impudent fellow, this !
but he's a character, and I'll humour him a little.
Sir, my service to you.. [Drinks.
Hastings [aside]. I see this fellow wants t»
give us his company, and forgets that he's an inn-
keeper before he has learned to be a gentleman.
Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my
old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of busi-
ness in this part of the country. Warm work,
now and then, at elections, I suppose.
Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work
over. Since cur betters have hit upon the expedient
of electing each other, there is no business " for us
that sell ale."
Hastings. So then you have no turn for politics,
I find.
Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a
time, indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes
of government, like other people j but finding my-
self every day grow more angry, and the govern-
ment growing no better, I left it to mend itself.
Since that, I no more trouble my head about Hy-
der Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker,
Sir my service to you.
Hastings. So that with eating above stairs, and
drinking below, with receiving your friends with-
in, and amusing them without, you lead a good
pleasant bustling hfe of it.
Hardcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that's
certain. Half the differences of the parish are ad-
justed in this very parlour.
Marlow [after drinking]. And you have an
argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than
any in Westminster-hall.
Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a
little philosophy.
MarloiD [aside]. Well, this isthe first time I evej
heard of an inkeeper's philosophy.
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
201
Hastings. So, then, like an experienced general,
you attack them on every quarter. If you find
their reason manageable, you attack it with your
philosophy ; if you find they have no reason, you
attack them with this. Here's your health, my
philosopher. ^ {Drinks.
Hardcasile. Good, very good, thank you; ha!
ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in mmd of
Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the
Lattle of Belgrade. You shall hear.
Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, 1 be-
lieve it's almost time to talk about supper. What
has your philosophy got in the house ior supper?
Hardcastle. For supper, sir! [Aside] Was ever
such, a request to a man in. his own house !
Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an
appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in
the larder, I promise you.
Hardcastle [asidcl. Such a brazen dog sure
never my eyes beheld. [ To him.] Why really,
sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy
and the cook-maid settle these things between
them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them.
Marlow. You do, do you 7
Hardcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they
are in actual consultation upon what's for supper
this moment in the kitchen.
MarloiD. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of
their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When
I travel I always choose to regulate my own sup-
per. Let the cook be called. No offence 1 hope,
Birl
Hardcastle. 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.
Hastings. Lot's see your list of the larder then.
I ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite
to my bill of fare.
Marlow [to Hardcasth, who looks at them with
surprise]. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way
too.
Hardcasile. Sir, you have a right to commaud
here. Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-
night's supper: I believe it's drawn out. — Your
manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my
uncle. Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of his,
that no man was sure of his supper till he had
eaten it.
Hastings \Aside]. All upon the high rope! His
uncle a colonel ! wo shall soon hear of his mother
being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the
bill of fare.
Marlow [j>erusing\. AVhat's here! For the
first course; for the second course; for the dessert.
The devil, sir, do you think we have brought down
tue whole joiner's company, or the corporation of
Bedford, to eat up such a supper? Two or threo
little things, clean and comfortable, will do.
Hastings. But let's hear it.
, Marlow [reading]. For the !Grst course at the
top, a pig, and prune sauce.
Hastings. Damn your pig, I say.
Marleic, And damn your prune sauce, say I.
Hardcastle. And yet, gentlemen, to men that
are hungry, pig with prune sauce is very good
eating.
Marlow. At the bottom a calf's tongue and
brains.
Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my
good sir, I don't like them.
Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by
themselves.
Hardcastle [aside]. Their impudence con-
founds me. [To them.] Gentlemen, you are my
guests, make what alterations you j)lease. Is there
any thing else you wish to retrench or alter, gen-
tlemen 1
Marlow. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and
sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a
dish of tiff — taff— taffety cream.
Hastings. Confound your made dishes; I shall
be as much at a loss in this house as at a green and
yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table.
I'm for plain eating.
Hardcastle. I'm sorry, gentlemeUj that I have
nothing you like, but if there be any thin.ir you
have a particular fancy to
Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so
exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as
another. Send us what you please. So much for
supper. And now to see that our beds are aired,
and properly taken care of.
Hardcastle. I entreat you'll leave all that to me.
You shall not stir a step.
Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you
must excuse me, I always look to these things my-
self.
Hardcastle. I must insist, sir, you'll make your-
self easy on that head.
Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. [Aside.]
A very troublesome fellow this, as I ever met with.
Hardcastle. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to
attend you. [Aside.] This may be modern mo-
desty, but T never saw any tiling look so like old-
fashioned impudence.
[E.veunt Marlow and Hardcastle.
Hastings [alone]. So I find this fellow's civili-
ties 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 Neville. My dear Hastings! To what un-
202
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
expected good fortune, to what accident, am I to
ascribe this happy meeting 7
Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question,
as I could never have hoped to meet my dearest
Constance at an inn.
Miss Neville. An inn! sure you mistake: my
aunt, my guardian, lives here. "What could in-
duce you to think this house an inn 7
Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom
I came down, and I, have been sent here as to an
inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we ac-
cidentally met at a house hard by, directed us
hither.
Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my
hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard
me talk so often; ha! ha! ha!
Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you?
he of whom I have such just apprehensions']
Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from
him, I assure you. You'd adore him if you knew
how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it
too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and
actually begins to think she has made a conquest.
Hastings. Thou dear dissembler! You must
know, my Constance, I have just seized this happy
opportunity of my friend's visit here to get admit-
tance into the family. The horses that carried us
down are now fatigued with their journey, but
they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest
girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall
soon be landed in France, where even among
slaves the laws of marriage are respected.
Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though
ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little for-
tune 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 aunt to let me wear them.
I fancy I'm very near succeeding. The instant
fjiey are put into my possession, you shall find me
•^eady to make them and myself yours.
Hastings. Perish the baubles! Your person is
all I desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow
must not be let into his mistake. I know the
strange reserve of his temper is such, that if ab-
ruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit the
house before our plan was ripe for execution.
Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in
the deception? Miss Hardcastle is just returned
from walking; what if we still continue to deceive
him? This, this way [They confer.
Enter MARLOW.
MavvOW. The assiduities of these good people
tease me beyond hearing. 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 ww
got here?
Histings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratu-
late you ! — The most fortunate accident ? — Who
do you think is just alighted?
Marlow. Can not guess. '
Hastings. Our mistresses, boy. Miss Hardcas-
tle and Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce
Miss Constance Neville to your acquaintance.
Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, thev
called on their return to take fresh horses here.
Miss Hardcastle has just stepped into the next
room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it
lucky? eh!
Marlow [aside.] I have been mortified enough
of all conscience, and here comes something to
complete my embarrassment.
Hastings. Well, but wasn't it the most fortu-
nate thing in the world ?
Marlow. Oh ! yes. Very fortunate — a most
joyful encounter — But our dresses, George, you
know are in disorder — What if we should post-
pone the happiness till to-morrow ? — To-morrow
at her own house — It will be every bit as conve-
nient — and rather more respectful — To-morrow let
it be. [ Offering to go.
Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your cere-
mony will displease her. The disorder of your
dress will show the ardour of your impatience.
Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will
permit you to see her.
Marlow. O ! the devil ! how shall I support it 1
— Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You
are to assist me, you know. I shall be confound
edly ridiculous. Yet, hang it ! I'll take courage.
Hem!
Hastings. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge,
and all's over. She's but a woman, you know,
Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread
most to encounter.
Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, aa returned from walking.
Hastings [introducing them.] Miss Hardcas-
tle. Mr. Marlow. I'm proud of bringing two
persons of such merit together, that only want tc
know, to esteem each other.
Miss Hardcastle [aside."] Now for meeting my
modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite
in his own manner. [After a pause, in which he
appears very uneasy and disconcerted.] I'm glad
of your safe arrival, sir, — I'm told you had some
accidents by the way.
MarloT.0. 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 .
Hastings [tu him.] You never spoke better ih
your whole Ufe. Keep it up and I'll insure yow
the victory
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
203
AlU-s Hardcastle. I'm afraid you flatter, sir.
You, that have seen so much of the finest compa-
ny, can lind little entertainment in an obscure cor-
ner of the country.
MarloxB [gathering courage]. I have lived, in-
deed, 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 Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to
enjoy it at last.
Hastings [to him]. Cicero never spoke better.
Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance
for ever.
Marlow [to him\ Hem! stand by me then, and
when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me
up again.
Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon
life were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you
must have had much more to censure than to ap-
prove.
Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always
willing to be amused. The folly of most people is
rather an object of mirth than uneasiness.
Hastings [to him]. Bravo, bravo. Never spoke
BO well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcas-
tle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going to
be very good company. I believe our being here
will but embarrass the interview.
Marlow. Not in the least. Mr. Hastings. We
like your company of all things. [To him.] Zounds!
George, sure you won't gol how can you leave
usl
Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversa-
tion, so we'll retire to the next room. [To him.]
You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a
little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt.
jiliss Hardcastle [after a pause]. But you have
not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir: the
ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of
your addresses.
Marlow [relapsing into timidity]. Pardon me.
madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to
deserve them.
Aliss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the
very worst way to obtain them.
Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to
converse only with the more grave and sensible
part of the sex. — But I'm afraid I grow tiresome.
Miss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing
I like so much as grave conversation myself; I
could hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been
surprised liow a man of sentiment could ever ad-
mire those light airy pleasures, where nothing
reaches the heart.
Marlow. It's a disease of the mind, ma-
dam. In the variety of tastes there must be some
who, wanting a relish for um — a — um.
Miss Hardcastle. I understand you, sir. There
must be some who, wanting a relish for refined
pleasures, pretend to despise what they are inca-
pable of tasting.
Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely
better expressed. I can't help observing a
Miss Hardcastle [aside]. Who could ever sup-
pose this fellow impudent upon such occasions!
[ To him.] You were going to observe, sir
Marlow. I was observing, madam — I protest,
madam, I forget what 1 was going to observe.
Miss Hardcastle [aside]. I vow and so do I.
[Tb him.] You were observing, sir, that in this
age of hypocrisy — sometliing about hypocrisy, sir.
MarloiB. Yes, madam. In this age of hypo-
crisy there are few who upon strict mquiry do not
— a — a — a —
Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly,
sir.
Marlow [aside]. Egad ! and that's more than I
do myself.
Miss Hardcastle. You mean that in this hypo-
critical age there are few that do not condemn in
public what they practise in private, and think
they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it.
Marlow. True, madam; those who have most
virtue in their mouths, have least of it in their bo-
soms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam.
Miss Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir; there's
something so agreeable and spirited in your man-
ner, such Ufe and force — pray, sir, go on.
Marlow. 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 Hardcastle. I agree with you entirely; a
want of courage upon some occasions assumes the
ai)pearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we
most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed.
Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, ma-
dam — But I see Miss Neville expecting us in the
next room. I would not intrude for the world.
Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was
more agreeably entertained in all my Ufe. Pray
go on.
Marlow. Yes, madam, I was But she
beckons us to join her., Madam, shall I do my-
self the honour to attend you 7
Mi^s Hardcastle. Well then, I'll follow.
Marlow [aside]. This pretty smooth dialogue
has done for me. [Exit.
Miss Hardcastle [alone]. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was
there ever such a sober, sentimental interview T
I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole
time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable
bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good
sense, but then so buried in his fears, that it fa-
tigues one more than ignorance. If 1 could teach
lum a httle confidence it would be doing somebody
204
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
that I know of a piece of service. But who is that
somebody 1 That, faith, is a question I can scarce
answer. [Exit.
Enter TONY and MISS NEVILLE, followed by MRS.
HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS.
Tony. What do you follow me for, Cousin Con?
I wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engag-
ing.
Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to
one's own relations, and not be to blame.
Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation
you want to make me though; but it won't do. 1
tell you, Cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you'll
keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship.
[She follows, coquetting him to the back scene.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings,
you are very entertaining. There is nothing in
the world 1 love to talk of so much as London, and
the fashions, though I was never there myself.
Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! From
your air and manner, I concluded you had been
bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's,
or Tower Wharf.
Mrs. Hardcastle. O ! sir, you're only pleased to
say so. We country persons can have no maruier
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 Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough,
and such places where the nobility chiefly resort 7
All I can do is to enjoy London at second-hand.
I take care to know every tete-d-tete from the
Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions,
as they come out, in a letter from the two Miss
Rickets of Crooked-Lane. Pray how do you lilie
this head, Mr. Hastings 1
Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee,
upon my word, madam. Your friseur is a French-
man, I suppose?
Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself
from a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book
for the last year.
Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box
at the play-house would draw as many gazers as
my Lady Mayoress at a city ball.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, since inoculation began,
there is no such thing to be seen as a plain wo-
man ; so one must dress a little particular, or one
may escape in the crowd.
Hastings. But that can never be your case,
madam, in any dress. [Bowing.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Yet, what signifies my dress-
ing when I have such a piece of antiquity by my
bide as Mr. Hardcastle : all I can say will never
argue down a single button from his clothes. I
have often wanted him to throw off his great
flaxen wig, and Avhere he was bald, to plaster it
over, like my Lord Pately, with powder.
Hastings. You are right, madam; for, as
among the ladies there are none ugly, so among
the men there are none old.
Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you think his
answer was! Why, witli his usual Gothic viva-
city, he said I only wanted him to throw off his
wig to convert it into a tete for my own wearing.
Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may
wear what you please, and it must become you.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what
do you take to be the most fashionable age about
town?
Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the
mode; but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up
fifty for the ensuing winter.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously. Then I shall be
too young for the fashion.
Hastings. No lady begins now to i)ut on jewels
till she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in
a poUte circle, would be considered as a child, as a
mere maker of samplers.
Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks
herself as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels
as the oldest of us all.
Hastings. Your niece, is she? And that
young gentleman, a brother of yours, I should
presume 1
Mrs. Hardcastle. My son, sir. They are con-
tracted to each other. Observe their httle sports.
They fall in and out ten times a day, as if they
were man and wife already. [To them.] Well,
Tony, child, what soft things are you saying to
your cousin Constance this evening?
Tony. I have been saying no soft things; but
that it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod!
I've not a place in the house now that's left to my-
self, but the stable.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my
dear, he's in another story behind your back.
Miss Neville. There's something generous in
my cousin's manner. He falls out before faces to
be forgiven in private.
Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah! he's a sly one. Don't
you think they're like each other about the mouth,
Mr. Hastings? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T.
They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties,
that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, Tony.
Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell
you. . [Measuring.
Miss Neville. O lud ! he has almost cracked my
head.
Mrs. Hardcastle. O, the monster ! For shame,
Tony. You a man, and behave so!
Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin.
Ecod, I'll not be made a fool of no longer.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy, all
that I'm to get for the pains I have taken in
your education ? I that have rocked you in your
1
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
SOS
cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon !
Did not I work that waistcoat to make you gen-
teel? 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 bfeen dosing me ever since I was born. I
have gone through every receipt in the Complete
' Housewife ten times over; and you have thoughts
of coursing me through duincey next spring.
^ But, ecod! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no
longer.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Wasn't it all for your good,
viper? Wasn't it all for your good?
Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone,
then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits. If
I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; not to
keep dinging it, dinging it into one so.
Mrs. Hardcastle. That's false; I never see you
when you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go
»o the alehouse or kennel. I'm never to be de-
lighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling
monster !
Tony. Ecod! mamma, your own notes are the
wildest of the two.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Was ever the like? but I see
he wants to break my heart ; I see he does.
Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture
the young gentleman a Uttle. I'm certain I can
persuade him to his duty.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come,
Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the
wretchedness of my situation : was ever poor wo-
man so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provok-
ing, undutiful boy?
[Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle 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 hour together ;
and they said they liked the book the better the
more it made them cry.
Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies,
I find, my pretty young gentleman?
Tony. That's as I find 'um.
Hastings. Not to fter of your mother's choosing,
I dare answer? And yet she appears to me a
pretty well-tempered girl.
Tony. Thai's because j'ou don't know her so
well as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ;
and there's not a more bitter cantackerous toad in
all Christendom.
Hastings [aside]. Pretty encouragement this
for a lover !
Tony. I have seen her since the height of that.
She lias as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a
rolt ttie first day's breaking.
Hastings. To me she appears sensible and
silent.
Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's
with her playmate, she's as loud as a hog in a
gate.
HaUings. But there is a meek modesty about
her that charms me.
Tony. Yes, but curb her never so Uttle, she
kicks up, and you're flung in the ditch.
Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a Uttle
beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty.
Tony. Band-box ! She's all a made-up thing,
mum. Ah! could you but see Bet Bouncer of
these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Kcod,
she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as
broad and red as a pulpit cushion. She'd make
two of she.
Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that
would take this bitter bargain off your hands?
Tony. Anan?
Hastings. Would you thank him that would
take Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and
your dear Betsy?
Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend,
for who would take her ?
Hastings. I am he.^ If you but assist me, I'll
engage to whip her off to France, and you shall
never hear more of her.
Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will, to the last drop
of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your
chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling,
and may-be get you a part of her fortin besides in
jewels that you Uttle dream of. '
Hastings. My dear 'Squire, this looks like a
lad of spirit.
Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see
more of my spirit before you are done with me.
[Singing.
We are the boys
That fears no noise
Where the thundering cannons roar
[Exeunt,
ACT III.
Enter HARDCASTLE, alone.
Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir
Charles mean by recommending his son as the
modestest young man in town ? To me he ap-
pears the most impudent piece of brass that ever
spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of
the easy chair by the fire-side already. He took
off his boots in the parlour, and desired me to see
them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how
his impudence affects my daughter. — She will
certainly be shocked at it.
206
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, plainly dressed.
Hardcastle. "Well, my Kate, I see you have
changed your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I be-
lieve, there was no great occasion.
Miss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in
obeying your commands, that I take care to ob-
serve them vrtthout ever debating their propriety.
Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give
you some cause, particularly when I recommended
my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day.
Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect
something extraordinary, and 1 find the original
exceeds the description.
Hardcastle. 1 was never so surprised in my
life! He has quite confounded all my faculties!
Miss Hardcastle, I never saw any thing like it:
and a man of the world too!
Hardcastle. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what
a fool was I, to think a young man could learn mo-
desty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit
at a masquerade.
Miss Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him.
Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad com-
pany and a French dancing-master.
Miss Hardcastle. Sure you mistake, papa ! A
French dancing-master could never have taught
him that timid look — that awkward address — that
bashful manner —
Hardcastle. Whose look? whose manner, child'?
Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaisc
honte, his timidity, struck me at the first sight.
Hardcastle. Then your first sight deceived you;
for I think him one of the most brazen first sights
that ever astonished my senses.
Miss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally! I never
saw any one so modest.
Hardcastle. And can you be serious 1 I never
saw such a bouncing, swaggering pu[>py since I
was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him.
Miss Hardcastle. Surprising! He met me with
a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look
fixed on the ground.
Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a
lordly air, and a famiharity that made my blood
freeze again.
Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence
and respect ; censured the manners of the age ; ad-
mired the prudence of girls that never laughed ;
tired me with apologies for being tiresome ; then
left the room with a bow, and " Madam, I would
not for the world detain you."
Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me
all his life before ; asked twenty questions, and
never waited for an answer : interrupted my best
remarks with some silly pun ; and when I was in
my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and
Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand
at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your fa-
ther if he was a maker of punch!
Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly b«
mistaken.
Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown liim-
self, I'm determined he shall never have my con-
sent.
Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing
I take hmi, he shall never have mine.
Hardcastle. In one thing then we are agreed—
to reject him.
Miss Hardcastle. Yes: but upon conditions.
For if you should find him less impudent, and I
more presuming : if you find him more respectful,
and I more importunate — I 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.
Hardcastle. If we should find him so But
that's impossible. The first appearance has done
my business. I'm seldom deceived in that.
Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many
good qualities under that first appearance.
Hardcastle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's
outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing
the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth face
stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for
every virtue.
Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation he-
gun with a compliment to my good sense, won't
end with a sneer at my understanding 1
Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young
Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling contra-
dictions, he may please us both, perhaps.
Aliss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mis-
taken, what if we go to make further discoveries'?
Hardcastle. Agreed. But depend on't I'm in
the right.
Miss Hardcastle. And depend on't I'm not
much in the wrong. [Exeunt.
Enter TONY, running in with a casket. '
Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are.
My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My
mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of their for-
tin neither. O ! my genus, is that you 1
Enter HASTINGS.
Hastings. My dear friend, how have you man-
aged with your mother 7 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.
Tonij. And here's something to bear youi
charges by the way [giving, the casket]— youl
sweetheart's jewels. Keep them; and hang those,
I say, that would rob you of one of them-
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
207
Hastings. But, how have you procured them
from your mother 1
Tony. Ask me no questions, anJ I'll tell you no
fibs. I procured 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.
Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But to
^ be plain witli you, Miss Neville is endeavouring to
procure them from her aunt this very instant. If
she succeeds, it will be the morft delicate way at
least of obtaining them.
Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it
will be. But I know how it will be well enough,
she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her
' head.
Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resent-
ment when she finds she has lost them.
Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave
me to manage that. I don't value her resentment
the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are.
Morrice ! Prance ! [Exit Hastings.
TONY, MRS. HARDCASTLE, and MISS NEVILLE.
Mrs. Hardcasiie. 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 Neville. But what will repair beauty at
forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam.
Mrs. Hardcasiie. Yours, my dear, can admit of
none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand
ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at
present. Don't you see half the ladies of our ac-
quaintance, my Lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs.
Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to
town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites
back.
Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but
Bomebody who shall be nameless would like me
I best with all my little finery about me 7
Mrs. Hardcastle. Consult your glass, my dear,
and then see if with such a pair of eyes you want
any better sparklers. What do you think, I'ony,
my dear? does your cousin Con want any jewels
in your eyes, to set off her beauty ?
Tony. That's as thereafter may be.
Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how
' it would oblige me.
Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose
and table cut things. They would make you look
like the court of King Solomon at a ]nippet-show.
I 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. Harckastle]. Then, why
don't you tell her so at once, as she's so longing
for them? Tell her they're lost. It's the only way
to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear
witness.
Mrs. Hardcastle [apart to Tony]. You know,
my dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I
say they're gone, you'll bear me witness, ' will you 1
He! he! he!
Tuny. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll say I saw
them taken out with my own eyes.
Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day,
madam. Just to be permitted to show them as
relics, and then they may be locked uj) again.
Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear
Constance, if I could find them you should ha've'
them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for
aught I know ; but we must have patience, wherever
they are. -
Miss Neville. I'll not believe it! this is but a
shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are
too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are
to answer for the loss
Mrs. Hardcasiie. Don't be alarmed, Constance.
If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But
my son knows they are missing, and not to be
found.
Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are
missing, and not to be found ; I'll take my oath
on't. "
Mrs. Hardcastle. You must learn resignation,
my dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we
should not lose our patience. See me, how calm
I am.
Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at
the misfortunes of others.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Now I wonder a girl of your
good sense should v.'aste 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 Neville. I detest garnets.
Mrs. Hardcastle. The most becoming things in
the world to set off a clear conqilcxion. You have
often seen how well they look upon me : you shall
have them. [Exit.
Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. Yon
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. 1 have stolen them out of her
bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your
s[)ark, he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me
to manage her.
Miss Neville. My dear cousin !
Tony. Vanish, She's here and has missed
them already. [E.rit Miss Neville.] Zoundsl
how she fidgets and spits about lilve a catheriii«
wheel.
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Enter MRS. IIARDUASTLE.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion! thieves! robbers!
we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone.
Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter,
mamma ? I hope nothhig has happened to any of
the good family?
Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau
has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and
I'm undone.
Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the
laws, I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod,
I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I'm ruined in
earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and
all taken away.
Tony. Stick to that: ha! ha! ha! stick to that.
I'll bear witness, you know; call me to bear wit-
ness.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that's
precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined
for ever.
Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I'm to
say so.
Mrs Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear
me. They're gone, I say.
Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for
to laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well
enough, ha ! ha ! ha !
Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a block-
head, that can't tell the difference between jest
and earnest? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby.
Tony. That's right, tliat's right: you must be
in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect
e'ther of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross-
grained brute, that won't hear me ? Canyou bear
witness that you're no better than a fool? Was
ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand,
and thieves on the other ?
Tony. I can bear witness to that.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you
blockhead you, and I'll turn you out of the room
directly. My poor niece, what will become of her !
Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you en-
joyed my distress?
Tony. I can bear witness to that.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Do you insult me, monster?
I'll teach you to vex your mother, I will.
Tony. I can bear witness to that.
[He runs off, she follows him.
Enter MKS lURDCASTLE and MAID.
Miss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable crea-
ture is that brother of mine, to send them to the
house as an inn, ha ! ha ! I don't wonder at his
impudence.
Maid. But what is more, madam, the young
gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress,
asked me if you were the bar maid. He mlsioow
you for the bar-maid, madam.
Miss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then as I live I'm
resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me. Pim-
ple, how do you like my present dress? Don't
you think I look sometliing like Cherry in the
Beaux Stratagem ?
Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady
wears in the country, but when she visits or re-
ceives company.
Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does
not remember my face or person ?
Maid. Certain of it.
Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so; for
though we spoke for some time together, yet his
fears were such that he never once looked up during
the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would
have kept him from seeing me.
Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him
in his mistake ?
Miss Hardcastle. In the first place, I shall be
seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl
who brings her face to market. Then I shall per-
haps make an acquaintance, and that's no small
victory gained over one who never addresses any
but the wildest of our sex. But my chief aim is
to take my gentleman off his guard, and like an
invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's
force before I offer to combat.
Maid. But are you sure you can act your part,
and disguise your voice so that he may mistake
that, as he has already mistaken your person?
Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I
have got the true bar cant — Did your honour call 1
— Attend the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for
the Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this
half hour.
Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here.
[Exit Maid.
Enter MARLOW.
Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the
house. I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go
to the best room, there I find my host and his
story ; if I fly to the gallery, there we have my
hostess with her courtesy down to the ground. 1
have at last got a moment to myself, and now for
recollection. [ Walks and muses.
Miss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir ? Did your
honour call ?
Marlow [musing]. As for Miss Hardcastle,
she's too grave and sentimental for me.
Miss Hardcastle. Did your honour call ?
[She still places herself before him, he
turning away.
Marlow. No, child. [Musing.] Besides, from
the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints.
Miss Hardcastle. I'm sme, sir, I heard the beli
rms.
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
209
Marlow. No, no. \Musing.\ I have pleased my
father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-mor-
row please myself by returning.
[ Taking out his tablets, and -perusing.
Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman
called, sir? ■'■_•. •,•
Marlow. I tell you no.
Miss Hardcastle. 1 should be glad to know, sir.
We have such a parcel of servants !
Marlow. No, no, I tell you. [Looks full in her
/ace.] Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted —
I wanted — 1 vow, child, you are vastly handsome.
Miss Hardcastle. O la, sir, you'll make one
ashamed.
Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly malicious
eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you
got any of your — a — what d'ye call it in the
house?
Miss Hardcastle. No, sir ; we have been out of
that these ten days.
Marlow. One may call in this house, I find to
very Uttle purpose. Suppose I should call for a
taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your
lips ; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too.
Miss Hardcastle. Neotar! nectar! That's a
liquor there's no call for in these parts. French,
I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir.
Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you.
Miss Hardcastle. Then its odd I should not
know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house,
and I have hved here these eighteen years.
Marlow. Eighteen years! Why one would
think, child, you kept the bar before you was born.
How old are you 1
Miss Hardcastle. O! sir, I must not tell my
age. They say women and music should never
be dated.
Marlow. To guess at this distance you can't be
much above forty. \_Ajiproaching.'\ Yet nearer
I don't think so much. [Apjwoaching.] By
coming close to some women, they look younger
still ; but when we come very close indeed.
[Attempting to kiss her.
Miss Hardca tie. Pray, sir, keep your distance.
One would think you wanted to know one's age
as they do horses, by mark of mouth.
Marlow. 1 protest, child, you use me extremely
ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it
possible you and I can ever be acquainted?
Miss Hardcastle. And who wants to be ac-
quainted with you? 1 want no such acquaint-
ance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss
Hardcastle, that was here awhile ago, in this ob-
stropalous manner. I'll warrant me, before her
you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the
ground, and talked for all the world as if you
were before a Justice of Peace.
Marlowe [aside]. Egad, she has hit it, sure
enough!
rroher.]
14
In awe of her, cliild ? Ha !
ha! ha! A mere awkward squinting thing ; no,
no. I find you don't know me. I laughed and
rallied her a httle; but I was unwilling to be too
severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me!
Miss Hardcastle. O then, sir, you are a favour-
ite, I find, among the ladies?
Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And
yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to
follow. At the ladies' club in town I'm called
their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my
real name, but one I'm known by. My name is
Solomons — Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your ser-
vice. [Offering to salute her.
Miss Hardcastle. Hold, sir ; you are introduc-
ing me to your club, not to yourself. And you'ro
so great a favourite there, you say ?
Marlow. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Man-
trap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo,
Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and
your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the
place.
3fiss Hardcastle. Then it is a very merry
place, I suppose?
Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine,
and old women can make us.
3Iiss Hardcastle. And their agreeable Rattle,
ha! ha! ha!
,Marlow [aside]. Egad! I don't quite like this
ciiit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh,
child?
Miss Hardcastle. I can't but laugh to think
what time they all have for minding their work or
their family.
Marlow [aside]. All's well ; she don't laugh at
me. [ To her.] Do you ever work child ?
Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. There's not a
screen or a quilt in the whole house but what caii
bear witness to that.
Marloxo. Odso! then you must show me your
embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns my-
self a little. If you want a judge of your work, you
must apply to me. [Seizing her hand.
Miss Hardcastle. Ay, but the colours do not
look well by candle-hght. You shall see all in the
morning. [Struggling.
Marlow. And why not now, my angel? Such
beauty fires beyond the power of resistance.—
Pshaw! the father here? My old luck : 1 never
nicked seven that I did not throw ames ace three
times following. [Exit Marlow.
Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise.
Hardcastle. So, madam. So I find this is your
modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that
kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored
at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou noi
ashamed to deceive your father so?
Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dew papa,
210
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
but he's still the modest man I first took him for ;
you'll bo convinced d" 't as well as I.
Hardcasile. By the nand of my body I believe
his impudence is infectious! Didn't I see him
seize your hand? Didn't I see him haul you
about like a milk-maid 1 And now you talk of
his respect and his modesty, forsooth !
Miss Hardcastle. But if I shortly convince you
of his modesty, that he has only the faults that
will pass off' with time, and the virtues that will
improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him.
Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one
run mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am
convinced. He has scarce been three hours in
the house, and he has already encroached on all
my prerogatives. You may like his impudence,
and call it modesty; but my son-in-law, madam,
must have very different qualifications.
Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to
convince you.
Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time,
for I have thoughts of turning him out this very
hour.
Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour then, and
I hope to satisfy you.
Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But
I'll have no trifling with your father. All fair
and open, do you mind me.
Miss
found that I considered your commands as my
pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty as
yet has been my inclination. [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.
Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever
Sir Charles Mar-
Where have you
Hastings. You surprise me
low expected here this night!
had your information 1
Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just
eaw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells
him he intends setting out a few hours after hi.s
son.
Hastings.
Then, my Constance, all must be
completed before he arrives. He knows me ; and,
should he find me here, would discover my name,
and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family.
Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe?
Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Mar-
low, who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the
mean time I'll go to prepare matters for our elope-
ment. I have had the 'Squire's promise of a fresh
pair of horses ; and if I should not see him again,
will write him further directions. [Exit.
Miss Neville. Well! success attend you. In
the mean time I'll go amuse my aunt with the oM
pretence of a violent passion for my cousin.
[Exit.
Enter MAKLOW, followed by a Servant.
Marlow. 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 1
have is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door.
Have you deposited the casket with the landlady,
as I ordered you? Have you put it into her own
hands?
Servant. Yes, your honour.
MarloiP. She said she'd keep it safe, did she?
Servant. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe
enough; she asked me how I came by it? and she
said she had a great mind to make me give an ac-
count of myself. [Exit Servant.
Marlow. Ha! ha! ha! They're safe, how-
ever. What an unaccountable set of beings have
we got amongst! This httle bar-maid though
runs in my head most strangely, and drives out
the absurdities of all the rest of the family. She's
mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken.
Enter HASTINGS.
Hastings. 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 !
Marlow. Give me joy, George! Crown me,
shadow me with laurels ! Well, George, after all,
we modest fellows don't want for success among
the women.
Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what
success has your honour's modesty been crowned
with now, that it grows so insolent upon us?
Marlow. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk,
lovely, little thing, that runs about the house with
a bunch of keys to its girdle?
Hastings. Well, and what then?
Marlow. She's mine, you rogue you. Such
fire, such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad!
she would not let me kiss them though.
Hastings. But are you so sure, so very sure of
her?
Marlow. AVhy, man, she tallced of showing me
her work above stairs, and I am to approve the
pattern.
Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about
to rob a woman of her honour?
Marlow. 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 notliing ia
this house I shan't honestly pay for.
Hastings. I beheve the girl has virtue.
Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last
man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it.
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
211
Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the
casket I sent you to lock up? It's in safety ?
Marlow. Yes, j-es. It's safe enough. I have
taken care of it. Sut how could you think the
seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safe-
ty? Ah! numskull! I have taken better, precau-
tions for you than you did for yourself 1
have
Hastings. What ?
Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep
for you.
Hastings. To the landlady !
Marlow. The landlady.
Hastings. You did 7
Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its
fcrthcoming, you know.
Hastings. YeS; she'll bring it forth with a wit-
Bess.
Marlow. Wasn't I right? I believe you'll allow
Jhat I acted prudently upon this occasion.
Hastings [aside]. He must not see my uneasi-
ness.
Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted though,
jnethinks. Sure nothing has happened ?
Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better
spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the
landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook
the charge.
Marlow. Rather too readily. For she not only
kept the casket, but, through her great precaution,
was going to keep the messenger too. Ha! ha! ha!
Hastings. He! he! he! They're safe, however.
Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse.
Hastings [aside]. So now all hopes of fortune
are at an end, and we must set off without it.
[To him.] Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your
meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he !
he! may you be as successful for yourself as you
have been for me ! [Exit.
Marlow, Thank ye, George: I ask no more.
Ha! ha! ha!
Enter HARDCASTLB.
Hardcastle. I "o longer know my own house.
^^ turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got
onmk already. I'll bear it no longer; and yet,
from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. [ To
him.] Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very
humble servant. [Bowing loio.
Marloxc. Sir, your humble servant. [Aside.]
What's to be the wonder now?
Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible,
sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome
than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so?
Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want
much entreaty. I generally make my father's son
welcome wherever he goes.
Hardcastle. I believe you do, from my soul, sir.
But though I say uotliing to your own conduct,
that of your servants is insufferable. Their man-
ner of drinking is setting a very bad example in
this house, I assure you.
Marlow. 1 protest, my very good sir, that is no
fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought,
they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the
cellar. I did, I assure you. [ To the side-scene.]
Here, let one of my servants come up. [ To Idm.]
My positive directions were, that as I did not drink
myself, they should make up for my deficiencies
below.
Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what
they do ! I'm satisfied !
MarloiD. They had, I assure you. You shall
hear from one of themselves, .,
Enter SERVANT, drunk.
Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah !
Whatwere my orders ? Were you not told to drink
freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the
good of the house ?
Hardcastle [aside]. I begin to lose my patience.
Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-
street for ever! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as
good as another man. I'll drink for no man before
supper, sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a
good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon —
[hickuping] — upon my conscience, sir.
Marlow. 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.
Hardcastle. Zounds ! he'll drive me distracted,
if I contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow. Sir ;
I have submitted to your insolence for more than
four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to
an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and
I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave
my house directly.
Marlow. Leave your house ! Sure you jest,
my good friend ! What ? when I'm doing what I
can to please you.
Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you don't please me;
so I desire you'll leave my house.
Marlow. Sure you can not be serious ? at this
time o' night, and such a night ? You only mean
to banter me.
Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I'm serious! and
now that my passions are roused, I say this house
is mine, sir ; this house is mine, and I command
you to leave it directly.
Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. 1
shan't stir a step, I assure you. [In a serious tone.]
This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is
my house. INline, while I choose to stav. What
right have you to bid me leave this house, sir? I
never met witn such impudence, curse me ; never
in my whole life before.
Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did.
212
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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 im-
pudent it makes me laugh'. Ha ! ha! ha! Pray,
Sir, [bantering] as you take the house, what think
you of taking the rest of the furniture? There's a
pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen,
and here's a pair of hrazcn-nosed bellows; perhaps
you may take a fancy to them.
MarloiD. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your
bill, and let's have no more words about it.
Hardcastlc. There are a set of prints, too. What
think you of the Rake's Progress for your own
apartment 1 %
Mavlow. Bring me your bill, I say ; and I'll leave
you and your infernal house directly.
HardcitsUc. Then there's a mah(^gany table that
you may see your face in.
Marlovr. My bill, I say.
Hardcastle. I had forgot the great chair for your
own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal.
Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and
let's hear no more on't.
Hardcastle. Young man, young man, from your
father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well-
bred modest man as a visiter here, but now I find
him no better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he
will be down here presently, and shall hear more
of it. [Exit.
Marlow. How's this! Sure 1 have not mistaken
the house. Every thing looks like an inn ; the
servants cry coming; the attendance is awkward ;
the bar maid too to attend us. But she's here, and
will further inform me. Whither so fast, child.
A word with you.
Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.
3Iiss Hardcastle. Let it be short, then. I'm in
a hurry, [aside.] I believe he begins to find out
his mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive
him.
Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one question.
What are you, and what may your business in tliis
house be 1
Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir.
Marlow. What, a poor relation?
Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir; a poor relation ap-
pomted to keep the keys, and to see that the guests
want nothing in my power to give them.
Marlow. That is, you act as bar-maid of the inn.
Miss Hardcastle. Inn! O la what brought
that in your head! One of the best families in the
county keep an inn — Ha! ha! ha! old Mr. Hard-
castie's house an inn !
Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house. Is this Mr.
Hardcastle's house, child?
Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. Whose else should
it be?
Marlow. So then, all's out, and I have been
damnably imposed on. O confound my stupid
head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I
shall be stuck up in caricature in all the print-
shops. The Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mis-
take this house of all others for an inn, and my
father's old friend for an innkeeper ! What a swag-
gering puppy must he take me for ? What a silly
puppy do I find myself. There, again, may I be
hang'd, my dear, but I mistook you for the bar-
maid.
Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me I I'm sure
there's nothing in my behaviour to put me on a
level with one of that stamp.
Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But 1
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 your simplicity for allurement.
But it's over — This house I no more show my
face in.
Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, I have done no-
thing to disoblige you. I'm sure 1 should be sorry
to afifront any gentleman who has been so polite,
and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I
should be sorry [■pretending to cry] if he left the
family upon my account. I'm sure I should be sorry
people said any thing amiss, since I have no fortune
but my character.
Marlow -[aside]. By Heaven ! she weeps. This
is the first mark of tenderness 1 ever had from a
modest woman, and it touches me. [To her.]
Excuse me, my lovely girl; you are the only part
of the family I leave with reluctance. But to be
plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune,
and education, makes an honourable connexion
impossible; and I can never harbour a thought of
seducing simplicity that trusted in my honour, of
bringing ruin upon one, whose only fault was be-
ing too lovely.
Miss Hardcastle [aside]. Generous man! 1 now
begin to admire him. f To him.] But I am sure
my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's; and
though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a
contented mind ; and, until this moment, I never
thought that it was bad to want fortune.
Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity 1
Miss Hardcastle. Because it puts me at a dis-
tance from one that, if I had a thousand pounds, I
would give it all to.
Marlow [aside]. This simplicity bewitches me^
so that if I stay, I'm undone. 1 must make one
bold effort, and leave her. [ To her.] Your par- y
tiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sen-
sibly ; 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 ol
a father ; so that — I can scarcely speak it — it affects
me. Farewell. [Exit.
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
213
Miss Hardcasth. I never knew half his merit
ill now. He shall not go, if 1 have power or art to
detain him. I'll still preserve the character in
which I stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my
paj)a, who, perhaps, may laugh him out of his
resolution. \_Exit.
Enter TONY, MSS NEVILLE.
Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next
time. I have done my duty. She has got the
jewels again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes
it was all a mistalce of the servants.
3Iiss Neville. But my dear cousin, sure you
won't forsake us in this distress ? If she in the least
suspects that I am going olF, 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-
ed bad things. But what can I do 7 I have got
you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle-
jacket; and I'm sure yon can't say but I have court-
ed you nicely before her face. Here she comes,
we must court a bit or two more, for fear she
should suspect us.
[ They retire, and seem, to fondle.
Enter RfRS. HARDCASTLE.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered
to be sure. But my son tells me it was all a mis-
take of the servants. I shan't be easy, however,
till they are fairly married, and then let her keep
her own fortune. But what do I see? fondhng
together as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so spright-
ly before. Ah ! have I caught you my pretty
doves 7 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. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony,
tipon the flame, only to make it burn brighter.
Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises to give us
more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't
leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin To-
ny, will it 7
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 be-
coming.
Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help
admiring that natural humour, that pleasant, broad,
red, thoughtless, — [patting his check] ah! it's a
bold face.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence !
Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's
hazel eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she
twists this way and that over the haspicolls, like a
parcel of boblntis.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, he would charm the bird
from the tree. I was never so happy before. My
boy takes after his fother, poor Mr. Lumpkin, ex-
actly. The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours
incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a
sweet boy, my dear 7 You shall be married to-
morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his education,
like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity.
Enter DIGGORY.
Diggory. Where's the 'Squire? I have got a let-
ter for your worship.
Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my
letters first.
Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your
own hands.
Tony. Who does it come from ?
Diggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the
letter itself.
Tony. I could wish to know though. •
[ Turning the letter and gazing on it.
Miss Neville [aside \. Undone! undone! A let-
ter to him from Hastmgs. I know the hand. If
my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep
her employed a little if I can. [ To Mrs. Hard-
castle.] But I have not told you, madam, of my
cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow.
We so laughed — You must know, madam — This
way a little, for he must not hear us.
[They confer.
Tony [still gazing]. A damned 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 An-
thony Lumpkin, esquire." It's very odd, I can
read the outside of my letters, where my own name
is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it's
all buzz. That's hard, very hard; for the in-
side of the letter is always the cream of the cor-
respondence.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very
well. And so my son was too hard for the phi-
losopher.
Miss Neville. Yes, madam; but you must hear
the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he
may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him
again.
Mrs. Hardcastle. tie seems strangely puzzled
now himself, methinks.
Tony [still gazing]. A damned up and down
hand, as if it was disguised in Hquor.. [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 can not tell.
]\Irs. Hardcastle. What's that, my dear .' Can
I give you any assistance ?
Mixs Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. No
body reads a cramp hand better than I. [ Twitclb-
214
GOLDSMITH fe WORKS.
ing the letter from him.^ Do you know who it
is from ?
Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the
feeder.
Mks ISeville. Ay, so it is. [Pretending to
read.] Dear 'Squire, hoping that your'e 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
iim odd battle um long fighting — um
— here, here, it's all about cocks and fighting; it's
of no consequence, here, put it up, put it up.
[ Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.]
Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the conse-
quence in the world. 1 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. Hardcastle. How's this! [Reads.] " Dear
'Squire, I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a
post-chaise and pair at the bottom of the garden,
but I find my horses yet unable to perform the
journey. I expect you'll assist us with a pair of
fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is neces-
sary, as the hag (ay, the hag) your mother will
otherwijsc suspect us. Yours, Hastings." Grant
me patience; I shall run distracted! My rage
chokes me.
Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you'll suspend
yonr resentment for a few moments, and not im-
pute to me any impertinence, or sinister design,
that belongs to another.
3Irs. Hardcastle [courtesying very low]. Fine
epoken madam, you arc most miraculously polite
and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy
and circumspection, madam. [Changing her
tone.] And you, you great ill-fashioned oaf, with
scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut:
were you, too, joined against me? But I'll de-
feat all your plots in a moment. As for you, ma-
dam, since you have got a pair of fresh horses
ready, it would be cruel to disappoint them. So,
if you please, instead of running away with your
spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off with
me. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you se-
cure, I'll warrant me. You too, sir, may mount
vour horse, and guard us upon the way. Here,
Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! I'll show you, that I wish
you better than you do yourselves. [Exit.
Miss Neville. So now I'm completely ruined.
Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing.
Miss Neville. What better cfculd be expected
from being connected with such a stupid fool, — and
after all the nods and signs I made him 1
Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own
cleverness, and not my stupidity, that did your
busmess. You were so nice and so busy with your
Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you
could never be making beUeve.
Enter HASTINGS.
Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, that
you have shown my letter, and betrayed us. Was
this well done, young gentleman'?
Tony. Here's another. Ask miss there, who
betrayed you? Ecod, it was her doing, not mine.
Enter MARLOW.
Marlow. So I have been finely used here among
you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-man
ners, despised, insulted, laughed at.
Tony. Here's another. We shall have old Bed-
lam broke loose presently.
Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentlensan
to whom we all owe every obligation.
. Marlow. What can I say to him ? a mere boy,
an idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection.
Hastings. A poor contemptible booby, that
would but disgrace correction.
Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice
enough to make himself merry with all our embar-
rassments.
Hastings. An insensible cub.
Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief.
Tony. Baw! dam'me, but I'll fight you both,
one after the other with baskets.
Marlow. As for him, he's below resentment.
But 3'our conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an ex-
planation : you knew of my mistakes, yet would
not undeceive me.
Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own dis-
appointments, is this a time for explanations ? It
is not friendly, Mr. Marlow.
Marlow. But, sir
Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on
your mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you.
Enter SERVANT.
Servant. My mistress desires you'll get ready
immediately, madam. The horses are putting to.
Your hat and things are in the next room. We
are to go thirty miles before morning.
[Exit Servant, ■
Mifs Neville. Well, well ; I'll come presently.
Marlow [to Hastings]. Was it well done, sir,
to assist in rendering me n-iiculous ? To hang me
out for the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend
upon it, sir, I sliall expect an explanation.
Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon
fhat subject, to deliver what I intrusted to yourself,
to the care of another, sir ?
Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings. Mr. Marlow.
Why will you increase my distress by this ground-
less dispute ? I implore, I entreat you
Enter SERVANT.
Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is
impatient. [Exit Servant.
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
215
Miss Neville. I come Pray be pacified. If I
jiave you thus, I shall die with apprehension.
Enter SERVANT.
Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam.
The horses are waiting.
Miss Neville. O, Mr. Marlow, if you knew
what a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before
me, I am sure it would convert your resentment
mto pity.
Marlow. I'm so distracted with a variety of pas-
sions, that I don't know what I do. Forgive me,
madam. George, forgive me. You know my
hasty temper, and should not exasperate it.
Hastings. The torture of my situation is my
only excuse.
Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you
have that esteem for me that I think, that I am
sure you have, your constancy for three years will
but increase the happiness of our future connexion.
If-^
Mrs. Hardcastle [within]. Miss Neville. Con-
stance, why Constance, I say.
Miss Neville. I'm coming. Well, constancy,
remember, constancy is the word. \_Exit.
Hastings. My heart! how can I support tliis?
To be so near happiness, and such happiness !
Marlow [to Torvj\ You see now, young gen-
tleman, the effects of your folly. What might be
amusement to you, is liere disappointment, and
even distress.
Tony [from a reverie]. Ecod, I have hit it :
It's here. Your haiids. 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 Lumjikin a more good-na-
tured fellow than you thought for, I'll give you
leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into
the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho !
[Exeunt.
ACT V. - • ,
Enter HASTINGS and SERVANT.
Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Ne-
ville drive off, you say?
Servant. Yes, your honour. They went ofTin
a post-coach, and the young 'Squire went on horse-
back. They're thirty miles oti'by this time.
Hastings. Then all my hopes are over.
Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived.
He and the old gentleman of the house have been
laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour.
They are coming this way.
Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now
to tny fruitless appointment at the bottom of the
garden. This is about the time.
Enter SIR CHAHLES and HARDCASTLE.
Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone
in which he sent forth his sublime commands !
Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I sup*
pose he treated all your advances.
Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen some-
thing in me above a common innkeeper, too.
Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for
an uncommon innkeeper; ha! ha! ha!
Hardcastle. Well, I'm in too good spirits to
think bf any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend,
this union of our families will make our personal
friendships hereditary, and though my daughter's
fortune is but small
Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of for-
tune to me 1 My son is possessed of more than a
competence already, and can want nothing but a
good and virtuous girl to share his happiness, and
increase it. If they hke each other, as you say
they do
Hardcastle. If, man ! I tell you they do like each
other. My daughter as good as told me so.
Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter them-
selves, you know.
Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the
warmest manner myself; and here he comes to put
you out of your ij's, I warrant him.
• Enter MARLOW^.
Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon
for my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on
my insolence without confusion.
Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too
gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my
daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never
like )'ou the worse for it.
Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her ap-
probation.
Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr.
Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something
more than approbation thereabouts. You take mel
Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that happiness.
Hardcastle. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and
know what's what as well as you that are young-
er. I know what has passed between you : but
mum.
Marlow, Sure, sir, nothing has passed between
us but the most profound respect on my side, and
the m.ost distant reserve on hers. You don't think
sir, that my impudence has been passed on all the
rest of the family 1
Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — •
not quite impudence — though girls like to be play-
ed with, and rumpled a httle too, sometimes. But
she has told no tales, I assure you.
Marlow. I never gave her the slightest cause.
Hardcastle. Well, well, I like modesty in 113
place well enough. But this is over-acting, young
216
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
gentleman. You may be open. Your father and
I will like you the better for it.
Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever
Hardens tic. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and
as I'm sure you like her
Marlow. Dear sir — I protest, sir
Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should
not be joined as fast as the parson can tie you.
Marlow. But hear me, sir
Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I
admire it; every moment's delay will be doing
mischief, so
Marlow. But why won't you hear me 1 By all
that's just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle
the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the
most distant hint to suspect me of aflfection. We
had but one interview, and that was formal, mod-
est, and uninteresting.
Hardcastle [aside]. This fellow's formal modest
impudence is beyond bearing.
Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand,
or made any protestations 7
Marlow. As Heaven is my witness, I came down
in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady
without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I
hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, nor
prevent me from leaving a house in wliich I suffer
so many mortifications. [Exit.
Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sin-
cerity with which he parted.
Hardcastle. And I'm astonished at the delibe-
rate intrepidity of his assurance.
Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honour
upon his truth.
Hardcastle. Here comes ray daughter, and I
would stake my happiness upon her veracity.
Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.
Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer
us sincerely and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow
made you any professions of love and affection 1
Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt,
sir ! But since you require unreserved sincerity, I
think he has.
Hardcastle [to Sir Charles]. You see.
Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and
my son had more than one interview?
Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several.
Hardcastle [to Sir Charles]. You see.
Sir Charles. But did he profess any attach-
ment!
Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one.
Sir Charles. Did he talk of love 1
Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir.
Sir Charles. Amazing ! and all this formally.
Miss Hardcastle. Formally.
Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are
«itisfied.
Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ?
Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admireru
do : said some civil things of my face ; talked much
of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine;
mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech,
and ended with pretended rapture.
Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced in-
deed. I know his conversation among women to
be modest and submissive : this forward canting
ranting manner by no means describe him ; and I
am confident, he never sat for the picture.
Miss Hardcastle. Then, what, sir, if I should
convince you to your face of my sincerity ? if ymi
and my papa, in about half an hour, will place
yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him
declare his passion to me in person.
Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what
you describe, all my happiness in him must have
an end. [Exit.
Miis Hardcastle. And if you don't find him
what I describe — I fear my happiness must never
have a beginning. [Exeunt.
SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN.
Enter HASTINGS.
Hastings. What an idiot am I, to wait here
for a fellow who probably takes a deliglit in morti-
fying me. He never intended to be punctual, and
I'll wait no longer. What do I see? It is he!
and perhaps with news of my Constance.
Enter TONY, booted and spattered.
Hastings. My honest 'Squire! I now find
you a man of your word. This looks like friend-
ship.
Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend
you have in the world, if you knew but all. This
riding by night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It
has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-
coach.
Hastings. But how? where did you leave your
fellow-travellers? Are they in safety? Are they
housed?
Tony. Five and twenty miles in two hours and
a half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts
have smoked for it : Rabbit me, but I'd rather ride
forty miles after a fox than ten with such varment.
Hastings. Well, but where have you left the
ladies? 1 die with impatience.
Tony. Left them! Why where should I leave
them but where I fi)und them.
Hastings. This is a riddle.
Tony. Riddle me this then. What's that goes
round the house, and round the house, and never
touches the house ?
Hastings. I'm still astray.
Tuny. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them
astray. By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
217
within five miles of the place but they can tell the
taste of.
Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 1 understand : you
took them in a round, while they supposed them-
selves going forward, and so you have at last
brought them home again.
Toivj. You shall hear. I first took them down
Feather Bed-Lane^ where we stuck fast in the
aiud. — I then rattled them crack over the stones of
Up-and-down Hill. — I then introduced them to
the gibbet on Heavy-Tree Heath ; and from that,
with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the
horse-pond at the bottom of the garden.
Hastings. But no accident, I hope 1
Tony. No, no, only mother is confoundedly
frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off".
She's sick of the journey; and the cattle can
scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready,
you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound
that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you.
Hastings 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.
Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must
hasten to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the
old lady employed, I promise to take care of the
young one.
Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Va-
nish! [E.vit Hastings.] She's got from the pond,
and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid.
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.
Mrs.Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I'm killed ! Shook!
Battered to death. I shall never survive it. That
last jolt, that laid us against the quickset hedge,
h<is done my business.
Tony. Alack, mamma, it was all your own
f&alt. You would be for running away by night,
without knowing one inch of the way.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home
acfain. I never met so many accidents in so sh(jrt
a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a
ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly; and
at last to lose our way. Whereabouts do you think
we arc, Tony 1
Tony. By my guess we should come upon
Crackskull Common, about forty miles from home.
Mrs.Hardcastle. O lud! Olud! The most
notorious spot in all the country. We only want
a robbery to make a complete night on't.
Tony. Don't be afraio, 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 usi
No; it's only a tree. — Don't be afraid.
Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill
me.
Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat
moving behind the thicket ? ■ '
Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death !
Tony. No; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid,
mamma, don't be afraid.
Mrs. Hardcastle. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a
man coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If
he perceives us we are undone.
Tony [aside]. Father-in-law, by all that's un-
lucky, come to take one of his night walks. [ To
hsr]. Ah! it's a highwayman with pistols as long
as my arm. A damn'd ill-looking fellow.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven defend us ! He
approaches.
Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and
leave me to manage him. If there be any danger,
I'll cough, and cry hem. When I cough, be sure
to keep close.
[Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in
the back scene.
Enter HARDCASTLE.
Hardcastle. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of
people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you? I
did not expect you so soon back. Are your m(j-
thcr and her charge in safety ?
Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's.
Hem.
Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Ah, death ! I
find there's danger.
Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours; sure
that's too much, my youngster.
Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make
short journeys, as they say. Hem.
Mrs. Hardcastle [fro7n behind]. Sure he'll do
the dear boy no harm.
Hardcastle. But I heard a voice here; I should
be glad to know from whence it came.
Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was
saying that forty miles in four hours was very good
(Toing. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I
have got a sort of cold by being out in the air.
We'll go in if you please. Hem.
Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself you
did not answer yourself I'm certain I heard two
voices, and am resolved [raising his voice] to find
the other out.
Mrs. Hardcastle [from behind]. Oh ! he's
coming to find me out. Oh!
Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you 1
Hem. I'll lay down my life for the truth — hem— •
I'll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him.
Hardcastle. I tell you I will not be detained. 1
insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe
you.
21P
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
3Irs. Hardcastle [running foricard from be-
hind]. O lud ! he'll murder my poor boy, my dar-
ling ! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon
me. Take my money, my life, but spare that young
gentleman ; spare my child, if you have any mercy.
Hardcastle. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From
whence can she come 1 or what does she mean ?
Mrs. Hardcastle [kneeling]. Take compassion
on us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money,
our watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We
will never bring you to justice, indeed we won"t,
good Mr. Highwayman.
Hardcastle. I believe the woman's out of her
senses. What, Dorothy, don't you know me.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive!
My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could
have expected to meet you here, in this frightful
place, so far from home? What has brought you
to follow us ?
Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your
wits 1 So far from home, when you are within for-
ty yards of your own door! [T'o him.] This is
one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue you.
[ To her.] Don't you know the gate and the mul-
berry tree; and don't you remember the horse-
pond, my dear 7
Mrs. Hardcastle. Yes, 1 shall remember the
horse-pond as long as I live ; I have caught my
death in it. [ To Tony.] And is it to you, you
graceless varlet, 1 owe all this? I'll teach you to
abuse your mother, I will.
Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have
Epoiled nu, and so you may take the fruits on't.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I'll spoil you, I will.
[Follows him off the Stage. E-vit.
Hardcastle. There's morality, however, in his
reply. [Exit.
Enter HASTINGS and MSS NEVILLE.
Hastings. My dear Constance, why will you
deliberate thus? If we delay a moment, all is lost for
ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall
soon be out of the reach of her malignity.
Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are
60 sunk with the agitations I have suflered, that 1
am unable to face any new danger. Two or three
years' patience will at last crown us with happiness.
Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than
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 pre-
vail.
Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence
once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its
dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may
be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repent-
ance. I'm resolved to apjjly to Mr. Hardcastle's
compassion and justice for redress.
Hastings. But though he had the will, he haS
not the power to relieve you.
Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon
that I am resolved to rely.
Hastings. I have no hopes. But since you per-
sist, I must reluctantly obey you. [Exeunt.
SCENE CHANGES.
Enter SIR CHARLES MaRLOW anQ msS HARD
CASTLE.
Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what
you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. L
what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of
all others, I most wished for a daughter.
Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approba-
tion ; and to show I merit it, if you place your-
selves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit de-
clarations. But he comes.
Sir Charles. I'll to your father and keep him to
the appointment. [E.vit Sir Charles,
Enter MARLOW.
Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I
come once more to take leave ; nor did I till this
moment, know the pain I feel in the separation.
Miss Hardcastle [in her own natural Tnanner],
I believe these sufferings can not be very great, sir,
which you can so easily remove. A day or two
longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by
showing the Uttle value of what you think proper
to regret.
Marlow [aside]. This girl every moment im-
proves upon me. [ To her.] It must not be, madam.
I have already trifled too long witli 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 eflbrt of resolution.
Miss Hardcastle. Then go, sir: I'll urge nothing
more to detain you. Though my family be as good
as hers you came down to visit, and m}^ 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 ILARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES MARLOW
from behind.
Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen.
Hardcastle. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I'll en
gage my Kate covers him with rfonfusion at last.
Marlow. 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 pic-
ture, and gives it stronger expression. What at
SHE STOOPS TO CONaUER.
oia
first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined
simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now
strikes me as the result of courageous innocence
and conscious virtue.
Sir Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me !
Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush!
Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam,
and I have too good an opinion gf my fother's dis-
cernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approba-
tion.
Miss Hardcastle. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not,
can not detain you. Do you think I could sufler
a connexion in which there is the smallest room
for repentance 1 Do you think I would take the
mean advantage of a transient passion to load you
with confusion ? Do you think 1 could ever relish
that happiness which was acquired by lessening
yours 1
Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no hap-
piness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor
shall 1 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 Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you'll de-
sist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in
indifference. I might have given an hour or two
to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think
I could ever submit to a connexion where I must
appear mercenary, and you imprudent 7 Do you
think I could ever catch at the confident addresses
of a secure admirer?
Marlow [kneeling]. Does this look like securi-
ty 1 Docs tliis look like confidence 1 No, madam,
every moment that shows me your merit, only
serves to increase my diffidence and confusion.
Here let me continue
Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles,
Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your
indifference, your uninteresting conversation 7
Hardcastle. Your cold contempt; your formal
interview! What have you to say now?
Marlow. That I'm all amazement ! What can
it mean ?
Hardcastle. It means that you can say and un-
say things at pleasure : that you can address a lady
in private, and deny it in public : that you have
one story for us, and another for my daughter.
Marlow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter?
Hardcasllc. Yes, sir, my only daughter: my
Kate ; whose else should she be 7
Marlow. Oh, the devil !
Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical
tall squinting lady j'ou were pleased to take me
for ; [court esij in g] she that you addressed as the
mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the
bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club.
Ha! ha! ha!
Marloic. Zounds, there's no bearing this; it's
worse than death !
3Iiss Hardcastle. 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 tq 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!
Marlow. O, curse on my noisy head ! I never
attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken,
down ! I must be gone.
Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, but you
shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am re-
joiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I
know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive liim,
Kate 7 We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man.
[ Theij retire, she tormenting him to the
back scene.
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE, TONY.
Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they're gone off. Let
them go, I care not.
Hardcastle. Who gone 7
3frs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gen-
tleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came
down with our modest visiter here.
Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hast-
ings 7 As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl
could not have made a more prudent choice.
Hardcasllc. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm
proud of the connexion.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, if he has taken away
the lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that re-
mains in this family to console us for her loss.
Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so
mercenary 7
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that's my affair, not yours.
Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of
age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune
is then at her own disposal.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but he's not of age, and
she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal.
Enter HASTINGS ami MISS NEVILLE.
ATrs. Hardcastle [aside]. What, returned so
soon ! I begin not to like it.
Hastings [to Hardcastle]. For my late attempt
to fly off with your niece, let my i)resent confusion
be my punishment. We are now come back, to
a[)peal from your justice to your humanity. By her
father's consent I first i)aiti her my addresses, afid
our passions were first founded in duty.
Miss ycvillc. Since his death, 1 have been
obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid ojjpres-
sion. In an hour of levity, 1 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 ajie from a neare*
connexion. .
220
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Pshaw, pshaw; this is all but
the whining end of a modern novel.
Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're
come back to reclaim their due. Come hither,
Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom
I now offer you.
Toni/. What signifies my refusing ? You know
I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father.
Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your
age, boy, was Ukely to conduce to your improve-
ment, I concurred with your mother's desire to keep
it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong
use, I must now declare you have been of age these
three months.
Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father 7
Hardcastle. Above three montlis.
Tonrj. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of
my liberty. [Taking Miss Neville's hand.] Wit-
ness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony
Lumpkin, esquire, of blank place, refuse you,
Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for
my true and lawful wife. So Constance Neville
may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin
is his own man again.
Sir Charles. O brave 'Squire !
Hastings. My worthy friend.
Mrs. Hardcastle. My undutiful offspring !
Marlow. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy
sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little ty-
rant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the hap-
piest man alive, if you would return mc the favour.
Hastings [to Miss Hardcastle], Come, madam,
you are now driven to the very last scene of all
your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure
he loves you, and you must and shall have him.
Hardcastle [joining their hands]. And I say
so too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good
a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll
ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-
morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish
about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be
crowned with a merry morning : so, boy, take her ;
and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my
wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the
vrife. [Exeunt omnes.
EPILOGUE, BY DR. GOLDSMITH,
BPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY, IN THE CHARACTER OF
MSS H.VRDCASTLE.
Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too.
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you;
And let me say, for all your resolution.
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, composed to please,
" We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ;
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning actioii
" I hopes as how to give you satisfaction."
Her second act displays a livelier scene —
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters.
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the
waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts —
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete.
E'en common-council men foiget to eat.
The fourth acts shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro!
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Fare:
Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside.
Ogles and lears with artificial skill.
Till, having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such, through our lives the eventful history —
The fifth and last act still remains for me.
The bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays.
EPILOGUE,*
To he spoken in the character of Tony LumpkiTU
BY J. CRADOCK, ESCl.
Well — now all's ended — and my comrades gone,
Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son?
A hopeful blade! in town I'll fix my station,
And try to make a bluster in the nation :
As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her,
Off — in a crack — I'll carry big Bet Bouncer.
Why should not I in the great world appear 1
I soon shall have a thousand pounds a-year !
No matter what a man may here inherit,
In London — 'gad, they've some regard to spirit.
I see the horses prancing up the streets.
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ;
Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes, every night —
Not to the plays — they say it a'n't poHte;
To Sadler's Wells, parhaps, or operas go.
And once, by chance, to the roratorio.
Thus here and there, for ever up and down,
We'll set the fashions too to half the town;
And then at auctions — money ne'er regard,
Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a-yard .
Zounds ! we shall make these London gentry say
We know what's damn'd genteel as well as they
' This came too late to be spoken-
AlV ORATORIO.
THE TERSONS. : * '
First Jewish Prophet.
Second Jewish Prophet. ', '
israelitish woman.
First Chaldean Priest.
Second Chaldean Priest.
Chaldean Woman.
Choros op Youths and Virgins.
Scene. — The Banks of the River Euphrates,
near Babylon.
ACT 1.
FIRST PROPHET. -
recitative. ' '•
Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend your woes awhile, the tasli suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend.
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
AIR. ; , -
FIRST PROPHET.
Our God is all we boast below.
To him we turn our eyes ; r
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.
SECOND PROPHET.
And though no temple richly dressed,
Nor sacrifice are here ;
We'll make his temple in our breast.
And offer up a tear.
[The furst Stanza repeated by the CHORUS.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
RECITATIVE. .
That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dressed in flowery pride,
Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide.
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd,
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around,
How sweet those groves, that plain how wondrous
fair,
How doubly sweet when Hea«-eu was with us
there!
, 1
AIR.
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 PROPHET. . ' '
RECITATIVE. ■ "
Yet why complain ? What though by bonds con-
fined,
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
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun 1
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane 1
And should we mourn 1 Should coward virtue fly,
When vaunting folly hfts her head on high 7
No; rather let us triumph still the more, ■ -, .
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar.
AIR. ■ .- >
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end ;
The good man suffers 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 around.
FIRST PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near,
The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine eat;
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 CIULDEAN PRIESTS atteniled.
FIRST PRIEST.
AIR.
Come on, my companions, the triumph display,
Let rapture the minutes employ
222
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy.
SECOND PRIEST.
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture sup-
plies.
Both similar blessings bestow ;
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
And our monarch enUvens below.
AIR.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure,
Love presents the fairest treasure,
Leave all other joys for me.
K CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.
Or rather, love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising.
Wine shall bless the brave and free.
FIRST PRIEST.
Wine and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline 1
SECOND PRIEST.
I'll waste no longer thought in choosing,
But, neither this nor that refusing,
I'll make them both together mine.
FIRST PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the
land.
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung!
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung?
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it; sing us Sion's song.
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir.
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre?
AIR.
Every moment as it flows,
Some peculiar pleasure owes,
Come then, providently wise.
Seize the debtor as it flies.
SECOND PRIEST.
Think not to-morrow can repay
The debt of pleasure lost to-day.
Alas ! to-morrow's richest store
Can but pay its proper score.
SECOND PROPHET
RECITATIVE.
Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankir.d,
I'o want, to toil, and every ill consign' d,
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain.
Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain?
No, never. May this hand forget each art
That wakes to finest joys the human heart,
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth !
SECOND PRIEST.
Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasion fail,
More formidable terrors shall prevail.
FIRST PROPHET.
Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer—
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear.
[Exeunt Chaldeans.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Can chains or tortures bend the mind
On God's supporting breast reclined?
Stand fast, and let our tyrants see
That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt.
ACT n.
ISRAELITES and CHALDEANS, as before.
FIRST PROPHET.
AIR.
O peace of mind, angelic guest.
Thou soft companion of the breast,
Dispense thy balmy store!
Wing all our thoughts to reach the skie."^
Till earth receding from our eyes.
Shall vanish as we soar.
FIRST PROPHET
RECITATIVE.
No more. Too long has justice been delay'd,
The king's commands must fully be obey'd ;
Compliance with his will your peace secures,
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours.
But if, rebellious to his high command.
You spurn the favours offer'd from his hand
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind;
Reflect, nor tempt to 'rage the royal mind.
AIR.
Fierce is the tempest howling
Along the furrow'd main,
And fierce the whirlwind rolling
O'er Afric's sandy plain.
But storms that fly
To rend the sky.
Every ill presaging,
Less dreadful show
To worlds below
Than angry monarch's raging.
ORATORIO.
223
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
RECITATIVE.
Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow,
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 Utile hour obey ; , :
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away
AIR.
Fatigued with life, yet loth to part,
On hope the wretch relies ;
And every blow that sinks the heart
Bids the deluder rise.
Hope, like the taper's gleamy light,
Adorns the wretch's way ;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray,
SECOND PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
Why this delay ? At length for joy prepare.
I read your looks, and see compliance there.
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise,
Our monarch's fome the noblest theme supplies.
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre.
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
AIR.
See the ruddy morning smiling.
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling;
Zephyrs through the woodland playing,
Streams along the valley straying.
FIRST PRIEST.
While these a constant revel keep,
Shall reason only teach to weepl
Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue
Nature, a better guide than you.
SECOND PRIEST. '
RECITATIVE.
But hold! see, foremost of the captive choir.
The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre.
Mark where he sits with executino- art.
Feels for each lone, 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 strinu-.
Prepares our monarch's victories to sintr.
FIRST PROPHET.
AIR.
*
From north, from south, from east, from west,
Conspiring nations come ;
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast;
Blaspheuiers, all 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 PROPHET. "^
Down with her. Lord, to lick the dust,
Before yon setting sun ;
Serve her as she hath served the just J . •
Tis fix'd— It shall be done.
^FIRST PRIEST. . * -
, ' ■ RECITATIVE. '; ' ;■ -
No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume,
The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom.
Unthinking wretches ! have not you, and all,
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall 7
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes ; '
See where dethroned your captive monarch lies,
Deprived of sight, and rankling in his chain ;
See where he mourns his friends and children slain^
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More ponderous chains, and dungeons more con-
fined.
■ ■ '
CHORUS OF ALL."
Arise, all potent ruler, rise, < '
And vindicate thy people's cause ;
Till every tongue in every land
Shall otier up unfeign'd applause.
[Exeunt.
ACT III. . :
RECITATIVE.
FIRST PRIEST.
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 rebellion aims her secret blow ;
Still shall our name and growing power be spread,
And still our justice crush the traitor's head,
r
AIR. ' "
Coeval with man
Our empire began, ' - . .
And never shall fall - /
Till ruin shakos all.
When ruin shakes all, . ■
Then shall Babylon fall.
SECOND PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
'Tis 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 ?
K4
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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.
Fall'n is our King, and all our fears are o'er,
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more.
AIR.
Ye wretches who by fortune's hate
In want and sorrow groan,
Come ponder his severer fate.
And learn to bless your own.
FIRST PROPHET.
You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend ;
Like yours, his life began in pride.
Like his, your lives shall end.
FIRST PROPHET.
RUCITATIVE.
Behold his vrretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn ;
Those ej'eless 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 1
How long, how long. Almighty God of all.
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall !
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
AIR.
As panting flies the hunted hind.
Where brooks refreshing stray ;
And rivers through the valley wind.
That stop the hunter's way.
Thus we, O Lord, alike distressed.
For streams of mercy long ;
Streams which cheer the sore oppressed.
And overwhelm the strong.
FIRST PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
But whence that shout 7 Good heavens amaze-
ment all !
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall :
Behold, an army covers all the ground,
Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round : —
And now behold the battlements recline —
O God of hosts, the victory is thine !
CHORUS OF CAPTTV'ES.
Down with them. Lord, to lick the dust ;
Thy vengeance be begun ;
Serve them as they have served the just.
And let thy will be done.
FIRST PRIEST.
RECITATIVE.
All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails,
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails.
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along, —
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong!
Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ;
And give repentance but an hour's delay.
FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST,
AIR.
O happy, who in happy hour
To God their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power
Before they feel the blow !
SECOND PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
Now, now's our time ! ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind.
Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before,
Your wealth, your Uves, your kingdom are no
more.
AIR.
O Lucifer, thou son of mom.
Of Heaven alike and man the foe ;
Heaven, men and all,
Now press thy fall.
And sink thee lowest of the low.
FIRST PROPHET.
O Babylon, how art thou fallen !
Thy fall more dreadful from delay I
Thy streets forlorn
To wilds shall turn,
Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey.
SECOND PROPHET.
RECITATIVE.
Such be her fate. But hark ! how from afar
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war I
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand.
And this way leads his formidable band.
Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind.
And hail the benefactor of mankind ;
He comes pursuant to divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive firee
CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Rise to transports past expressing,
Svi'eeter by remember'd woes;
Cyrus comes our wrongs redressing.
Comes to give the world repose.
CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Cyrus comes, the world redressing,
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing.
Comes to soften every peilii.
SEMI-CHORUS.
Hail to him with mercy reigning,
Skili'd in every peaceful art ;
ORATORIO.
225
Who from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart.
THE LAST CHORUS.
But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity ;
O Thou^ without beginning, without end,
Let us and all begin, and end, in Thee.
15
JJteCacci^ jinti ^vititimi.
THE PREFACE
TO DR. BROOKES'S NEW AND ACCDRATE SYSTEM OF
NATURAL HISTORY.
[Published in 1753.]
Of all the studies which have employed the in-
dustrious or amused the idle, perhaps natural his-
tory deserves the preference : other sciences gene-
rally terminate in doubt, or rest in bare specula-
tion ; but here every step is marked with certainty ;
and, while a description of the objects around us
teaches to supply our wants, it satisfies our cu-
riosity.
The multitude of nature's productions, how-
ever, seems at first to bewilder the inquirer, rather
than excite his attention ; the various wonders of
the animal, vegetable, or mineral world, seem to
exceed all powers of computation, and the science
appears barren from its amazing fertility. But a
nearer acquaintance with this study, by giving
method to our researches, points out a similitude
in many objects which at first appeared different ;
the mind by degrees rises to consider the things
before it in general lights, till at length it finds na-
ture, in almost every instance, acting with her
usuail simplicity.
Among the number of philosophers who, un-
daunted by their supposed variety, have attempted
to give a description of the productions of nature,
Aristotle deserves the first place. This great phi-
losopher, was furnished, 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 wreck of time, it appears, that
he understood nature more clearly, and in a more
comprehensive manner, than even the present
age, enlightened as it is with so many later dis-
coveries, can boast. His design appears vast, and
his knowledge extensive ; he only considers things
in general lights, and leaves every 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 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 Theophrastus,
Las failed in the exactness of their descriptions.
There are many creatures, described by those natu
ralists of antiquity, which are so imperfectly cha-
racterized, that it is impossible to tell to what ani-
mal now subsisting we can refer the description.
This is an unpardonable neglect, and alone suffi-
cient to depreciate their merits ; but their creduli-
ty, and the mutilations they have suffered by time,
have rendered them still less useful, and justify
each subsequent attempt to improve what they
have left behind. The most laborious, as well as
the most voluminous naturalist among the mo-
derns, is Aldrovandus. He was f'urnisned witn
every requisite for making an extensive body of
natural history. He was learned and rich, and
during the course of a long life, indefatigable and
accurate. But his works are insupportably tedious
and disgusting, filled with unnecessary quotations
and unimportant digressions. Whatever learning
he had he was willing should be known, and un-
wearied himself, he supposed his readers could
never tire : in short, he appears a useful assistant
to those who would compile a body of natural his-
tory, but is utterly unsuited to such as only wish
to read it with profit and delight.
Gesncr and Jonston, willing to abridge the vo-
luminous productions of Aldrovandus, have at-
tempted to reduce natural history into method, but
their efforts have been so incomplete as scarcely to
deserve mentioning. Their attempts were improv-
ed upon, some time after, by Mr. Ray, whose me-
thod we have adopted in the history of quadrupeds,
birds, and fishes, which is to follow. No systema-
tical writer has been more happy than he in reduc-
ing natural history into a form, at once the shortest,
yet most comprehensive.
The subsequent attempts of Mr. Klein and Lin-
naeus, it is true, have had their admirers, but, as
all methods of classing the productions of nature
are calculated merely to ease the memory and en-
lighten the mind, that writer who answers such
ends with brevity and perspicuity, is most worthy
of regard. And, in this respect, Mr. Ray undoubt-
edly remains still without a rival : he was sensible
that no accurate 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 employed accuracy only in the
particular description of every animal. Tliis m
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
027
tentional inaccuracy only in the general system of
Ray, Klein and LinnsEus have undertaken to
amend ; and thus by multi[>lying divisions, instead
<tf impressing the mind with distinct ideas, they
only serve to confound it, making the language of
the science more difficult than even the science it-
self.
AH order whatsoever is to be used for the sake
of brevity and perspicuity ; we have therefore fol-
lowed that of Mr. Ray in preference to the rest,
whose method of classing animals, though not so
accurate, perhaps, is yet more obvious, and being
shorter, is more easily remembered. In his life-
time he published his " Synopsis Methodica Q,uad-
rupedum et Serpentini Generis, " and, after his
death, there came out a posthumous work under the
care of Dr. Derham, which, as the title-page in-
forms us, was revised and perfected before his
death. Both the one and the other have their
merits ; but as he wrote currente calamo, for sub-
sistence, 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
his excellencies, and supply his deficiencies.
As to the natural history of insects, it has not
been so long or so greatly cultivated as other parts
of this science. Our own countryman Moufett is
the first of any note that I have met with who has '
treated this subject with success. However, it
was not till lately that it was reduced to a regular
system, which might be, in a great measure, owing
to the seeming insignificancy of the animals them-
selves, 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 tliosc who long since
had thoughts of reducing this kind of knowledge
to a regular form, among whom was Mr. Ray,
who was discouraged by the diliiculty attending it :
this study has been pursued of late, howtever, with
diligence and success. Reaumur and Swammer-
dam have principally distinguished themselves on
this account ; and their respective treatises plainly
show, that they did not spend their labour in vain.
Sinr^ their time, several authors have published
their systems, among whom is Linnaeus, whose
method being generally esteemed, 1 have thought
proper to ado[)t. He has classed them in a very
regular manner, though he says but little of the
insects themselves. However, 1 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 curi-
osity of such as delight in these studies will be in
some measure satisfied. Such of them as have
been more generally admired, have been longest in-
sisted upon, and particularly caterpillars and but-
terflies, relative to which, perhaps, there is the
largest catalogue that has ever appeared in the
English language.
Mr. Edwards and Mr. Bufl!bn, one in the His-
tory of Birds, the other of (iuadrupcds, have un-
doubtedly 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 natural history, a comprehensive system in this
most pleasing science has been hitherto wanting.
Nor is it a little surprising, when every other
branch of literature has been of late cultivated with
so much success among us, liow this most interest-
ing department should have been neglected. It
has been long obvious that Aristotle was incom-
plete, and Pliny credulous, Aldrovandus too prolix,
and Linnaeus too short, to aliord the proper enter-
tainment ; yet we have had no attempts to supply
their defects, or to give a history of nature at once
complete and concise, calculated at once to please
and improve.
How far the author of the present performance
has obviated the wants of the public in these re-
spects, is left to the world to determine ; this much,
however, he may without vanity assert, that wheth-
er 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 autlior whom he
imagined might give him new and authentic infor-
mation, and ))ainfully searched through heaps of
lumber to detect falsehood ; so that many parts of
the following work have exhausted much labour in
the execution, though they may discover little to
the superficial observer.
Nor have I neglected any opportunity that offer-
ed of conversing upon these subjects with travel-
lers, 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 believe. But I have had one
advantage over almost all former naturalists, name-
1}', that of having visited a variety of countries my-
self, and examined the productions 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 ha ^e made some
improvements that will appear in their place, and
have been less liable to be imposed upon by the
hearsay relations of creduhty.
A complete, cheap, and commodious body of
natural history being wanted in our language, it
was these advantages which prompted me to tliis
undertaking. Such, therefore, as choose to range
228
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
in the ilcliirhtful fields of nature, will, I flatter my-
self, here (hid a proper guide ; and those who have
a design to furnish a cabinet, will find copious in-
structions. With one of these volumes in his
hand, a spectator may go through the largest mu-
seum, the British not excepted, see nature through
all her varieties, and compare her usual operations
with those wanton productions in which she seems
to sport with human sagacity. I have been spar-
ing, however, in the description of the deviations
from the usual course of production ; first, because
such are almost infinite, and the natural historian,
who 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
acquire knowledge at the same easy rate that a
reader of romance does entertainment ; on the con-
trary, all sciences, and natural history among the
rest, have a language and a manner of treatment
peculiar to themselves; and he who attempts to
dress them in borrowed or foreign ornaments, is
every whit as uselessly employed as the German
apothecary we are told of, who turned the whole
dispensatory into verse. It will be sufficient for
mC; if the following system is found as pleasing as
the nature of the subject will bear, neither obscured
by an unnecessary ostentation of science, nor
lengthened out by an affected eagerness after need-
less embellishment.
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
imagination with borrowed ornaments, but to im-
press the mind with the simplest views of nature.
To answer this end more distinctly, a picture of
such animals 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 nature. I never would ad-
vise a student to apply to any science, either anato-
my, physic, or natural history, by looking on pic-
tures only; they may serve to direct him more
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 them-
selves, and not their representations.
Copper-plates, therefore, moderately well done,
answer the learner's purpose every whit as well as
those which can not be purchased but at a vast ex-
pense ; 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 herself ought al-
ways to be examined by the learner before he has
June.
INTRODUCTION
TO A NEW
HISTORY OF THE WORLD.
[Intended to have been published in twelve volumes, octavo^
by J. Newberry, 1764,]
TO THE PUBLIC.
Experience every day convinces us, that no
part of learning affords so much wisdom upon such
easy terms as history. Our advances in most other
studies are slow and disgusting, acquired with ef-
fort, 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, in a more particular
manner, study is but relaxatioit.
Of all histories, however, that which is not con-
fined 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 the situation of one
country, without knowing that of others ; so in his-
tory it is in some measure necessary to be ac-
quainted with the whole thoroughly to comprehend
a part. A knowledge of universal history is there-
fore highly useful, nor is it less entertaining. Ta-
citus comjjlains, that the transactions of a few
reigns could not afford him a sufficient stock of ma-
terials to please or interest the reader ; but here that
objection is entirely removed; a 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 com-
piling 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 failing
through the great and unforeseen difficulties of the
undertaking ; the barrenness of events in the early
periods of history, and their fertility in modem
times, equally serving to increase their embarrass-
ments. In recounting the transactions of remote
antiquity, there is such a defect of materials, that
the svillingness of mankind to supply the chasm has
given birth to falsehood, and invited conjecture.
The farther we look back into those distant pe-
riods, all the objects seem to become more obscure,
or are totally lost, by a sort of perspective diminu-
tion. In this case, therefore, when the eye of truth
could no longer discern clearly, fancy undertook to
form the picture; and fables were invented where
truths were wanting. For this reason, we have
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
229
abritlgment, the judicious are left to determine.
We here ofier the pul)lic a History of mankind,
from the earliest accounts of time to the present
age, in twelve volumes, which, upon mature de-
liberation, appeared to us the proper mean. It has
tjeen our endeavour to give every fact its full scope ;
br.t, 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 man-
kind, without crowding the canvass. We hope,
therefore, that the reader will here see the revolu-
tion.s of empires without confusion, and trace arts
and laws from one kingdom to another, without
losing his interest in the narrative of their other
transactions. To attain these ends with greater
certainty of success, we have taken care, in some
measure, to banish that late, and we may add
G(Ahic, practice, of using a multiplicity of notes ;
a thing as much unknown to the ancient histo-
rians, as it is disgusting in the moderns. Balzac
somewhere calls vain erudition the baggage of an-
tiquity ; might we in turn 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 perspicuity, when an author is thus
obliged to write 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 ; as sometimes an ac-
knowledged blemish may be admitted into works
of skill, either to cover a greater defect, or to take
a nearer course to beauty. Having mentioned the
danger of ailcctation, it may be proper to observ-e,
that as this, of all ilcfects, is most apt to insinuate
itself into such a work, we have, therefore, been
upon our guard against it. Innovation, in a per-
formance of this nature, should by no means be at-
tempted : those names and spellings which have
been used in our language for time immemorial,
ought to continue unaltered ; for, like states, they
ac(}uire a sort of jus diidurncc posscssionis, 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
assio-ns them to place, we have followed the most
approved 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 duration of them all with resi)ect to
eternity, or their situation with regard to the urn-
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 en-
cumbered the beginning of our work with the va-
rious opinions of the heathen philosophers con-
cerning the creation, which may be found in most
of our systems of theology, and belong more pro-
perly to the divine than the historian. Sensible
how hablc we are to redundancy in this first [lart
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 know-
ledge, we have been indifferent as to the display
of our own. We have not stopped to discuss or
confute all the absurd conjectures men of specula-
tion 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
calculated 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 bot-
tom 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 tljread of its history ; so that, to give this branch
of learning a just length in the circle of human
pursuits, it is necessary to abridge several of the
least important facts. It is true, we often at pre-
sent 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 de-
scendants, whose attention will naturally be turned
to their own concerns, can exhaust so much time
in the examination of ours ? A plan of general his-
tory, 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 our despair. Writers are un-
pardonable who convert our amusement into la-
bour, and divest knowledge of one of its most
pleasing allurements. The ancients have re^ire-
sentcd history under the figure of a woman, easy,
graceful, and inviting: but we have seen her in our
days converted, like the virgin of Nabis, into an
instrument of torture.
How far we have retrenched these excesses, and ' verse.
Btecrcd between the opposiles of exuberance and | Thus much we have thought proper to premise
230
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
concerning a work which, however executed, has supply a concise, plain, and unaffected narrative
cost much labour and great expense. Had we for of the rise and decline of a well-known empire. 1
our judges the unbiassed and the judicious alone, was contented to make such a book as could not
few words would have served, or even silence fail of being serviceable, though of all others the
would have been our best address ; but when it is most unlikely to promote the reputation of the
considered we have laboured for the public, that writer. Instead, therefore, of pressing forward
miscellaneous being, at variance within itself, from ' among the ambitious, I only claim the merit of
the differing influence of pride, prejudice, or inca- [ knowing my own strength, and falling back among
pacity; a public already sated with attempts of the hindmost ranks, with conscious inferiority,
this nature, and in a manner unwilling to find outj I am not ignorant, however, that it would be no
merit till forced upon its notice, we hope to be difficult task to pursue the same art by which
pardoned for thus endeavouring to show where it many dull men, every day, acquire a reputation in
is presumed we have had a superiority. A His^
tory of the World to the present time, at once satis-
factory and succinct, calculated rather for use than
history: such might easily be attained, by fixing
on some obscure period to write upon, where much
seeming erudition might be displayed, almost un-
ignorance of learning, or affectation of being
thought learned, a history that may be purchased
at an easy expense, yet that omits nothing mate-
rial, delivered in a style correct, yet familiar, was
wanting in our language, and though, sensible of
our own insufficiency, this defect we have attempted
to supply. Whatever reception the present age or
posterity may give this work, we rest satisfied with
our own endeavours to deserve a kind one. The
completion of our design has for some years taken
up all the time we could spare from other occupa-
tions, of less importance indeed to the public, 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 confounded in that multiplicity of
daily publications, which are conceived without
effort, are produced without praise, and sink with-
out censure.
curiosity, to be read rather than consulted, seeking! known, because not worth remembering; and many
applause from the reader's feelings, not from his maxims in politics might be advanced, entirely
new, because altogether false. But I have pur-
sued 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 written to please. Catrou and
Rouille's history, in six volumes folio, translated
into our language by Bundy, is entirely unsuitcd
to the time and expense mankind usually choose
to bestow upon this subject. Rollin and his con-
tinuator Crevier, making nearly thirty volumes oc-
tavo, seem to labour under the same imputation;
as likewise Hooke, who has spent three quartos
upon the Republic alone, the rest of his under-
taking remaining unfinished.* There only, there-
fore, remained the history by Echard, in five vo-
lumes octavo, whose plan and mine seem to coin-
cide ; and, had his execution been equal to his de
sign, it had precluded the present undertaking.
But the truth is, it is so pooriy written, the facts so
crowded, the narration so spiritless, and the charac-
ters so indistinctly marked, that the most ardent
curiosity must cool in the perusal; and the noblest
transactions that ever warmed the human heart,
as described by him, must cease to interest.
I have endeavoured, therefore, in the present
work, or rather compilation, to obviate the incon-
veniences arising from the exuberance of the for-
mer, as v/ell as from the unpleasantness of th«
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 ex-
amined history to prepare them for more important
studies. Too much time may be given even to
laudable pursuits, and there is none more apt than
THE PREFACE
TO THE
ROMAN HISTORY.
BY DR. GOLDS^nXH.
[First printed in the year 1769.]
There are some subjects on which a writer
must decline all attempts to acquire fame, satisfied
with being obscurely useful. After such a num-
ber of Roman 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 a hundred times repeated, and
every occurrence has been so variously considered,
tnat learning can scarcely find a new anecdote, or
genius give novelty to the old. I hope, therefore,
for the reader's indulgence, if, in the following at-
tempt, it shall appear, that my only aim was to
' Mr. Ilooke's three quartos above mentioned reach 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 lias been republished in eleven volumes octavo.
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
231
this to allure the student from the necessary branch-
es of learning, and, if I may so express it, entirely
to engross his industry. What is here offered,
therefore, may be sufficient for all, except such
who make history the peculiar business of their
lives : to such, the most tedious narrative will seem
but an abridgment, as they measure the merits of
a work, rather by the quantity than the quality of
its contents : others, however, who think more so-
berly, will agree, that in so extensive a field as that
of the transactions of Rome, more judgment may
be shown by selecting what is important than by
adding what is obscure.
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 he, but to load the subject
with unimportant facts, and so to weaken the nar-
ration, that,' like the empire described, it must
necessarily sink beneath the weight of its own
acquisitions.
But while I thus endeavoured to avoid prolixity,
It was found no easy matter to prevent crowding
the facts, and to give every narrative its proper
play. In reality, no art can contrive to avoid op-
posite defects ; he who indulges in minute particu-
larities will be often languid; and he who studies
conciseness will as frequently be dry and unenter-
taining. 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 furnish 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 bxilk have room
to exhibit. I shall be fully satisfied, therefore, if
it furnishes an interest sufficient to allure the
reader to the end; and this is a claim to which few
abridgments can justly make pretensions.
To these objections there are some who may
add, that I have rejected many of the modern im-
provements in Roman History, and that every
character is lefl in full possession of that fame or
infamy which it obtained from its contemporaries,
or those who wrote immediately after.
I acknowledge the charge, for it appears now too
late to rejudge the virtues or the vices of those
men, who were but very incompletely known even
to their own historians. The Romans, perha[)s,
upon many occasions, formed wrong ideas of vir-
tue; but they were by no means so ignorant or
abandoned in general, as not to give to their bright-
est 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 httle doubt about the success of
the undertaking : the subject is the noblest that ever
employed human attention; and, instead of re-
quiring a writer's aid, will even support him with
his splendour. The Empire of the World, rising
from the meanest origin, and growing great by a
strict veneration for religion, and an implicit con-
fidence in its commanders ; continually changing
the mode, but seldom the spirit of its government;
being a constitution, in which the military power,
whether under the name of citizens or soldiers, al-
most always prevailed ; adopting all the improve-
ments of other nations with the most indefatigable
industry, and submitting to be taught by those
whom it afterwards subdued — this is a picture
that must affect us, however it be disposed ; these
materials must have their value, under the hand
of the meanest workman.
THE PREFACE
TO THE
HISTORY OF ENGLAND
BY DR. GOLDSMITH.
[First printed in 1771.]
From the favourable reception given to my
abridgment of Roman History, published some
time since, several friends, and others whose busi-
ness leads them to consult the wants of the public,
have been induced to suppose, that an English
History, written on the same plan, would be ac-
ceptable.
It was their opinion, that we still wanted a work
of this kind, where the narrative, though very con-
cise, 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 dull men ; and
the art of blotting, which an eminent critic calls the
most difficult of all others, has been usually prac-
tised by those who found themselves imable to
write. Hence our abridgments are generally more
tedious than the works from which they pretend to
reheve us; and they have effectually embarrassed
that road which they laboured to shorten.
As the present compiler starts with suchhiunble
competitors, it will scarcely be thought vanity in
him if he boasts himself their superior. Of the
many abridgments 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 purposes of a party. A very
small share of taste, therefore, was sufficient to
keep the compiler from the defects of the one, and
a very small share of philosophy from the misrepre-
sentations of the other.
It is not easy, however, to satisfy the different
expectations of mankind in a work of this kind,
232
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
calculated for every apprehension, and on which
all are consequently capable of forming some judg-
ment. Some may say that it is too long to pass
under the denomination of an abridgment; and
others, that it is too dry to be admitted as a 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 ; for it is impos
sible in the same work at once to attain contrary
advantages. The compiler, who is stinted in room,
must often sacrifice interest to brevity ; and on the
other hand, while he endeavours to amuse, must
frequently transgress the hmits to which his plan
should confine him. Thus, all such as desire only
amusement may be disgusted with his brevity ; and
such as seek for information may object to his dis-
placing facts for empty description.
To attain the greatest number of advantages
with the fewest inconveniences, is all that can be
attained in an abridgment, the name of which im-
phes imperfection. It will be sufficient, therefore,
to satisfy the writer's wishes, if the present work
be found a plain, unaffected narrative of facts, with
just ornament enough to keep attention awake,
and with reflection barely sufficient to set the read-
er upon thinking. Very 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 compilation.
As the present publication is designed for the
benefit of those who intend to lay a foundation for
future study, or desire to refresh their memories
upon the old, or who think a moderate share of his-
tory sufficient for the purposes of hfe, 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 erudi-
tion, 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 he unpardonable to omit. He foregoes,
therefore, the petty ambition of being thought a read-
er of forgotten books; his aim being not to add to
our present stock of history, but to contract it.
The books which have been used in this abridg-
ment are chiefly Rapin, Carte, Smollett, and
Hume. They have each their peculiar admirers,
m proportion as the reader is studious of historical
antiquities, fond of minute anecdote, a warm par-
tisan or a deliberate reasoncr. Of these I have
particularly taken Hume for my guide, as far as he
goes ; and it is but justice to say, thac wherever j
was obliged to abridge his work, I did it with re-
luctance, as I scarcely cut out a single line that did
not contain a beauty.
But though I must warmly subscribe to the learn-
ing, elegance, and depth of Mr. Hume's history,
yet I can not entirely acquiesce in his principles.
With regard to religion, he seems desirous of play
ing a double part, of appearing 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 free-thinkers shall applaud his scepti-
cism, real believers will reverence him for his zeal.
In his opinions respecting government, perhaps
also he may sometimes be reprehensible ; but in a
country like ours, where mutual contention con-
tributes to the security of the constitution, it will
be impossible for an historian who attempts to
have any opinion to satisfy all parties. It is not
j'et 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 effects of the tyran-
ny of the great in those republican states that pre-
tend to be free, I can not help wishing that our
monarchs may still be allowed to enjoy the power
of controUing the encroachments of the great at
home.
A king may easily be restrained from doing
wrong, as he is but one man ; but if a number of
the great are permitted to divide all authority, who
can punish them if they abuse iti Upon this princi-
ple, therefore, and not from empty notions of divine
or hereditary right, some may think I have leaned
towards monarchy. But as, in the things 1 hava
hitherto written, I have neither allured the vanity
of the great by flattery, nor satisfied the malignity
of the vulgar by scandal, as I have endeavoured tc
get an honest reputation by liberal pursuits, it b
hoped the reader will admit my impartiality.
THE PREFACE
TO A
HISTORY OF THE EARTH
AND
ANIMATED NATURE.
BY DR. GOLDSMITH.
[First printed in the year 1774.]
Natural History, considered in its utmost ex-
tent, comprehends two objects. First, that of tfia-
covering, ascertaining, and naming all the various
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
233
productions of nature. Secondly, that of describ-
ing the properties, manners, and relations, which
they bear to us, and to each other. The first,
which is the most difficult part of the science, is
systematical, dry, mechanical, and incomplete. The
second is more amusing, exhibits new pictures to
the imagination, and improves our relish for exist-
ence, by widening the prospect of nature around
us.
Both, however, are necessary to those who would
understand this pleasing science in its utmost ex-
tent. The first care of every inquirer, no doubt,
should be, to see, to visit, and examine every ob-
ject, 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 found in
this part of his pursuit, that 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 in-
quirer finds himself lost in the exuberance before
him, and, like a man who attempts to count the
etars unassisted by art, his powers are all distracted
in barren superfluity.
To remedy this embari issment, artificial systems
have been devised, which, grouping into masses
those parts of nature more nearly resembling 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 fur-
ther examination. If, for instance, a man should
in his walks meet with an animal, the name, and
consequently the history of which he desires to
know, he is taught by systematic writers of natural
history to examine its most obvious qualities, wheth-
er 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 whether
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 man-
ner, he is then taught to [ironounce, that this in-
sect is one of the beetle kind : of the beetle kind
there are three difl'erent classes, distinguished from
each other by their feelers; he examines the insect
before him, and finds that the feelers are elevated
01 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 May-bug,
an annual, 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 intended to
explain the names of things ; but with this differ-
ence, that in the dictionary of words, we are led
from the name of the thing to its definition, where-
as, in the system of natural history, we are led
from the definition to find out the name. ?
Such are the eflbrts of writers, ■vvho have com-
posed their works with great labour and ingenuity,
to direct the learner in his progress through na-
ture, and to inform him of the name of every ani-
mal, plant, or fossil substance, that he happens to
meet with; but it would be only deceiving the
reader to conceal the truth, which is, that books
alone can never teach him this art in perfection ;
and the solitary student can never succeed. With-
out a master, and a previous knowledge of many
of the objects in nature, his book will only serve to
confound 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 ex-
act 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. Perhaps he meets the bird before it
has moulted its first feathers, while the systematic
description was made in the state of full perfection.
He thus ranges without an instructor, confused
and with sickening curiosity, from subject to sub-
ject, till at last he gives up the pursuit in the mul-
tiplicity of his disappointments. Some practice,
therefore, much instruction, and diligent reading,
are requisite to make a ready and expert natural-
ist, who shall be able, even by the in Ip of a sys-
tem, 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 liicnds, he meets with nothing but acquaint-
ances and allurements in all the stages of his way.
The mere uninformed spectator passes on in gloomy
solitude, but the naturalist, in every plant, in every
insect, and every pebble, finds something to enter-
tain his curiosity, and excite his speculation.
Hence it appears, that a system may be con-
sidered as a dictionary in the study of nature. The
ancients, however, who have all written most de-
lightl'iilly on this subject, seem entirely to have re-
jected those humble and mechanical helps of sci-
ence. They contented themselves with seizing
upon the great outlines of history ; and passing over
what was common, as not worth the dttail, they
only dwelt upon what was new, great, and sur-
prising, and sometimes even warmed the imagina
tion at the expense of truth. Suci i of the moderns
as revived this science in Europe, undertook the
task more methodically, though not in a manner
so pleasing. Aldrovandus, Gesner, wid Jonston,
234
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
seemed desirous of uniting the entertaining and
rich descriptions of the ancients with the dry and
systematic arrangement of which they were the
lirst projectors. This attempt, however, was ex-
tremely imperfect, as the great variety of nature
was, as yet, but very inadequately known. Never-
theless, by attempting to carry on both objects at
once ; first, of directing us to the name of the thing,
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 na-
tural history. They have been content to give,
not only the brevity, but also the dry and disgusting
air of a dictionary to their systems. Ray, Klein,
Brisson, and LinnsEus, have had only one aim,
that of pointing out the object in nature, of discov-
ering its name, and where it was to be found 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 to lead us to the thing,
the other conveying the history of the thing, as
supposing it already known.
The following natural history is written with
only such an attention to system as serves to re-
move the reader's embarrassments, and allure him
to proceed. It can make no pretensions in direct-
ing 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 habi-
tudes, 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 embarrass-
ment.
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 il-
luminate the subject, and remove the reader's per-
plexitj. M. Buffon, indeed, who has brought
greater talents to this part of learning 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 extreinej and, as some moderns have of
late spent much time, great pains, and some learn*
ing, all to very little purpose, in systematic arrange-
ment, he seems so much disgusted by their trifling,
but ostentatious efforts, that he describes his ani-
mals almost in the order they happen to come be-
fore him.
This want of method seems to be a fault, but he
can lose little by a criticism which every dull man
can make, or by an error in arrangement, from
which the dullest are the most usually free.
In other respects, as far as this able philosopher
has gone, I have taken him for my guide. The
warmth of his style, and the brilliancy of his imagi-
nation, 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, re-
trenched, and altered, as I thought proper. It wa3
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 want-
ing to lay upon him.
I have, therefore, as being every way his debtor,
concealed my dissent, where my opinion was differ-
ent ; but wherever I borrow from him, I take care
at the bottom of the page to express my obliga-
tions. 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
history 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 wide-
ly diffused, and so obscurely related when found,
that it proved by much the most laborious part ot
the undertaking. Thus, having made use of M.
Buffon's lights in the first part of this work, I may,
with some share of confidence, recommend it to the
public. But what shall 1 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 public, of
a kind which has never been attempted in ours, oi
any other modern language that I know of. The
ancients, indeed, and Pliny in particular, have an
ticipated me in the present manner of treating na-
tural history. Like those historians who described
the events of a campaign, they have not conde-
scended to give the private particulars of every in-
dividual that formed the army ; they were content
with characterising the generals, and describing
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
23*
their 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 mod-
erns, 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
nature. Having a taste rather classical than sci-
entific, and having but little employed myself in
turning 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 ever 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 intention was to treat what
I then conceived to be an idle subject, in an idle
manner ; and not to hedge roimd plain and simple
narrative with hard words, accumulated distinc
tions, ostentatious learning, and disquisitions that
produced no conviction. Upon the apjiearance,
however, of M. Buffon's work, I dropped my
former plan and adopted the present, being con-
vinced by his manner, that the best imitation of
the ancients was to write from our own feehngs,
and to imitate nature.
It will be my chief pride, therefore, if this work
may be found an innocent amusement for those
who have nothing else to employ them, or who re-
quire a relaxation from labour. Professed natu-
raUsts 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 obscure i^nd gloomy learning of the cell to
open inspe/5«un ; to strip it from its garb of aus-
terity, and vft snow the beauties of that form, which
only tb'i >riimstrious and the inquisitive have been
hjth'«rtr ^rmitted to approach.
PREFACE
TO THE
&GAUTIES OF ENGLISH POETRY.
[First printed in the year 17G7.]
My bookseller having informed me that there
*as no collection of English Poetry among us, of
dny estimation, I thought a few hours spent in
making a proper selection would not be ill be-
stowed.
Compilations of this kind arc chiefly designed
for such as either want leisure, skill, or fortmie, to
choose for themselves ; for persons whose profes-.
sions turn them to different pursuits, or who, not
yet arrived at sufficient maturity, require a guide
to direct their application. To our youth, particu-
larly, a publication of this sort may be useful;
since, if compiled with tny share of judgment, it
may at once unite precept and example, show them
what is beautiful, and inform them why it is so ;
I therefore offer this, to the best of my judgment,
as the best collection that has as yet appeared;
though, as tastes are various, numbers will be of a
very different opinion. Many, perhaps, may wish
to see it in the poems of their favourite 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 useful, unaffected compilation ; one that
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 desire of being thoujiht 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 [)ossesscd,
or the public has been long mistaken, of peculiar
merit ; every poem has, as Aristotle expresses it, a
beginning, a middle, and an end, in which, how-
ever 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 ; I have nothing to
boast, and at best can expect, not applause but
pardon.
Oliver Goldsmith.
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.
This seems to be Mr. Pope's most finished pro-
duction, and is, perhaps, the most perfect in oui
language. It exhibits stronger powers of imagi-
nation, more harmony of numbers, and a greater
knowledge of the world than any other of this
poet's works ; and it is probable, if our country
were called upon to show a specimen of their
genius to foreigners, this would be the work fixed
upon.
XL PENSEROSO.
I have heard a very judicious critic say, that he
had a higher idea of Milton's stvle in poetry, tron«
236
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the two following poems, than from his Paradise
Lost. It is certain, the imagination shown in
them is correct and strong. The introduction to
both in irregular measure is borrowed from the
Italians, and hurts an English ear.
AN ELEGY,
■WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with
epithet. The heroic measure, with alternate
rhyme, is very properly adapted 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 JDTENAL.
This poem of Mr. Johnson's is the best imita-
tion of the original that has appeared in our lan-
guage, being possessed of all the force and satirical
resentment of Juvenal. Imitation gives us a much
truer idea of the ancients than even translation
could do.
THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS,
IN IMITATION OF SPENSER.
This poem is one of those happinesses in which
a poet excels himself, as there is nothing in all
Shenstone which any way approaches it in merit ;
and, though I dislike the imitations of our old
English poets in general, yet, on this minute sub-
ject, the antiquity of the style produces a very
ludicrous solemnity.
COOPER'S HILL.
A LETTER FROM ITALY
TO THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES
LORD HALIFAX, 1701.
This poem by Denham, though it may have
been exceeded by later attempts in description, yet
deserves the highest ai)plause, as it far surpasses
all that went before it; the concluding part,
though a little too much crowded, is very 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
any thing in the epistolary way ; and the many
translations which have been made of it into the
modern languages, are in some measure a proof of
Ihis.
AN EPISTLE FROM MR. PHILIPS
TO THE
EARL OP DORSET.
The opening of this poem is incomparably fine.
The latter part is tedious and trifiino-.
Few poems have done more honour to English
gen-ius than this. There is in it a strain of politi-
cal 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 incontesta-
bly the finest poem in our language ; but there is
a dryness in the numbers, which greatly lessens
the pleasure 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 DAY.
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 third or fourth,
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 repetition of Dryden's man-
ner, it is so far inferior to him. The whole hint
of Orpheus, with many of the hnes, has been
taken from an obscure Ode upon Music, published
in Tate's Miscellanies.
THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK,
IN SIX PASTORALS.
These are Mr. Gay's principal performance.
They were originally intended, I suppose, as a
burlesque on those of Phillips ; but perhaps, with-
out designing it, he has hit the true spirit of pasto-
ral 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 spe-
cies of composition ; but how far the antiquated
expressions used here may contribute to the hu-
mour, I will not determine ; for my own part, I
could wish the simplicity were preserved, without
recurring to such obsolete antiquity for the manner
of expressing it.
MAC FLECKNOE.
The severity of this satire, 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 Shadwell, who
is here meant by Mac Flecknoe, was worth being
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
237
chastised; and that Dryden, descending to sucli
game, was like an eagle stooping to catch flies.
The truth however is, Shad well at one time held
divided reputation with this great poet. Every age
produces its fashionable dunc6s, who, by following
the transient topic or humour of the day, su])ply
talkative ignorance with materials for conversation.
ON POETRY.— A RH.iPsoDY.
Here follows one of the best versified poems in
our language, and the most masterly production of
its author. The severity witli 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 purpose, in the year 1725
(If I remember right). The severity of a poet,
however, gave Walpole very little uneasiness. A
man whose schemes, like this ministers, 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 the easiness
that appears in it, one would be apt to tliink as
much. ■ .
FROM THE DISPENSARY.— Canto VI.
This sixth canto of the Dispensary, by Dr.
Garth, has more merit than the whole preceding
part of the poem, and, as I am told, in the first edi-
tion of this work, it is more correct than as here
exhibited ; but that edition 1 have not been able to
find. The praises bestowed on this poem are more
than have been given to any other ; but our appro-
bation at present is cooler, for it owed part of its
fame to party. <
SELIM; OR, THE SHEPHERD'S MORAL.
The following eclogues, written by Mr. Collins,
are very pretty ; the images, it must be owned, are
not very local ; for the pastoral subject could not
well admit of it. The description of Asiatic mag-
nificence and manners is a subject as yet unat-
tempted among us, and, I believe, capable of fur-
nishing a great variety of poetical imagery.
THE SPLENDID SHILLING.
This is reckoned the host parody of Milton in
our language : it has been a hundred times imi-
tated without success. The truth is, the first thing
in this way must preclude all future attem[>ts ; for
nothing is so easy as to burlesque any man's man-
ner, when we are once showed the way.
A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
^N IMITATION OF SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS.
Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of these, as I
am told, had no good original manner of his own,
yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an
imitator; for the following are rather unitations
than ridiculous parodies.
A NIGHT PIECE ON DEATH.
The great fault of this piece, written by Dr.
Parnell, is, that it is in eight syllable lines, very
improper for the solemnity of the subject ; other-
wise, the poem is natural, and the reflections just.
A FAIRY TALE. By Dr. Parnell.
Never was the old manner of speaking more hap-
pily applied, or a tale better told, than this.
PALEMON AND LAVINIA.
Mr. Thomson, though in general a verbose and
affected poet, has told this story with unusual sim-
plicity : it is rather given here for being much es-
teemed by the public than by the editor.
THE 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 Savage is, in other re-
spects, but an indifferent poet.
THE POET AND HIS PATRON.
Mr. Moore was a poet tliat never had justice
done him while living ; there are few of the mo-
derns have a more correct taste, or a more pleasing
manner of expressing their thoughts. It was upon
these fables he cliiefly founded his reputation, yet
they are by no means his best production.
AN EPISTLE TO A LADY.
This httle poem, by Mr. Nugent, is very pleas-
ing. The easiness of the 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 reputation, was a tale told ir. all
the old Italian collections of jests, and borrowed from
thence by Fontaine. It had been translated once
or twice before into English, yet was never re-
garded till it fell into the hands of Mr. Prior. A
strong instance how much every thing is improved
in thc'hands of a man of genius.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.
This poem is very fine, and, though in the sam»
strain with the preceding, is yet superior.
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
TO THE EARL OF WARWICK,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.
This elegy (by Mr. Tickell) is one of the finest
in our language : there is so little new that can be
said upon the death of a friend, after the complaints
of Ovid and the Latin Italians in this way, that
fonder of dazzling than pleasing; of raising our ad-
miration for his wit than our dishke of the follies
he ridicules.
A PASTORAL BALLAD.
The ballads of Mr. Shenstone are chiefly com-
mended for the natural simplicity of the thoughts,
one is surprised to see so much novelty in this to P"*^ ^^® harmony of the versification. However,
strike us, and so much interest to affect.
COLIN AND LUCY.— A Ballad.
Through all Tickell'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 feehngs than his taste. The
mechanical part, with regard to numbers and lan-
guage, is not so perfect as so short a work as this
requires; but the pathetic it contains, particularly
in the last stanza but one, is exquisitely fine.
ON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PRO-
TECTOR.
Our poetry was not quite harmonized in Wal-
ler's time; so that this, which would be now look-
ed upon as a slovenly sort of versification, was,
with respect to the times in which it was written,
almost a prodigy of harmony. A modern reader
will chiefly be struck with the strength of think-
ing, and the turn of the compliments bestowed up-
on the us'irper. Every body has heard the answer
our poet made Charles II. who asked him how his
poem upon Cromwell came to be finer than his
panegyric upon himself! "Your Majesty," re-
plies Waller, "knows that poets always succeed
best in fiction.''
THE STORY OF PHCEBUS AND
DAPHNE, APPLIED.
The French claim this as belonging to them.
To whomsoever it belongs, the thought is finely
turned.
NIGHT THOUGHTS. By Dr. Young.
These seem to be the best of the collection; from
whence only the first two are taken. They are
spoken of ditferently, either with exaggerated ap-
jilause or contempt, as the reader's disposition is
either turned lo mirth or melancholy.
they are not excellent in either.
PHCEBE.— A Pastoral
This, by Dr. Byron, is a better eflfort than the
preceding.
A SONG.
"Desiiairing beside a clear stream."
This, by Mr. Rowe, is better than any thing of
the kind in our languase.
AN ESSAY ON POETRY.
This work, by the Duke of Buckingham, is en-
rolled among our great English productions. The
precepts are sensible, the poetry not indifferent,
but it has been praised more than it deserves,
CADENAS AND VANESSA.
This is thought one of Dr. Swift's correctest
pieces; its chief merit, indeed, is the elegant case
with wliich a story, but ill conceived in itseltj is
told.
ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE
MIND.
n^vru. yiKec!, xa/ Travra. xuv/c, Kctt Truvra. to ^*<r«r
TlavTu yctp i^ ciKoyuv ectt/ tu yiyvojutvct.
What Prior meant by this poem I can't under-
stand : by the Greek 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 thera
save the badness of the rest.
PREFACE
TO
SATIRE I.
Young's Satires were in higher reputation when
published than they stand in at present. He seems
A COLLECTION OF POEMS,
FOR YOUNG LADIES,
DEVOTIONAL, MORAL, AND ENTERTAIMNO
[First Printed in tlie year 1767.]
Dr. Fordyce's excellent Sermons for Young
Women in some measure gave rise to the follow-
ing compilation. In that work, where he so judi-
ciously points out all the defects of female coftduct
to remedy them, and all the proper studies whicii
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
239
they should pursue, with a view to improvement,
poetry is one to which he particularly would at-
tach them. He only objects to the danger of pur-
suing this charming study through all the immo-
raUties and false pictures of happiness with which
it abounds, and thus becoming the martyr of inno-
cent 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 exquisite pleasure, while
she is at the same time learning the duties of life;
and, while she courts only entertainment, be de-
ceived into wisdom. Indeed, this would be too
great a boast in the preface to any original work;
but here it can be made with safety, as every poem
in the following collection would singly have pro-
cured an author great reputation.
They are divided into Devotional, Moral, and
Entertaining, thus comprehending the three great
duties of life; that which we owe to God, to our
neighbour, and to ourselves.
In the first part, it must be confessed, our Eng-
lish poets have not very much excelled. In that
department, namely, the praise of our Maker, by
which poetry began, and from which it deviated
by time, we are most faultily deficient. 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 introduced to pub-
lic notice by Mr. Hervey and Mr. Fielding. In
it the reader will perceive many striking pictures,
and perhaps glow with a part of that gratitude
which seems to have inspired the writer.
In the moral part I am more copious, from the
same "reason, because our language contains a large
number of the kind. Voltaire, talking of our poets,
gives them the preference in moral pieces to those
of any other nation ; and indeed no poets have bet-
ter settled the bounds of duty, or more precisely
determined the rules for conduct in life than ours.
In this department, the fair reader will find the
Muse has been solicitous to guide her, not with
the allurements of a syren, but the integrity of a
friend.
In the entertaining part, my greatest difficulty
was what to reject. The materials lay in such
plenty, that I was bewildered in my choice: in this
case, then, I was solely determined by the tenden-
cy of the poem : and where I found one, hov/ever
well executed, that seemed in the least tending to
distort the judgment, or inflame the imagination,
it was excluded without mercy. I have here and
there, indeed, when one of particular beauty offer-
ed with a few blemishes, lopped off the defects;
and thus, like the tyrant who fitted all strangers to
the bed he had jirepared for them, I have inserted
some, by first adapting them to my plan : we only
differ in this, that he mutilated 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 young la-
dies are readers, and while their guardians are so-
licitous that they shall only read the best books,
there can be no danger of a work of this kind be-
ing disagreeable. It offers, in a very small com-
pass, 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 afford the present.
CRITICISM ON
MASSEY'S TRANSLATION
OF THE
FASTI OF OVID.
[Published in the year 1757.]
It was no bad remark of a celebrated French
lady,* that a bad translator was like an ignorant
footman, whose blundering messages disgraced his
master by the awkwardness of the delivery, and
frequently turned compliment into abuse, and
politeness into rusticity. We can not indeed see
an ancient elegant writer mangled and misrepre-
sented by the doers into English, without some
degree of indignation; and are heartily sorry that
our poor friend Ovid should send his sacred kalen-
dar to us by the hands of Mr. William Massey,
who, like the valet, seems to have entirely forgot
his master's message, and substituted another in
its room very unlike it. Mr. Massey observes in
his preface, with great truth, that it is strange that
this most elaborate and learned of all Ovid's work*
should be so much neglected by our EngUsh transla-
tors; and that it should be so httle read or regarded,
whilst his Tristia, Epistles, and Metamorphoses, are
in almost every schoolboy's hands. "All the critics,
in general," says he, "speak of this part of Ovid's
writings with a particular applause ; yet I know
not by what unhappy fate there has not been that
use made thereof, which would be more beneficial,
in mar /■ respects, to young students of the Latin
toiigue, than any other of this poet's works. For
thou(?h Pantheons, and other books that treat 0/
Madame La Fayette*
240
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the Roman m3-thology, may be usefully put into
the hamls of youncf proficients in the Latin tongue,
yet the richest fund of that sort of learning is here
to be found in the Fasti. I am not without hopes,
therefore, that by thus making this book more fa-
miliar and easy, in this dress, to English readers,
it will the more readily gain admittance into our
public schools; and that those who become better
acquainted therewith, will find it an agreeable and
instructive companion, well stored with recondite
learning. I persuade myself also, that the notes
which I have added to my version will be of ad-
vantage, not only to the mere English reader, but
likewise to such as endeavour to improve them-
selves in the knowledge of the Roman language.
"As the Latin proverb says, Jacta est alea ;
and my performance must take its chance, as those
of other poetic adventurers have done before me.
I am very sensible, that I have fallen in many
places far below my original; and no wonder, as I
had to copy after so fertile and polite a genius as
Ovid's; who, as my Lord Orrery, somewhere in
Dean Swift's Life, humorously observes, could
make an instructive song out of an old almanack.
" That my translation is more diffuse, and not
brought within the same number of verses contain-
ed in my original, is owing to two reasons ; firstly,
because of the concise and expensive nature of the
Latin tongue, which it is very difficult (at least 1
find it so) to keep to strictly, in our language; and
secondly, I took the liberty, sometimes to expatiate
a httle upon my subject, rather than leave it in
obscurity, or unintelligible to my English readers,
being indiflerent whether they may call it transla-
tion or paraphrase ; for, in short, I had this one
design most particularly in vievi^, that these Roman
Fasti might have a way opened for their entrance
into our grammar-schools."
What use this translation may be of to gram-
mar-schools, we can not pretend to guess, unless,
by way of foil, to give the boys a higher opinion of
the beauty of the original by the deformity of so
bad a copy. But let our readers judge of Mr.
Massey's performance by the following specimen.
For the better determination of its merit, we shall
subjoin the original of every quotation.
" The calends of each month throughout the year,
Are under Juno's kind peculiar care ;
But on the ides, a white lamb from the field,
A grateful sacrifice, to Jove is kill'd ;
But o'er the nones no guardian god presides;
And the next day to calends, nones, and ides,
Is inauspicious deem'd ; for on those days
The Romans suffered losses many ways;
And from those dire events, in hapless war,
Those days unlucky nominated are."
Vinrticat Ausonias Junonis cura kalendaa:
Idibus alba Jovi granJior agna cadiu
Nonarum tutela Deo caret. Omnibus istia
(Ne fallere cave) proximus Ater erit.
Omen ab eventu est: illis nam Ronia diebua
Damna sub adverse tristia Marte tulit.
Ovid's address to Janus, than which in the ori-
ginal scarce any thing can be more poetical, is thus
familiarized into something much worse than prose
by the translator • —
" Say, Janus, say, why we begin the year
In winter? sure the spring is better far:
All things are then renew'd; a youthful dress
Adorns the flowers, and beautifies the trees;
New swelling buds appear upon the vine,
And apple-blossoms round the orchard shine;
Birds fill the air with the harmonious lay,
And lambkins in the meadows frisk and play;
The swallow then forsakes her wint'ry rest.
And in the chimney chatt'ring makes her nest;
The fields are then renew'd, the ploughman's care;
Mayn't this be call'd renewing of the year?
To my long questions Janus brief rephed.
And his whole answer to two verses tied.
The winter tropic ends the solar race,
Which is begun again from the same place ;
And to explain more fully what you crave,
The sun and year the same beginning have.
But why on new-year's da}', said I again,
Are suits commenced in courts! The reason's
plain, ,
Replied the god ; that business may be done,
And active labour emulate the sun.
With business is the year auspiciously begun ;
But every artist, soon as he was tried
To work a little, lays his work aside.
Then I ; but further, flither Janus, say,
When to the gods we our devotions pay.
Why wine and incense first to thee are given?
Because, said he, I keep the gates of heaven;
That when you the immortal powers address,
By me to them you may have free access.
But why on new-year's day are presents made,
And more than common salutations paid?
Then, leaning on his staff, the god replies,
In all beginnings there an omen lies ;
Fiom the first word, we guess the whole design^
And augurs, from the first-seen bird, divine;
The gods attend to every mortal's prayer,
I'heir ears and temples always open are."
Die, age, frigoribus quare norua incipit annua.
Qui melius per ver incipienduseral7
Omnia tunc fiorent : tunc est nova temporia aetaa-'
Et nova de gravido palmite gemma lumet.
Et modo lofmaiis amicilur vitibus arbos:
Prodit et in summum seniinis lierba Bolum:
Et tepidum volucres concentibiis aera mulceot:
Ludit et in pratis, luxuriatque pecua.
Turn blandi soles: ignotaque prodit hinindo;
Et luteum celsa sub trabe fingit opus.
Turn patilur cukus ager, et renovatur aratra
Hsc amii novitas jure vocanda fuiu
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
241
Quaesierara muliis ; non niulds ille moratus,
Contulit in versus sic sua verba duos.
Briiina novi prima est, veterisque novissima solis:
Principium capiunt PhiEbus et annus idem.
Post ea mirabar,- cur non sine litibus esset
Prima dies. Causam percipe, Janus ait.
Ifempora colnmisi nascentia rebus agendis; -
Totus ab auspicio ne foret anus iners.
Jaisque suas artes ob idem delibat agendo:
Nee plus quam solitum te-siificalur opus.
Mox ego; cur, qiiamvis aliorum numina placem,
Jane, tibi primo thiira merumqiie fero'!
Ut per me possis aditum, qui limina servo, ■ . .' '
Ad quoscunque velim prorsus, habere deo3 . . ■
At eur lasta tuis dicuntur verlm kalendis;
Et damns alternas accipimusque precesl
Turn deus incumbens baculo, quern dextra gerebat;
Omnia principiiis, inquit, inesse solent.
Ad priroam vocem timidas advertitis aures :
Et visam primum consulit augur avem.
Templa patent auresque deum : nee lingua caducaa
Concipit uUa preces ; dictaque pondus habent.
Is there a pos.sibility that any thing can be more
different from Ovid in Latin than this Ovid in
Enghsh? Quam sibi dispar! The translation is
indeed beneath all criticism. But let us see what
Mr. Massey can do with the sublime and more
animated parts of the performance, where the sub-
ject might have given him room to show his skill,
and the example of his author stirred up tho fire
of poetry in his breast, if he had any in it. To-
wards the end of the second book of the Fasti,
Ovid has introduced the most tender and interest-
ing story of Lucretia. The original is inimitable.
Let us see what Mr. Massey has made of it in his
translation. After he has described Tarquin re-
turning from the sight of the beautiful Lucretia,
he proceeds thus :
" The near approach of day the cock declared
By his shrill voice, when they again repair'd
Back to the camp ; but Sextus there could find
Nor peace nor ease for his distemper'd mind ;
A spreading fire does in his bosom burn,
Fain would he to the absent fair return ; . ^ • .
The image of Lucretia fills his breast,
Thus at her wheel she sat ! and thus was dress'd !
What sparkling eyes, what pleasure in her look!
How just her speech, and how divinely spoke!
Like as the waves, raised by a boisterous wind,
Sink by degrees, but leave a swell behind :
So, though by absence lessen'd was his fire,
There still remain'd the kindlings of desire;
Unruly lust from hence began to rise.
Which how to gratify he must devise;
All on a rack, and stung with mad designs,
He reason to his passion quite resigns j
"Whate"cr's th' event, said he, I'll try my fate.
Suspense in all things is a wretched state ;
Let some assistant god, or chance, attend,
All bold attempts they usually befriend :
This way, said he, I to the Gabii trod;
Then girding on his sword, away he rode.
IG
The day was spent, the sun was nearly set,
When he arrived before Collatia's gate;
Like as a friend, but with a sly intent, . ■
To Collatinus' house he boldly went;
There he a kind reception met within
From fair Lucretia, for they were akin.
What ignorance attends the human mind!
How oft we are to our misfortunes blind !
Thoughtless of harmj she made a handsome feast,
And o'er a cheerful glass regaled her guest
With lively chat ; and then to bed they went;
But Tarquin still pursued liis vile intent;
All dark, about the dead of night he rose,
And softly to Lucretia's chamber goes ; •
His naked sword he carried in his hand,
That what he could not win he might command;
With rapture on her bed himself he threw,
And as approaching to her lips he drew, - .
Dear cousin, ah, my dearest life, he said, r
'Tis I, 'tis Tarquin ; why are you afraid? ' •
Trembling with fear, she not a word could say,
Her spirits fled, she fainted quite away ;
Like as a lamb beneath a wolf's rude paws,
Appall'd and stunn'd, her breath she hardly draws;
What can she do ? resistance would be vain,
She a weak woman, he a vigorous man. . ■
Should she cry out 7 his naked sword was by;
One scream, said he, and you this instant die :
Would she escape 1 his hands lay on her breast,
Now first by hands of any stranger press'd :
The lover urged by threats, rewards, and prayers;
But neither prayers, rewards, nor threats, she
hears :
Will you not yield ? he cries ; then know my will-
When these my warm desires have had their fill,
By your dead corpse I'll kill and lay a slave,
And in that posture both together leave ;
Then feign myself a witness of your shame,
And fix a lasting blemish on your fame.
Her mind the fears of blemished fame control.
And shake the resolutions of her soul ;
But of thy conquest, Tarquin, never boast, .^
Gaining that fort, thou hast a kingdom lost ; ■ •
Vengeance thy complicated guilt attends, ; '
Which both in thine, and fam'ly's ruin ends.
With rising day the sad Lucretia rose,
Her inward grief her outward habit shows ;
Mournful she sat in tears, and all alone.
As if she'd lost her only darling son ; ' '.
Then for her husband and her father sent.
Who Ardea left in haste to know th' intent; :
Who, when they saw her all in mourning dress'd
To know the occiision of her grief, request ;
Whose funeral she mourn'd desired to know,
Or why she had put on those robes of woel
She long conceal'd the melancholy cause,
While from her eyes a briny fountain flows:
Her aged sire, and tender husband strive
To heal her grief, and words of comfort give (
iM2
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
"Vet dread some fatal consequence to hear,
And begg'd she would the cruel cause declare."
Jam dederat centum tacis prseimncius ales
Cum refenmt juvenes in sua castra pedem.
Carpkur attonitos absemis imagine sensua
llle : recordanti plura magisque placent.
Sic sedit : sic culta I'uit : sic stamina nevvl;
Neglectae eollo sic jacncre coma;:
Hos liabuit viiltus : liie illi verba fuere :
Hie decor, liiec facie?, hie color oriserat.
Ut solet a magno fluctus languescere flatu ;
Sed tamen a vento, qui fuit ante, tumet :
Sic, quamvis aberat placitse praesentia forms,
Quern dederat prssens forma, manebat amor.
Ardet; et injusti stiniulis agitatus amoris
Comparat indigno vimquedolumque toro.
Exitus in dubio est: audebimus ultima, dixit:
Viderit, audenlis forsne deusne juvet.
Cepimus audendo Gabios quoque. Talia fatua
Ense latus cingil: tergaqne pressit equi.
Accipit BRratajuvenem Collalia porta:
Condere jam vultus sole parante euos.
Hostis, ut hospes, init penetralia CoUatina:
Comiter excipitur: sanguine junctus erat.
Quantum animiseiToris inest! parat inscia rervini
Infflix epulas hosiibus ilia suis.
Functus erat dapibus : poscunt sua tempora somni.
Nox erat; et tota lumina nulla domo.
Surgit, et auratum vagina deripit ensem:
Et venit in tlialamos, nupta pudica, tuos.
Utque torum pressit; ferrum, Lucretia, mecum est,
Natus, ait, regis, Tarquiniusque vocor.
Ula nihil: neque enim vocem virasque loquendi,
Aut aliquid toto pectore mentis habet.
Sed tremit, ut quondam stabulis deprensa relictis;
Parva sub infesto cum jacet agne lupo.
Quid faciatl pugnetl vincetur femina pugna.
Clamel? at in dextra, qui necet, ensisadest.
EfTugiat'! positis urgetur pectora palniis ;
Ntmc primum externa pectora tacta manu.
Instat amans hostis precibus, pretioque, minisque.
Nee prece, nee pretio, nee movet iUe minis.
Nil agis ; eripiara, dixit, per crimina vitam:
Falsus adullerii testis adulter ero.
Interimam famulum ; cum quo deprensa fereris.
Succubuit famse victa puella metu.
Quid, victor, gaudes? haic te victoria perdet.
Heu quanto regnis nox stetit ima tuis !
Jamque erat orta dies: passis sedet ilia capillig;
Ut solet ad nati mater itura rognm.
Granda;vumque patrem fldo cum conjuge castria
Evocat; et posita venit uterque mora.
Utque vident habitum; quceluctus causa, requirunt:
Cui paret exsequias, quovesit icta malo.
nia diu reticet, pudibundaque celat amictu
Ora. Fluunt lacrymee more perennis aquaj.
Hinc pater, hine conjux lacrymas solantur, etorant
Indicet: et caeco flentque paventque metu.
Ter conata loqui, etc.
Our readers will easily perceive by this short
specimen, how very unequal Mr. Massey is to a
translation of Ovid. In many places he has deviated
entirely from the sense, and in every part fallen infi-
nitely below the strength, elegance, and spirit of the
original. We must beg leave, therefore, to remind
him of the old Italian proverb,* and hope he will
• Q Tradattores Tradatore.
never for the future traduce and injure any of those
poor ancients who never injured him, by thus pes-
tering the world with such translations as even his
own school-boys ought to be whipped for.
CRITICISM
ON
BARRET'S TRANSLATION
OF
OVID'S EPISTLES.
[Published in 1759.]
The praise which is every day lavished upon
Virgil, Horace, or Ovid, is often no more than an
indirect method the critic takes to compliment his
own discernment. Their works have long beea
considered as models of beauty ; to praise them now
is only to show the conformity of our tastes to
theirs ; it tends not to advance their reputation, but
to promote our own. Let us then dismiss, for the
present, the pedantry of panegyric ; Ovid needs it
not, and we are not disposed to turn encomiasts on
ourselves.
It will be sufficient to observe, that the multi-
tude of translators which have attempted this poet
serves to evince the number of his admirers ; and
their indifferent success, the difficulty of equalling
liis elegance or his ease.
Drydcn, ever poor, and ever willing to be obliged,
solicited the assistance of his friends for a transla-
tion of these epistles. It was not the first time his
miseries obliged him to call in happier bards to his
aid ; and to permit such to quarter their fleeting
performances on the lasting merit of his name.
This eleemosynary translation, as might well be
expected, was extremely unequal, frequently unjust
to the poet's meaning, almost always so to his fame.
It was published without notes ; for it was not at
that time customary to swell every performance cf
this nature with comment and scholia. The reai^-
er did not then choose to have the current of hi»
passions interrupted, his attention every moment
called off from pleasure only, to be informed why
he was so pleased. It was not then thought neces-
sary to lessen surprise by anticipation, and, like
some spectators we have met at the play-house, to
take off our attent' m from the performance, by
telling in our ear, what will follow next.
Since this united effort, Ovid, as if born to mis-
fortune, has undergone successive metamorphoses,
being sometimes transposed by schoolmasters un-
acquainted with English, and sometimes transversed
by ladies who knew no Latin : thus he has alter-
nately worn the dress of a pedant or a rake ; eithei
crawling in humble prose, or having his hints ei •
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
243
|lainedinto unbashful meaning. Schoolmasters,
who knew all that was in him except his graces,
give the names of places and towns at full length,
and he moves along stiffly in their literal versions,
as the man who, as we are told in the Philosophi-
cal TTansactions, was afflicted with a universal
anchilosis. His female imitators, on the other
hand, regard the dear creature only as a lover; ex-
press the delicacy of his passion b}' the ardour of
their own ; and if now and then he is found to grow
a little too warm, and perhaps to express himself a
little indelicately, it must be imputed to the more
poignant sensations of his fair admirers. In a
word, we have seen him stripped of all his beauties
in the versions of Stirling and Clark, and talk like
a debauchee in that of Mrs. ; but the sex
should ever be sacred from criticism ; perhaps the
ladies have a right to describe raptures wMch none
but themselves can bestow.
A poet, like Ovid,, whose greatest beauty lies
rather in expression than sentiment, must be ne-
cessarily difficult to translate. A fine sentiment
may be conveyed several different ways, without
impairing its vigour; but a sentence delicately ex-
pressed will scarcely admit the least variation with-
out losing beauty. The performance before us
will serve to convince the public, that Ovid is more
easily admired than imitated. The translator, in
his notes, shows an ardent zeal for the reputation
of his poet. It is possible too he may have felt his
beauties; however, he does not seem possessed of
the happy art of giving his feehngs expression. If
a kindred spirit, as we have often been told, must
animate the translator, we fear the claims of Mr.
Barret will never receive a sanction in the heraldry
of Parnassus.
His intentions, even envy must own, arc laud-
able: nothing less than to instruct boys, school-
masters, grown gentlemen, the public, in the prin-
ciples of taste {to use his own expression), both
by precept and by example. His manner it seems
is, "to read a course of poetical lectures to his pu-
pils one night in the week; which, beginning with
this author, running through select pieces of our
own, as well as the Latin and Greek writers, and
ending with Longinus, contributes no Wile to-
wards forming SJieir taste." No little, reader ob-
serve that, from a person so perfectly master of the
force of his own language : what may not be ex-
pected from his comments on the beauties of an-
otherl
But, in order to show in what manner he has
executed these intentions, it is proper he should
first march in review as a poet We shall select
the first epistle that offers, which is that from Pene-
lope to Ulysses, observing beforehand, that the
whole translation is a most convincing instance,
that English words may be placed in Latin order,
without being xcholly unintelligible. Such forced
transpositions serve at once to give an idea of the
translator's learning, and of ditficulties surmounted.
PENELOPE TO ULYSSES.
"This, still your wife, my ling'ring lord ! I send:
Yet be your answer persohal, not penn'd."
These lines Seem happily imitated from Taylor,
the water-poet, who has it thus ; .• ." .
"To thee, dear Ursula, these lines I send.
Not with my hand, but with my heart, they'rd
penn'd."
But not to make a pause in the reader's pleasure,
we proceed. • ' . ■ '
"Sunk novv is Troy, the curse of Grecian dames!
(Her king, her all, a worthless prize!) in flames.
O had by storms (his fleet to Sparta bound)
Th' adult'rer perished in the mad profound!
Here seems soirie obscurity in the translation;
we are at a loss to know what is meant by the mad
profound. It can certainly mean neither Bedlam
nor Fleet- Ditch; for though the epithet marf might
agree with one, or ■profound with the other, yet
when united they seem incompatible with either.
The profound has frequently been used to signify
bad verses; and poets are sometimes said to be
mad: who knows but Penelope wishes that Paris
might have died in the very act of rhyming; and
as he was a shepherd, it is not improbable to sup-
pose but that he was a poet also.
"Cold in a widovv'd bed I ne'er had lay.
Nor chid with weary eyes the Ung'ring day." .
Lay for lain, by the figure ginglimus. The
translator makes frequent use of this figure.'
"Nor the protracted nuptials to avoid,
By night unravell'd what the day eirqiloyed.
When have not fancied dangers broke my rest?
Love, tim'rous passion ! rends the anxious breast.
In thought I saw you each fierce Trojan's ami;
Pale at the mention of bold Hector's name!"
Ovid makes Penelope shudder at the name of
Hector. Our translator, vrith great propriety,
transfers the fright from Penelope to Ulysses him-
self: it is he who grows pale at the name of Hec-
tor; and well indeed he might; for Hector is repre-
sented by Ovid, somevvhere else, as a terrible fel-
low, and Ulysses as little better than a poltroon.
"Whose spear when brave Antilochus imbrued,
By the dire news awoke, my fear renevv'd
Clad in dissembled anus Patroclus died:
And "Oh the late of stratagem ! " I cried.
Tlepolemus, beneath the Lycian dart.
His breath rcsign'd, and roused afresh my smart.
244
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Thus, when ejich Grecian press'il the bloody field,
Cold icy horrors my fond bosom chill'd."
Here we may observe how epithets tend to
strengthen the force of expression. First, her hor-
rors are cold, and so far Ovid seems to think also;
but the translator adds, from himself, the epithet
icy, to show that they are still colder— a fine climax
of frigidity !
"But Heaven, indulgent to my chaste desire,
Has wrapp'd (my husband safe) proud Troy in
fire."
The reader may have already observed one or
two instances of our translator's skill, in parentheti-
cally clapping one sentence within another. This
contributes not a little to obscurity ; and obscurity,
we all know, is nearly allied to admiration. Thus,
when the reader begins a sentence which he finds
pregnant with another, which still teems with a
third, and so on, he feels the same surprise which
a countryman does at Bartholomew-fair. Hocus
shows a bag, in appearance empty ; slap, and out
come a dozen new-laid eggs; slap again, and the
number is doubled; but what is his amazement,
when it swells with the hen that laid them!
The Pylian sage inform'd your son embark'd in
quest of thee
Of this, and he his mother, that is me.
" He told how Rhesus and how Dolon fell,
By your wise conduct and Tydides' steel ;
That doom'd by heavy sleep oppress'd to die,
And this prevented, a nocturnal spy !
Rash man ! undmindful what your friends you owe,
Night's gloom to tempt, and brave a Thracian foe
By one assisted in the doubtful strife ;
To me how kind ! how provident of Ufe!
Still throbb'd my breast, till, victor, from the plain,
You join'd, on Thracian steeds, th' allies again.
" But what to me avails high Ilium's fall,
Or soil continued o'er its ruin'd wall ;
If still, as when it stood, my wants remain ;
If still I wish you in these arms in vain?
"The Grecian chiefs return, each altar shines.
And spoils of Asia grace our native shrines.
Gifts, for their lords restored, the matrons bring;
The Trojan fates o'ercome, triumphant sing;
Old men and trembling maids admire the songs,
And wives hang, list'ning, on their husbands'
tongues."
Critics have expatiated, in raptures, on the deli-
cate use the ancients ha\'e made of the verb pen-
dere. Virgil's goats are described as hanging on
the mountain side; the eyes of a lady hang on the
looks of her lover. Ovid has increased the force of
the metaphor, and describes tlie wife as hanging on
the lips of her husband. Our translator has gone
still farther, and described the lady as pendent from
his tongue. A fine picture!
"Now, drawn in wine, fierce battles meet their
eyes.
And Uion's towers in miniature arise :
There stretch'd Sigean plains, here Simois flow'd:
And there old Priam's lofty palace stood.
Here Peleus' son encamp' d, Ulysses there; -
Here Hector's corpse distain'd the raj)id car."
"Of this the Pylian sage, in quest of thee
Embark'd, your son inform'd liis mother he."
If we were permitted to ofltr a correction upon
the two last lines, we would translate them into
plain English thus, still preserving the rhyme en-
tire.
"Troy, sack'd to others, yet to me remains.
Though Greeks, with captive oxen, till her plains,
Ripe harvests bend where oiice her turrets stood;
Rank in her soil, manured with Phrygian blood ;
Harsh on the ploughs, men's bones, half buried,
sound.
And grass each ruin'd mansion hides around.
Yet, hid in distant climes, my conq'ror stays;
Unluiown the cause of these severe delays !
"No foreign merchant to our isle resorts,
But question'd much of you, he leaves our ports;
Hence each departing sail a letter bears
To speak (if you are found) my anxious cares.
"Our son to Pylos cut the briny wave;
But Nestor's self a dubious answer gave ;
To Sparta next — nor even could Sparta tell
What seas you plough, or in what region dwell I
" Better had stood Apollo's sacred wall :
could I now my former wish recall !
War my sole dread, the scene I then should know ;
And thousands then would share the common woe ;
But all things now, not knowing what to fear,
1 dread ; and give too large a field to care.
Whole lists of dangers, both by land and sea.
Are muster'd, to have caused so long delay.
"But while your conduct thus I fondly clear.
Perhaps (true man !) you court some foreign fail ;
Perhaps you rally your domestic loves.
Whose art the snowy fleece alone improves.
No ! may I err, and start at false alarms;
May nought but force detain you from my arms.
" Urged by a father's right again to wed.
Firm I refuse, still faithful to your bed !
Still let him urge the fruitless vain design ;
I am — I must be — and, I will be thine.
Though melted by my chaste desires, of late
His rig'rous importunities abate.
PREFACES AND CRITICISM.
245
"Of teasing suitors a luxurious train,
From neighbouring isles, have cross'd the hquid
plain.
Here uncontroll'd the audacious crews resort,
Rifle in your wealth, and revel in your court.
Pisander, Polybus, and Medon lead,
Antinoiis and Eurymachus succeed,
With others, whose rapacious throats devour
The wealth you purchased once, distained with
gore. • .■. '
Melanthius add, and Irus, hated name !
A beggar rival to complete our shame.
" Three, helpless three! are here ; a wife not strong,
A sire too aged, and a son too young.
He late, by fraud, embark'd for Pylos' shore,
!:■ Nigh from my arms for ever had been tore."
\ These two lines are replete with beauty: nigh,
which implies approximation, and from., whicii
implies distance, are, to use our translator's expres-
sions, drawn as it were up in line of battle. Tore
is put for torn, that is, torn by fraud, from her
arms; not that her son played truant, and embark-
ed by fraud, as a reader who does not understand
Latin might be apt to fancy. '- ■ ■
"Heaven grant the youth survive each parent's
date,
And no cross chance reverse the course of fate.
Your nurse and herdsman join this wish of mine.
And the just keeper of your bristly swine."
Our translator observes in a note, that " the sim-
plicity expressed in these Unes is so far from being
a blemish, that it is, in fact, a very great beauty ;
and the modern critic, who is ofl'ended with the
mention of a sty, however he may pride himself
upon his false delicacy, is either too short-sighted
io penetrate into real nature, or has a stomach too
nice to digest the noblest relics of antiquity. He
means, no doubt, to digest a hog-sty ; but, antiquity
apart, we doubt if even Powel the fire-eater him-
self could bring his appetite to relish so unsavoury
a repast.
" By age your sire disarm'd, and wasting woes,
The helm resigns, amidst surrounding foes.
This may your son resume (when years allow),
But oh ! a fiither's aid is wanted now.
Nor have I strength his title to maintain.
Haste, then, our only refuge, o'er the main."
" A son, and long may Heaven the blessing grant,
You have, whose years a sire's instruction want.
Think how Laertes drags an age of woes.
In hope that you his dying eyes may close;
And 1, left youthful in my early bloom.
Shall aged seem ; how soon soe'er }-ou come."
But let not the reader imagine we can find plea-
sure in thus exposing absurdities, which are too
ludicrous for serious reproof. While we censure
as critics, we feel as men, and could sincerely wish
that those, whose greatest sin, is perhaps, the ve-
nial one of writing bad verses, would regard theil
failure in this respect as we do, not as faults, but
foibles ; they may be good and useful members of
society, without being poets. The regions oftasto
can be travelled only by a few, and even thos«
often find indifierent accommodation by the way.
Let such as have not got a passport from nature be
content with happiness, and leave the poet the un-
rivalled possession of his misery, his garret, and
his fame.
We have of late seen the republic of letters
crowded with some, who have no other pretensions
to ayiplause but industry, who have no other merit
but that of reading many books, and making long
quotations ; these we have heard extolled by sym-
pathetic dunces, and have seen them carry ofl" the
rewards of genius; while others, who should have
been born in better days, felt all the wants of pov-
erty, and the agonies of contempt. Who then
that has a regard fof the public, for the literary
honours of our country, for the figure we shall one
day make among posterity, that would not choose
to see such humbled as are possessed only of talents
that might have made good cobblers, had fortune
turned them to trade 1 Should such prevail, the
real interests of learning must be in a rccij)rocal
proportion to the power they possess. Let it be
then the character of our periodical endeavours, and
hitherto we flatter ourselves it has ever been, not to
permit an ostentation of learning to pass for merit,
nor to give a pedant quarter upon the score of his
industry alone, even though he took refuge behind
Arabic, or powdered his hair with hieroglyphics.
Authors thus censured may accuse our judgment,
or our reading, if they please, but our own hearts
will acquit us of envy or ill-nature, since we re-
prove only with a desire to reform.
But we had almost forgot, that our translator is'
to be considered as a critic as well as a poet ; and
in this department he seems also equally unsuc-
cessful with the former. Criticism at present is.
different from what it was upon the revival of taste
in Europe; all its rules are now well known ; the
only art at present is, to exhibit them in such lights
as contribute to keep the attention alive, and excite
a favourable audience. It must borrow graces
from eloquence, and please while it aims at instruc-
tion : but instead of this, wc have a combination of
trite observations, delivered in a style in which
those who are disposed to make war upon words,
will find endless opportunities of triunii)h.
He is sometimes hypercritical ; thus, page 3.
" Pope in his excellent Essay on Criticism (as will,
in its place, when you come to be lectured upon it,
at full be explained,) terms this making the sound an
echo to the sense. But I apprehend that definition
246
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
takes in but a part, for the best ancient poets ex-
celled in thus painting to the eye as well as to the
ear. Virgil, describing his housewife preparing her
wine, exhibits the act of the fire to the eye.
' Aut dulcis miisti Vulcano decoquit humorem,
Et foliis undam trepidi dispumat aheni.'
" For the line (if I may be allowed the expres-
Bion) boils over; and in order to reduce it to its
proper bounds, you must, with her, skim off the
redundant syllable." These are beauties, which,
doubtless, the reader is displeased he can not
discern.
Sometimes confused : " There is a deal of artful
and concealed satire in what CEnone throws out
against Helen : and to speak truth, there was fair
scope for it, and it might naturally be expected.
Her chief design was to render his new mistress
suspected of meretricious arts, and make him ap-
prehensive that she would hereafter be as ready to
leave him for some new gallant, as she had be-
fore, perfidiously to her lawful husband, ibllowed
him."
Sometimes contradictory : thus, page 3. " Style
(says he) is used by some writers, as synonymous
with diction, yet in my opinion, it has rather a
complex sense, including both sentiment and dic-
tion." Oppose to this, page 135. "As to con-
cord and even style, they are acquirable by most
youth in due time, and by many with ease; but
the art of thinking properly, and choosing the best
sentiments on every subject, is what comes later."
And sometimes he is guilty of false criticism : as
when he says, Ovid's chief excellence lies in de-
scription. Dcscrijition was the rock on which he
always split ; Nescivit quod bene cessit relinquere,
as Seneca says of him : when once he embarks in
description, he most commonly tires us before he
has done with it. But to tire no longer the reader,
or the translator with extended censure ; as a critic,
this gentleman seems to have drawn his knowledge
from the remarks of others, and not his own reflec-
tion ; as a translator, he understands the language
of Ovid, but not his beauties ; and though he may
be an excellent schoolmaster, he has, however no
pretensions to taste.
LETTERS
FROM A
OSSaSlST ®JF T^^ W©IE1^1S)
TO HIS
TBJBNUS IN THE EAST.
THE EDITOR'S PREFACE.
The schoolmen had formerly a very exact way
A 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. Cara-
muel was greater than he. His learning was as
eight, his genius as six, and his gravity as thir-
teen. Were I to estimate the merits of our Chi-
nese Philosopher by the same scale, I would not
hesitate to state his genius still higher; but as to
his learning and gravity, these, 1 think, might
safely be marked as nine hundred and ninety-nine,
within one degree of absolute frigidity. .
Yet, upon Ms 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
Euro-peans so remote from China, think with so
much justice and precision? They have never
read, our books, they scarcely know even our let-
ters, and yet they talk and reason just as we do.
The truth is, the Chinese and we are pretty much
alike. Different 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 method to procure refined enjoy-
inent.
Tlie distinctions of polite nations are few, but
each as are peculiar to the Chinese, appear in every
page of the following correspondence. The me-
taphors and allusions are all drawn from the East.
• Le Comte, voL i. p. 210.
Their formality our author carefully preserves.
Many of their favourite tenets in morals are illua-
trated. , The Chinese are always concise, so is he.
Simple, so is he. The Chinese are grave and sen-
tentious, so is he. But in one particular the resem-
blance is peculiarly striking : the Chinese are often
dull, and so is he. Nor has any assistance been
wanting. "We are told in an old romance, of a certain
knight errant and his horse who contracted an inti-
mate 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 east-
ern sublimity, and 1 have sometimes given him a
return of my colloquial ease.
Yet it appears strange, in this season of pane-
gyric, when scarcely an author passes unpraised,
either by his friends or himself, that such merit as
our Philosopher's should be forgotten. While tVie
ejiithets of ingenious, copious, elaborate, and re-
fined, arc 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 occasioii,
make myself melancholy, by considering the ca-
priciousness of public taste, or the mutability of
fortune: but, during this fit of morality, lest rpy
reader should sleep, I'll take a nap myself, and
when I awake tell him my dream.
1 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 specta
tors, that Fashion Fair was going to begin. He
added, that every author who would carry his
works there, might probably find a very good re-
ception. I was resolved, however, to obsfrve the
humours of the place in safety from the shore;
sensible that the ice was at best precarious, an4
having been always a Uttle cowardly in my sleen.
248
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Several of my acquaintance seemed much more
hardy than I, and went over the ice with intrejiidi-
ty. Some carried their works to the fair on sledges,
some on carts, and those which were more volu-
minous, were conveyed in wagons. Their te-
merity 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 eacli soon after re-
turned to my great surprise, highly satisfied with
his entertainment, and the bargains he had brought
away.
The success of such numbers at last began to
operate upon me. If these, cried I, meet with fa-
vour and safety, some luck may, perhaps, for once,
attend the unfortunate. I am resolved to make a
new adventure. The furniture, 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 viti-
ate our taste, I'll try how far they can help to im-
prove our understanding. But as others have
driven into the market in wagons, I'll cautiously
begin by venturing with a wheelbarrow. Thus
resolved, I baled up my goods, and fairly ventured ;
when, upon just entering the fair, I fancied the ice
that had supported a hundred wagons before,
cracked under me, and wheelbarrow and all went
to the bottom.
Upon awaking from my reverie with the fright,
I can not help wishing that the pains taken in giv-
ing this correspondence an English dress, had been
employed 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 philoso-
pher, and made one in those little societies where
men club to raise each other's reputation. But at
present I belong to no particular class. I resemble
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 halfpence, to fret and scamper at
the end of my chain. Though none are injured
by my rage, I am naturally too savage to court any
friends by fawning ; too obstinate to be taught new
tricks ; and loo improvident to mind what may hap-
pen. I am appeased, though not contented. Too
indolent for intrigue, and too fimid to push for fa-
*'Oitr, I am — but what signifies what I am.
LETTERS FROM A
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD
TO HIS
FRIENDS IN THE EAST.
LETTER L
To Mr. * * • ', Merchant In London.
Sir,
Amsterdam.
Yours of the 13th instant, covering two bills,
one on Messrs. R. and D. value 478Z. 10s. 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 re-
turned 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
mandarine, and I a factor, at Canton. By fre-
quently conversing with the English there, he has
learned the language; though he is entirely a stran-
ger to their manners and customs. I am told he
is a philosopher ; I am sure he is an honest man :
that to you will be his best recommendation, next
to the consideration of his being the friend of, sir,
Yours, etc.
OvS'u ijUCit ^ ilfJiir TTM^lTi TiUS fXiT^ l^Ui.
Fortune and Iloise, ailieu!— I see my Port:
I'oo long your dupe ; be others nayi your sport.
LETTER II.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to * * ' *, Merchant in Amsterdam,
Friexd op my Heart, London.
May the wings of peace rest upon thy dicelling;
and the shield of conscience preserve thee from
vice and misery! For all thy favours accept my
gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a poor phi-
losophic wanderer can return. Sure, fortune is
resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives
others a power of testifying their friendship by ac-
tions, and leaves me only words to express the sin-
cerity of mine.
I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with which
you endeavour to lessen your own merit and iry
obligations. By calling your late instances jf
friendship only a return for former favours, y»u
would induce me to impute to your justice what
I owe to your generosity.
The services I did you at Canton, justice, hu-
manity, and my office, bade me perform ; those ycu
have done me since my arrival at Amsterdam, r.o
laws obliged you to, no justice required, — evenhaT
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
249
your fovours would have been greater than my
most sanguine expectations.
The sum of money, therefore, which you pri-
vately conveyei] into my baggage, when I wa.s
leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till
ray 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 con-
tent with what is sufficient. Take therefore what
is yours, it may give you some pleasure, even
though you have no occasion to use it ; my happi-
ness it can not improve, for I have already all that
I want.
My passage by sea from Rotterdam to England
was more painful tome than all the journeys I
ever made on land. I have traversed the immea-
surable wilds of Mogul Tartary; felt all the ri-
gours of Siberian skies : I have had my repose a
hundred times disturbed by invading savages, and
have seen, without shrinking, the desert sands rise
like a troubled ocean all around me : against these
calamities I was armed with resolution ; 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 astonish-
ment and terror. To find the land disappear, to
see our 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 de-
presses even the spirits of the brave ; these were
unexpected distresses, and consequently assauhed
me unprepared to receive them.
You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage
by sea. With us of China, a man who has been
from sight of land is regarded upon his return with
admiration. I have known some provinces whore
there is not even a name for the Ocean. What a
strange people, therefore, am I got amongst, who
have founded an em{4re on this unstable element,
who build cities upon billows that rise higher than
the mountains of Tipertala, 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 hundred pain-
ful days, in order to examine its opulence, build-
ings, sciences, arts, and manufactures, on the spot.
Judge then my disappointment on entering Lon-
don, 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 inhabitants; none of that beautiful gilding
■which makes a principal ornament in Chinese ar-
chitecture. The streets of Nankin arc sometimes
strewed with gold-leaf; very different are those of
London . in the midst of their pavements, a great
lazy puddle moves muddily along ; heavy laden ma-
cliines, with wheels of unwieldy thickness, crowd,
up every passage; so that a stranger, instead of find-
ing time for observation, is often happy if he has
time to escape from being crushed to pieces.
The houses borrow very few ornaments from ar-
chitecture ; their chief decoration seems to be a pal-
try 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 thoso
pictures exposed to public view ; and their indi-
gence, in being unable to get them better painted.
In this respect, the fancy of their painters is also
deplorable. Could you believe it 1 I have seen five
black lions and three blue boars, in less than the
circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that ani-
mals of these colours are no where to be found ex-
cept in the wild imaginations of Europe.
From these circumstances in their buildings, and
from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am in-
duced 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
Xixofou is, that a man's riches may be seen in his
eyes : if we judge 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 be
hasty in my decisions. Such letters as I shall
write to Fipsihi in Moscow, I beg you'll endeavour
to forward with all diligence; I shall send them
pen, in order that you may take copies or transla-
tions, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and
Chinese languages. Dear friend, think of rny ab-
sence with regret, as I sincerely regret yours ; even
while I write, I lament our separation. FarcwelL
LETTER in. ', ■
From Lien Chi Altangi, to tlie care of FipBihi, resident in
IMoscow, 10 be foi-wardcd by the Russian caravan te Fura
Iloam, First Presiiiciit of tlie Ceremonial Academy at Pe-
Icin in China.
Think not, O thou guide of my youth ! that ab-
sence can impair my respect, or interposing track-
less deserts blot your reverend figure from my
memory. The farther I travel I feel the pain of
separation with stronger force ; those ties that bind
me to my native country and you, are still un-
broken. By every remove, 1 only drag a greater
length of chain.*
Could I find aught worth transmitting from so
remote a region as this to which 1 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
' We find a repetition of this beautiful and affecting imago
in the Traveller:
"And drags at each remove a lenglhemng chain.''
250
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
with whom I am as yet but superficially acquaint-
ed. The remarks of a man who has been but
three days in the country, can only be those obvi-
ous circumstances which force themselves upon the
imagination. I consider myself here as a newly-
created being introduced into a new world; every
object strikes with wonder and surprise. The
imagination, still unsated, seems the only active
principle of the mind. The mo^t trifling occur-
rences 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 examined without
reflection.
Behold me then in London, gazing at the
strangers, and they at me : it seems they find some-
what absurd 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 alone, and to find no-
thing truly ridiculous but villany and vice.
When 1 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 Tonguese; 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 ridiculous:
but I soon perceived that the ridicule lay not in
them but in me ; that I falsely condemned others
for absurdity, because they happened to difler from
a standard originally founded in prejudice or parti-
ality.
I find no pleasure therefore in taxing the Eng-
lish with departing from nature in their external
appearance, which is all I yet know of their charac-
ter: it is possible they only endeavour to improve
her simple plan, since every extravagance in dress
proceeds from a desire of becoming more beautiful
than nature made us; and this is so harmless a
vanity, that 1 not only pardon but approve it. A
desire to be more excellent than others, is what ac-
tually makes us so ; and as thousands find a liveli-
hood in society by such appetites, none but the ig-
norant inveigh against them.
You are not insensible, most reverend Fum
Hoam, what numberless tradeSj even among the
Chinese, subsist by the harmless pride of each
other. Your nose-borers, feet-swathers, tooth-stain-
ers, eyebrow-pluckers, would all want bread, should
their neighbours want vanity. These vanities,
however, employ much fewer hands in China than
in England; and a fine gentleman or a fine lady
here, dressed up to the fashion, seems scarcely to
have a single limb that does not sufler some distor-
tions from art.
To make a fine gentleman, several trades are re-
quired, but cliiefly a barber. You have undoubt-
edly hec^id of the Jewish champion, whose 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 imjjossible, even in idea, to distinguish
between the head and the hair.
Those whom I have been now describing afl!ect
the gravity of the lion ; those 1 am going to de-
scribe, more resembk^ the pert vivacity of smaller
animals. The barber, who is still master of the
ceremonies, cuts their hair close to the crown ; and
then with a composition of meal and hog's-lard,
plasters the whole in such a manner as t6 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, ap-
pended to the back of the head, and reaching down
to that place where tails in other animals are gener-
ally seen to begin ; thus betailed and bepowdcred,
the man of taste fancies he improves in beauty,
dresses up his hard-featured face in smiles, and at-
tempts 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 creature the
fine lady is to whom he is supposed to pay his ad-
dresses, 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 re-
semble the beauties of China : the Europeans have
quite a diflJerent idea of beauty from us. When 1
reflect on the small-footed perfections of an Eastern
beaut)', how is it possible I should have eyes for a
woman whose feet are ten inches long ? I shall
never forget the beauties of my native city of Nan-
few. How very broad their faces ! how very short
their noses ! how very little their eyes ! how very
thin their lips ! how very black their teeth I the
snow on the tops of Bao is not fairer than their
cheeks ; and their eyebrows are small as the line
by the pencil of Cluamsi. Here a lady with such
perfections would be frightful ; Dutch and Chinese
beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but Eng-
lish women are entirely difierent ; 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 nature has been, they seem re-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
251
Bolved to outdo her in unkinJness; they use white 1 their assemblies; and thousands might be found
powder, blue powder, and black powder, for their
hair, and a red powder for the' face on some parti-
cular 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 the tip of the nose, which I have
never seen with a patch. You'll have a better idea
of their manner of placing these spots, when I have
finished the 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 sleep in, and another to show
in company : the first is generally reserved for the
husband and family at home ; the other put on to
please strangers abroad : the family face is often in-
difierent enough, but the out-door one looks some-
thing better; this is always made at the toilet,
where the looking-glass and toad-eater sit in coun-
cil, and settle the complexion of the day."
I can't ascertain the truth of this remark ; how-
ever, it is actually certain, that they wear more
clothes within doors than without ; and 1 have seen
a lady, who seemed to shudder at a breeze in her
own apartment, appear half naked in the streets.
Farewell.
LETTER IV.
To the same.
The English seem as silent as the Japanese, yet
vainer than the inhabitants of Siara. Upon my
arrival, I attributed that reserve to modesty, which
I now find has its origin in pride. Condescend to
address them first, and you are sure of their ac
quaintance ; stoop to flattery, and you conciliate
their friendship and esteem. They bear hunger,
cold, fatigue, and all the miseries of life without
shrinking ; danger only calls forth their fortitude ;
they even exult in calamity ; but contempt is what
they can not bear. An Englishman fears contempt
more than death ; he often flies to death as a refuge
from its pressure ; and dies when he fancies the
world has ceased to esteem him.
Pride seems the source not only of their nation-
itl vices, but of their national virtues also. An
'i£nHishman is taught to love his king as his friend,
but to acknowledge no other master than the laws
which himself has contributed to enact. He de-
spises those nations, who, that one may be free,
are all content 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 all
ready to ofler up their lives for the sound, though
perhaps not one of all the number understands its
meaning. The 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 traces his ancestry to the
moon.
A few days ago, passing by one of their prisons,
I could not avoid stopping, in order to Hsten to a
dialogue which I thought might afford me some
entertainment. The conversation was carried on
between a debtor through the grate of his prison, a
porter, who had stopped to rest his burden, 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 iny apprehensions is for
our freedom ; if the French should conquer, -what
would become of English liberty? My dear
friends. Liberty is the Englishman's preroga-
tive ; we must preserve that at the expense 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 burdens,
every one of them. Before I would stoop to slave-
ry, may this be my poison (and he held the goblet
in his hand), may this be my poison — but I would
sooner list 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 suf-
fer by such a change : ay, our religion, my lads.
May the devil sink me into fames (such was the
solemnity of his adjuration), if the French should
come over, but our religion would be utterly un-
done. " So saying, instead of a libation, he applied
the goblet to his lips, and confirmed his sentiments
with a ceremony of the most persevering devo-
tion.
In short, every man here pretends to be a politi-
cian ; even the fair sex are sometimes found to mix
the severity of national altercation with the bland-
ishments of love, and often become conquerors, by
more weapons of destruction than their eyes.
This universal passion for politics, is gratified by
daily gazettes, as with us at China. But as in ours
the emperor endeavours to instruct his people, in
theirs, the people endeavour to instruct the admin-
istration. You must not, however, imagine, that
they who compile these papers have any actual
knowledge of the politics, or the government of a
state ; they only collect their materials from the
oracle of some coflee-house ; which oracle has him-
self gathered them the night before frojn a beau at
li\
252
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
a gaming-table, who has pillaged his knowledge
from a great man's porter, who has had his infor-
mation from the great man's gentleman, who has
invented the whole story for his own amusement
the night preceding.
The English, in general, seem fonder of gaining
the esteem than the love of those they converse
■with. This gives a formality to their amusements ;
their gayest conversations have something too wise
for innocent relaxation : though in company you
are seldom disgusted with the absurdity of a fool,
you are seldom lifted into rapture by those strokes
of vivacity, which give instant, though not perma-
nent pleasure.
What they want, however, in gaiety, they make
up in politeness. You smile at hearing me praise
the English for their politeness; you who have
heard very diflerent accounts from the missionaries
at Pekin, who have seen such a different 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 the favour. Other countries are
fond of obliging a stranger ; but seem desirous that
he should be sensible of the obligation. The Eng-
lish 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 : "Psha, man, '
•what dost shrink at? here, take this coat ; I clonH
leant it; IJlnd it no way useful to me ; I had as,
lief be without it." The Frenchman began to'
show his politeness in turn. "-V/y dear friend," ^
cries he, " why wonH you oblige me by making use \
of my coat ? you see how icell it defends me from '
the rain; I should not choose to part with it to
others, but to such a friend as you I could even
jiart tcith my skin to do him service. "
From such minute instances as these, most reve-
rend Fum Hoam, I am sensible j'our sagacity will
collect instruction. The volume of nature is the
book of knowledge; and he becomes most wise,
who makes the most judicious selection. Fare-
well,
LETTER V.
To the same.
I HAVE already informed you of the singular
passion of this nation for politics. An English-
man not satisfied with finding, by his own pros-
perity, the contending powers of Europe properly
balanced, desires also to know the precise value of
every weight in either scale. To gratify this curi-
osity, a leaf of political 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 in-
crease his collection ; from thence he proceei's to
the ordinary, inquires what news, and, treas'jring
up every acquisition there, hunts about all the
evening in quest of more, and carefully adds it to
the rest. Thus at night he retires home, full of
the important advices of the day : when lo! awaking
next morning, he finds the instructions of yeterday
a collection of absurdity or palpable falsehood.
This one would think a mortifying repulse in the
pursuit of wisdom ; yet our politician, no way dis
couragcd, hunts on, in order to collect fresh ma-
terials, and in order to be again disappointed.
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 China, that a 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
neighbours.
An English dealer in this way, for instance, has
only to ascend to his workhouse, and manufacture
a turbulent speech, averred to be spoken in the
senate ; or a report supposed to be dropped at court ;
a piece of scandal that strikes at a popular manda-
rine; or a secret treaty between two neighbouring
powers. When finished, these goods are baled up,
and consigned to a factor abroad, who sends in re-
turn too 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 ex-
hibit 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 inhabi-
tants. The superstition and erroneous delicacy of
Italy, the formality of Spain, the cruelty of Portu-
gal, the fears of Austria, the confidence of Prussia,
the levity of France, the avarice of Holland, the
pride of England, the absurdity 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 description of one ; I
therefore send a specimen, which may serve to ex<
liibit the manner of their being written, and dis-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
253
tinguish 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 Lugosl, the
learned antiquary, supposes it to have been erected
in honour of Pints, a Latin King, as one of the
lines may be plainly distinguished to begin with a
P. It is hoped this discovery will produce some-
thing valuable, as the literati of our t\\'elve acade-
mies are deeply engaged in the disquisition.
Pisa. — Since Father Fudgi, prior of St. Gil-
bert's, has gone to reside at Rome, no miracles have
been performed at the shrine of St. Gilbert : the
devout begin to grow uneasy, and some begin ac-
tually to fear that St. Gilbert has forsaken them
with the reverend father.
Lucca. — The administrators of our serene re-
public have frequent conferences upon the part
they shall take in the present commotions of Eu-
rope. Some are for sending a body of their troops,
consisting of one company of foot and six horse-
men, to make a diversion in favour of the empress-
queen ; others are as strenuous assertors of the
Prussian 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-cliief, and two drummers of
great experience.
Spain. — Yesterday the new king showed him-
self to his subjects, and, after having staid half an
hour in his balcony, retired to the royal apartment.
The night concluded on this extraordinary occasion
Tvith 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 readi-
ness of her invention and her skill in rejiartce,
latel}^ at court. The Duke of Lerma coming up
to her with a low bow and a smile, and presenting
a nosegay set with diamonds. Madam, cries he, /
am your most obedient humble servant. Oh, sir,
replies the queen, without any prompter, or the
least hesitation, Tm very proud of the very great
honour you do me. Upon which she made a low
courtesy, and all the courtiers fell a-laughing at the
readiness and the smartness of her reply.
Lisbon'. — Yesterday we had an auto da fe, at
which were burned three young women, accused
of heresy, one of them of exquisite beauty; two
Jews, and an old woman, convicted of being a
witch : one of the friars, who attended tills last, re-
ports, that he saw the devil fly out of her at the
stake in the shape of a flame of fire. The popu-
lace behaved on this occasion with great good hu-
mour, joy, and sincere devotion.
Oxxr mercifid Sovereign has been for some time
past recovered of his fright : though so atrocio,..i5 an
attempt deserved to extirminate half the nation, yet
he has been graciously pleased to spare the Hveg
of his subjects, and not above five hundred 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 at-
tacked a much superior body of Prussians, put them
all to flight, and took the rest prisoners of war.
Berlin. — We have received certain advices that
a party of twenty thousand Prussians, having at-
tacked a much superior body of Austrians, put
them to flight, and took a great number 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 com-
mands us, we rest in security : while we sleep, our
king is watchful for our safety.
Paris. — We shall soon strike a signal blow.
We have seventeen flat-bottomed boats at Havre.
The people are in excellent sjiirits, and our minis-
ters 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 methods to raise the
expenses of the war.
Our distresses are great ; but Madame Pompa-
dour 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
affair of Damien, that his physicians were appre-
hensive lest his reason should suffer; but that
wretch's tortures soon composed the kingly ter-
rors of his breast.
England. — Wanted an usher to an academy.
N. B. He must be able to read, dress hair, and
must have had the small-pox.
Dublin. — AVe 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 the Padderen mare.
We hear from Germany that Prince Ferdinand
has gained a complete victory, and talien twelve
kettle-drums, five standards, and four wagons of
ammunition, prisoners of war.
Edinburgh. — We arc positive when we say that
Saunders M'Gregor, who was lately executed for
horse-stealing, is not a Scotchman, but born in
Carrickfergus. Farewell.
LETTER VL
Fum Iloam, First President of the Ceremonial Academy at
Pekin, to I^ion Chi Altangi, the Discontented Wanderer; by
the way of JSIoscow.
Whkthkr sporting on the flowery banks of the
river Irtis, or scaling the steepy mountains of
S54
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Douchenour ; whether traversing the black deserts
of Kobi, or giving lessons of politeness to the savage
inhabitants of Europe ; in whatever country, what-
ever climate, and whatever circumstances, all hail!
May Tien, the Universal Soul, take you under his
protection, and inspire you with a superior portion
of himself! _^'
How long, my friend, shall an enthusiasm for
knowledge continue to obstruct your haj)piness,
and tear you from all the connexions that make
life pleasing 1 How long will you continue to rove
from climate to climate, circled by thousands, and
yet without a friend, feeling all the inconveniencies
of a crowd, and all the anxiety of being alone 7
1 know you reply, that the refined pleasure of
growing everyday wiser, is a sufficient recompense
for every inconvenience. I know you will talk of
the vulgar satisfaction of soliciting happiness from
sensual enjoyment only ; and probably enlarge up-
on the exquisite raptures of sentimental bliss. Yet,
believe me, friend, you are deceived ; all our pleas-
ures, 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
satisfacUon, 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 senti-
mental enjoyments, seeking happiness from mind
alone, is in fact as vfrretched as the naked inhabitant
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 down the
draught of pleasure without staying to reflect on
his happiness ; and the sage, who passeth the cup
•while he reflects on the conveniencies of drink-
ing.
It is with a heart full of sorrow, my dear Altan-
gi, that I must inform you, that what the worid
calls happiness must now be yours no longer. Our
great emperor's displeasure at your leaving China,
contrary to the rules of our government, and the
immemorial custom of the empire, has produced the
most terrible eflTects. 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, wherever you
are ; he is determined to face every danger that op-
poses his pursuit. Though yet but fifteen, all his
father's virtues and ob3tinacy sparkle in his eyes,
and mark him as one destined to no mediocrity of
fortune.
You see my.aearest friend, what imprudence
has brought thee to : from opulence, a tender family,
surrounding friendsj and your master's esteem, it
has reduced thee to want, persecution, and, still
worse, to our mighty monarch's displeasure. Want
of prudence is too frequently the want of virtue ;
nor is there on earth a more powerful advocate for
vice than poverty. As I shall endeavour to guard
thee from the one, so guard thyself from the other ;
and still think of me with affection and esteem.
Farewell.
LETTER VIL
From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, first President of th*
Ceremonial Academy at Pelcin, in CliincL*
A WIFE, a daughter, carried into captivity to ex-
piate my offence ; a son, scarce yet arrived at ma-
turity, resolving to encounter every danger in the
pious pursuit of one who has undone him — these
indeed are circumstances of distress : though my
tears were more precious than the gem of Golcon-
da, yet would they tall 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
feel sorrow, says he, but not sink under its oppres-
sion. The heart of a wise man should resemble a
mirror, which reflects every object without being
sullied by any. The wheel of fortune turns in-
cessantly round ; and who can say within himself,
I shall to-day be uppermost? We should hold the
imnuitable mean that lies between insensibility and
anguish ; our attempts should not be to extinguish
nature, but to repress it ; not to stand unmoved 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 dis-
ciple 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 travellers 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 geogra-
phers, perhaps, may find profit by such discoveries ;
but what advantage can accrue to a philosopher
from such accounts, who is desirous of understand-
inff the human heart, who seeks to know the men
1
* Tlie editor thinks proper to acquaint the reader, that tho
greatest part of the following letter seems to him to be litfia
more than a rhapsody of sentences borrowed from Confuciu^
the Chinese philosopher.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
255
of every country, who desires to discover those dif- time I sliall find them more opulent, more cnari
terences which result from climate, religion, edu- table, and more hosfiitahle, than I at first imao-ined.
cation, prejudice, and partiality?
I should think my time very ill bestowed, were
the only fruits of my adventures to consist in being
able to tell, that a tradesman of London lives in a
house three times as high as that of our great Em-
peror ; 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 use-
less particulars ! For one who enters into the ge-
nius of those nations with whom he has conversed;
who discloses their morals, their opinions, the ideas
which they entertain of rfligious worship, the in-
trigues of their ministers, and their skill in sciences;
there are twenty who only mention some idle par-
ticulars, which can be of no real use to a true phi-
losopher. AH their remarks tend neither to make
themselves nor others more happy ; they no way
contribute to control their passions, to hear adver-
sity, to inspire true virtue, or raise a detestation of
vice.
Men may be very learned, and yet very miser-
able ; it is easy to be a deep geometrician, or a sub-
lime astronomer, but very difficult to be a good
man. I esteem, therefore, the traveller who in-
structs the heart, but despise hhn who only indul-
ges the imagination. A man who leaves home to
mend himself and others, is a philosopher; but he
who goes from country to country, guided by the
blind impulse of curiosity, is only a vagabond.
From Zerdusht down to him of Tyanea, I honour
all those great names who endeavour 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, whose 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 access of despair.
Farewell.
LETTER VIII.
To the same.
How insupportable, O thou possessor of heaven-
ly wisdom, would be this separation, this immeasur-
able distance from my friend, were 1 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 'ancy, that in
I begin to learn somewhat of tlieir manners and
customs, and to see reasons for several deviations
which they make from us, from whom all other
nations derive their politeness, as well as their
original.
In spite of taste, in spite of prejudice, I now be-
gin to think their women tolerable. I can novr
look on a languishing blue eye without disgust, ajjd
pardon a set of teeth, even though whiter thaa
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 com-
pensated 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 still they have souls, my
friend ; such souls, so free, so pressing, so hospi-
table, and so engaging. — I have received more in-
vitations 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
well-disposed daughters of hospitality, at different
times, and in different 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 honours of the coun-
try by every act of complaisance in their power.
One takes me under the arm, and in a manner
forces me along; another catches me round the
neck, and desires to partake in this office of hospi-
tality; while a third, kinder still, invites me to re-
fresh my spirits with wine. Wine is in England
reserved osily for the rich : yet here even wine is
given away to the stranger !
A few nights ago, one of these generous crea-
tures, 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 indeed she might, for I
have hired an apartment for not less than two shil
lings of their money every week. But her civility
did not rest here ; for at parting, being desirous to
know the hour, and perceiving my watch out of
order, she kindly took it to be repaired by a rela-
tion of her own, which you may imagine will save
some expense: and she assures me, that it will cost
licr nothing. I shall have it back in a few dav*
S56
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
when mended, and am preparing a proper speech,
expressive of my gratitude on the occasion : Ce-
lestial excellence, I intend to say, happy J am in
having found out, after many painful adventures,
a land of innocence, and a people of humanity : 1
may rove into other climes, and converse with na-
tions yet unknown, but 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. Thy ser-
vant 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, therefore, relax into my
former indifference with regard to the English la-
dies ; they once more begin to appear disagreeable
in my eyes. Thus is my whole time passed in
forming conclusions which the next minute's ex-
perience may probably destroy; the present mo-
ment 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 concludeil
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 Chi-
nese, who.'se religion allows him two wives, takes
not half the liberties of the English in this particu-
lar. Their laws may be compared to the books of
the Sibyls ; they are held in great veneration, but
seldom read, or seldom are understood ; even those
■who pretend to be their guardians, dispute about
the meaning of many of them, and confess their
ignorance 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
eome glory in its violation. They seem to think,
like the Persians, that they give evident marks of
manhood by increasing their seraglio. A manda-
rine, therefore, here generally keeps four wives, a
gentleman three, and a stage-player two. As for
d^e magistrates, the country justices and 'sq^uires,
they are employed first in debauching young vtt-
gins, and then punishing the transgression.
From 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 ho
who is contented with one ; that a mandarine is
much cleverer than a gentleman, and a gentleman
than a player ; and yet it is quite the reverse : a
mandarine is frequently supported 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 liis wives being the most equivocal
symptom of his virility.
Beside the country 'squire, there is also another
set of men, whose whole employment consists in
corrupting beauty ; these, the silly part of the fair
sex call amiable ; the more sensible part of them,
however, give them the title of abominable. You
will probably demand what are the talents of a
man thus caressed by the majority of the opposite
sex ? what talents, or what beauty is he possessed
of superior to the rest of his fellows 1 To answer
you directly, he has neither talents nor beauty; but
then he is possessed of impudence and assiduity.
With assiduity and impudence, men of all ages,
and all figures, may commence admirers. I have
even been told of some wh,o made professions of
expiring for love, when all the world could perceive
they were going to die of old age : and what is
mere surprising still, such battered beaux are ge-
nerally most infamously successful.
A fellow of tliis kind employs three hours every
morning in dressing his head, by which is under-
stood only his hair.
He is a professed admirer, not of any particular
lady, but of the whole sex.
He is to suppose every lady has caught cold
every night, which gives him an opportunity of
calling to see how she does the next morning.
He is upon all occasions to show 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.
Upon proper occasions, he looks excessively
tender. This is performed by laying his hand upon
his heart, shutting his eyes and showing 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, affect-
ing 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.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
S57
Such is the killing creature who prostrates him-
self to the sex till he has undone them: all whose
submissions are the effects of design, and who to
please the ladies ahnost becomes himself a lady.
LETTER X.
To the Same.
I HAVE 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 solitude ;
countries, from whence tlie rigorous climate, the
sweeping inuudation, the drifted desert, the howl-
ing forrest and mountains of immeasurable height,
banish the husbandman and spread extensive de-
solation ; countries, where the brown Tartar wan-
ders for a precarious subsistence, with a heart that
never felt 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
dangerous by its inhabitants ; the retreat of men
who seem driven from society, in order to make
war upon all the human race ; nominally professing
a subjection to Muscovy or China, but without
any resemblance to the countries on which they
dejiend.
After I had crossed the great wall, the first ob-
jects that presented themselves were the remains
of desolated cities, and all the magnificence of ve-
nerable ruin. There were to be seen temples of
beautiful structure, 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
might humble the pride of kings, and repress hu-
man vanity. I asked my guide tiic cause of such
desolation. These countries, says he, were once
the dominions of a Tartar Prince ; and these ruins,
the seat of arts, elegance and case. This prince
waged an unsuccessful war with one of the empe-
rors of China : he was conquered, his cities plun-
dered, and all his subjects carried into captivity.
Such are the effects of the ambition of Kings !
Ten Dervises, says the Indian Proverb, shall sleep
in peace upon a single carpet, while two Kings
is all 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 journey 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 Eurojie, scarcely deserves
the name. The governors, and other olhcers, who
17
are sent yearly from Pekin, abuse their authority,
and often take the wives and daughters of the in-
habitants to themselves. The Daures, accustomed
to base submission, feel no resentment at those in-
juries, or stifle what they feel. Custom and ne-
cessity teach even barbarians the same art of dis-
simulation that ambition and intrigue inspire in the
breasts of the polite. Upon beholding such un-
licensed 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 ex-
pect redress. The more distant the government,
the honester should be the governor to whom it is
intrusted ; for hope of impunity is a strong induce-
ment to violation.
The religion of the Daures is more absurd than
even that of the sectaries of Fohi. How would
you be surprised, O sage disciple and follower of
Confucius ! you who believe one eternal intelligent
Cause of all, should you be present at the barbarous
ceremonies of this infatuated people ! How would
you deplore the blindness 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 1 they adore
a wicked divinity; they fear him 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 all the people pour forth the most hor-
rid cries, while drums and timbrels swell the in-
fernal concert. After tliis dissonance, miscalled
music, has continued about two hours, the priest
rises from the ground, assumes an air of inspira-
tion, grows big with the inspiring demon, and pre-
tends to a skill in futurity.
In every country, my friend, the bonzes, the
brahmins, and the priests, deceive the people : ail
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 their
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 liim different sorts of meats ; which when
they perceive he does not consume, they fill up the
grave, and desist from desiring him to eat for the
future. How, how can mankind be guilty of such
strange absurdity ? to entreat a dead body, already
jnitrid, to partake of the banquet! Where, I again
repeat it, is human reason? not only some men,
but whole nations, seem divested of its illumina
tion. Here we observe a whole country adoring a
divinity through fear, and attempting to feed the
253
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
dead. These are their most serious and most re-
ligious occupations ; are these men rational, or are
not the apes of Borneo more wise!
Certain I am, O thou instructor of my youth!
that witliout philosophers, without some few vir-
tuous men, who seem to be of a different nature
from the rest of mankind, without such as these,
the worship of a wicked divinity would surely be
established over every part of the earth. Fear
guides more to their duty than gratitude : 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 vil-
lain, they would no longer continue to acknowledge
subordination, or thank that Being who gave them
existence. Adieu.
LETTER XL
To the same.
From such a picture of nature in primeval siin
plicity, tell me, my much respected 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 luxury and dissimula-
tion of the polite ! Rather tell me, has not every
kind of life vices peculiarly its own? Is it not a
truth, that refined countries have more vices, but
those not so terrible; barbarous nations few, and
they of the most hideous complexion 1 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 luxury have but
little understood its benefits; they seem insensible,
that to luxury we owe not only the greatest part of
oar knowledge, but even of our virtues.
It may sound fine in the mouth of a declaimer,
•when he talks of subduing our appetites, of teach-
ing 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 ajj-
petites, if with innocence and safety, than in re-
straining them? Am not I better pleased in en-
joyment, than in the sullen satisfaction of thinking
that 1 can live without enjoyment? The more
various our artificial necessities, the wider is our
circle of pleasure ; for all pleasure consists in obvi-
ating necessities as they rise : luxury, therefore, as
it increases o* -wants, increases our capacity for
liappiness.
Examine the history of any country remarkable
for opulence and wisdom, you will find they would c^tv,
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 know-
ledge, when we find it connected with sensual hap-
piness. 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 satisfac-
tion at all in the information ; he wonders how any
could take such pains, and lay out such treasures,
in order to solve so useless a difficulty : but connect
it with his happiness, by showing that it improves
navigation, that by such an investigation he may
have a warmer coat, a better gun, or a finer knife,
and he is instantly in raptures at so great an im-
provement. In short, we only desire to know wliat
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
improved by luxury. Observe the brown savage
of Thibet, to whom the fruits of the spreading
pomegranate supply food, and its branches a habi-
tation. 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 his
eye ; neither pity nor tenderness, which ennoble
every virtue, have any place in his heart ; he hates
his enemies, and kills those he subdues. On the
other hand, the polite Chinese and civilized Euro-
pean seem even to love their enemies. I have just
now seen an instance where the English have suc-
coured those enemies whom their own countrymen
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 dififer-
ent 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 luxu-
ry, whether as employing a number of hands,
naturally too feeble for more laborious employment}
as finding a variety of occupation for others who
might be totally idle ; or as furnishing out new in
lets 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 sen-
timent of Confucius still remains unshaken, That
we should enjoy as many of the luxuries oj" life at
are consistent with our own safety, and the pros-
perity of others ; and that he who finds out a new
pleasure is one of the most useful members of so-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
259
LETTER XII.
To the same.
Prom the funeral solemnities of the Daures, who
think themselves the politest 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 which are 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 approach-
ing sickness, and you will find his 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 funeral. A poor artisan shall spend
half his income in providing himself a tomb twenty
years before he wants it ; and denies himself the
necessaries of hfe, that he may be amply provided
for when he shall want them no more.
But people of distinction in England really de-
serve 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, the 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 entreat him to
make his will, as it may restore the tranquillity of
his mind. He is desired to undergo the rites of the
church, for decency requires it. His friends take
their leave only because they do not care to see him
in pain. In short, a hundred stratagems are used
to make him do what he might have been induced
to perform only by being told, Sir, you arepasi nil
hopes, and had as good think decently of dying.
Besides 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 ser-
vants, and the sighs of friends. The bed is sur-
rounded with priests and doctors in black, and only
flambeaux emit a yellow gloom. Where is the
man, how intrepid soever, that would not shrink
at such a hideous solemnity? For fear of affright-
ing their expiring friends, the English practise all
that can fill them with terror. Strange eflect of
human prejudice, thus to torture, merely from mis-
taken tenderness!
You sec, my friend, what contradictions there
are in the tempers of those islanders : when prompt-
ed by ambition, revenge, or disappointment, they
meet death with the utmost resolution : the v-ery
man who in his bed would have trembled at the
tack a bastion, or deliberately noose liimself up in
his garters.
The passion of the Europeans for magnificent
interments, is equally strong with that of the Chi-
nese. 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 Ufe 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
he in state ; and thus unknowingly gibbeted himself
into infamy, when he might have, otherwise, quietly
retired into oblivion.
When the person is buried, the next care is t(i
make his epitaph: they are generally reckoned best
which flatter most; such relations, therefore, as
have received most benefits from the defunct, dis-
charge this friendly office, and generally flatter in
proportion to their joy. When we read those
monumental histories of the dead, it may be just-
ly said, that all men are equal in the dust; for,
tliey all appear equally remarkable for being the
most sincere Christians, the most benevolent neigh-
bours, and the honestest men of their time. To
go through a 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 wish-
ed, that every man would early learn in this man-
ner to make his own ; that he would draw it up in
terms as flattering as possible, and that he would
make it the employment of his whole hfe to de-
serve it.
I have not yet been in a place called Westmin-
ister 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 buried there,
but such as have adorned as well as improved man-
kind. There, no intruders, by the influence of
friends or fortune, presume to mix their unhallow-
ed ashes with philosophers, heroes, and poets. No-
thing but true merit has a place in that awful sane
tuary. The guardianship of the tombs is commit-
aspect of a doctor, shall go with intrepidity to at- 1 ted to several reverend priests, wlv are never guilty
260
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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 can not know, or shall blush
to own.
I always was of opinion, that sepulchral ho-
nours of this kind should be considered as a na-
tional concern, and not trusted to the care of the
priests of any country, how respectable soever ; but
from the conduct of the reverend personages, whose
disinterested patriotism I shall shortly be able to
discover, I am taught to retract my former senti-
ments. It is true, the Spartans and the 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. A monu-
ment thus became a real mark of distinction ; it
nerved the hero's arm with tenfold vigour, and he
fought without fear who only fought for a grave.
Farewell.
LETTER XIII.
From the Same.
I AM just returned from Westminster Abbey,
the place of sepulture for the philosophers, heroes,
and kings of England. What a gloom do monu-
mental inscriptions, and all the venerable remains
of deceased merit, inspire! Imagine a temple
marked with the hand of antiquity, solemn as reli-
gious awe, adorned with all the magnificence of
barbarous profusion, dim windows, fretted pillars,
long colonades, and dark ceilings. Think, then,
what were my sensations at being introduced to
Buch 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 im-
mortality, 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, perceiving me to be a stranger,
came up, entered into conversation, and politely
offered to be my instructor and guide through the
temple. If any monument, said he, should par-
ticularly excite your curiosity, I shall endeavour to
satisfy your demands. I accepted with thanks the
gentleman's offer, adding, that " I was come to ob-
serve the policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the
English, in conferring rewards upon deceased
merit. If adulation like this (continued I) be pro-
perly conducted, as it can no ways injure those who
are flattered, 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 monu-
mental pride to its own advantage ; to become
strong in the aggregate from the weakness of the
individual. If none but the truly 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
impatient 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 ob-
jects, I could not avoid being particularly curious
about one monument, which appeared more beau-
tiful than the rest : that, said I to my guide, I take
to be the tomb of some very great man. By the
peculiar excellence of the workmanship, and the
magnificence ef 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 re-
duced his fellow-citizens from anarchy into just
subjection. It is not requisite, replied my com-
panion, smiUng, to have such qualifications in
order to have a very fine monument here. More
humble abilities will suffice. What ! I suppose,
then, the gaining two or three battles, or the taking
half a score of towns, is thought a sufficint quali/-
fication ? Gaining battles, or taking towns, re-
phed the man in black, may be of service ; but a
gentleman may have a very fine monument here
without ever seeing a battle or a siege. This,
then, is the monument of some poet, I presume, oj
one whose xcit has gained him immortality 7 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 in a word, said I peevishly, what is the
great man who lies here particularly remarkable
for 7 Remarkable, sir ! said my companion ; why
sir, the gentleman that lies here is remarkable,
very remarkable — for a tomb in Westminster Ab-
bey. But, head my ancestors! how has he got
here 7 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 like infamy ? I sup-
pose, 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 believed them ;
the guardians of the temple, as they got by the
self-delusion, were ready to believe him too ; so he
paid his money for a fine monument ; and the
workman, as you see, has made him one 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 th«
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
261
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 gentleman, pointing with
his finger, that is the poet's corner ; there you see
the monuments of Shakspeare, and Milton, and
Prior, and Drayton. Drayton ! 1 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 ;
peo[)le 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 instructing
Us fellow-creatures 1 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 re-
putation by the sheet ; they somewhat resemble the
eunuchs in a seraglio, who are incapable of giving
pleasure themselves, and hinder those that would.
These answerers have no other employment but
to cry out Dunce, and Scribbler ; to praise the
dead, and revile the living; to grant a man of con-
fessed abilities some small share of merit ; to ap-
plaud twenty blockheads in order to gain the repu-
tion of candour; and to revile the moral character
of the man whose writings they can not injure.
Such wretches are kept in pay by some mercenary
bookseller, or more frequently the bookseller him-
self 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 ene-
mies ; he feels, though he seems to despise, their
malice ; they make him miserable here, and in tlie
pursuit of empty fame, at last he gains solid anxi-
ety.
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 man-
darine. If he has much money, he may buy repu-
tation from your book-answerers, as well as a monu-
ment from the guanhans of the temple.
But are there not some men of distinguished
taste, as in China, icho are trilling to patronise
men of merit, and soften the rancour of malevo-
lent 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 [latron 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
further ceremony, and was going to enter, when a
person, who held the gate in lus hand, told me I
must pay first. I was surprised 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 1 whether it was not
more to the honour of the country to let their mag-
nificence or their antiquities be ojienly seen, than
thus meanly to tax a curiosity which tended to
their own honour? As for your questions, replied
the gate-keeper, to be sure they may be very right,
because I don't understand them; but, as for that
there threepence, I farm it from one, — who rents
it from another, — who hires it from a third, — 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 la
this I was disappointed; there was little more
vi'ithin 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 per-
son attended us, who, without once blushing, told
a hundred lies : he talked of a lady who died by
pricking her finger ; of a king with a golden head,
and twenty such pieces of absurdity. Look ve
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 : }'ou see also a
stone underneath, and that stone is Jacob's pillow.
I could see no curiosity cither in the oak chair or
the stone : could I, indeed, liehold one of the old
kings of England seated in this, or Jacob's head
laid upon the other, there might be something cu-
rious in the sight ; but in the present case there waq
no more reason for my surprise, than if I should
pick a stone from their streets, and call it a curiosi-
ty, merely because one of the kings happened to
tread upon it as he passed in a procession.
From hence our conductor led us through several
dark walks and winding ways, uttering lies, talking
to himself, and flourishing a wand which he held
in his hand. He reminded me of the black magi-
cians of Kobi. After we had been almost flitigued
with a variety of objects, he at last desired me to
consider attentively a certain suit of armour, which
seemed to show nothing remarkable. This ar-
mour, said he, belonged to General Monk. Very
surprising that a general should wear armour.
And pray, added he, observe this cap, this is Gene-
ral Monk's cap. Very strange indeed, vcri/
strange, that a general should have a cap also!
Pray, friend, what might this cap hare cost ori-
ginally? That, sir, says he, I don't know ; but this
cap is all the wages I have for my trouble. A very
small recompense truly, said I. Not so very small,
replied he, for every gentleman jiuts some money
into it, and I spend the money. T^'Tiat, more mo-
ney! still more money! Every gentleman gives
something, sir. I'll give thee nothing, returned I •
262
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the guardians of the temple should pay you your
wages, friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus
from every s])ectator. When we pay our money
fet the door to see a show, we never give more as
we are going out. Sure, the guardians of the tem-
ple can never think they get enough. Show me
the gate ; if I stay longer, I may probably meet with
more of those ecclesiastical beggars.
Thus leaving the temple precipitately, I returned
to my lodgings, in order to ruminate over what was
great, and to despise what was mean in the occur-
rences of the day.
LETTER XIV.
From the Same.
I W.4S some days ago agreeably surprised by a
message from a lady of distinction, who sent me
word, that she most passionately desired the plea-
sure of my acquaintance; and, with the utmost
iitipatience, expected an interview. I will not deny,
my dear Fum Hoam, but that my vanity was raised
at such an invitation : I flattered myself that she
had seen me in some public place, and had con-
ceived an affection for my person, which thus in-
duced her to deviate from the usual decorums of
the sex. My imagination 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 rechned on a
sofa, who nodded by way of approbation at my ap-
proach. This, as I was afterwards informed, was
the lady herself, a woman equally distinguished for
rank, pohteness, taste, and understanding. As I
was dressed after the fashion of Europe, she had
taken me for an Englishman, and consequently sa-
luted me in her ordinary manner : but when the
footman informed her grace that I was the gentle-
man 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 unu-
sual share of somethingness in his whole appear-
ance ! Lord, how I am charmed with the outlandish
cut of his face ! how bewitching the exotic breadth
of his forehead ! I would give the world to see him
m his own country dress. Pray turn about, sir,
and let me see you behind. There, there's a tra-
vell'd air for you ! You that attend there, bring up
a plate of beef cut into small pieces ; I have a violent
passion to see him eat. Pray, sir, have you got
your chop-sticks about you? 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 nothing
pretty from China about you ; something that one
does not know what to do with 1 I have got twenty
things from China that are of no use in the world.
Look at those jars, they are of the right pea-green*
these are 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 use-
ful 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. Ctuite empty and useless,
upon my honour, 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 sup-
pose you hold my two beautiful pagods in con-
tempt. What ! cried I, has Fohi spread his gross
superstitions here also! Pagods of all kinds are
my aversion. A Chinese traveller, and want taste!
it surprises me. Pray, sir, examine the 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 tem-
ple ;for that little building in view is as like the
one as toother. What ! sir, is not that a Chinese
temple ? you must surely be mistaken. Mr. Freeze,
who designed it, calls it one, and nobody disputes
his pretensions to taste. I now found it vain to
contradict the lady in any thing she thought fit to
advance; so was resolved rather to act the disciple
than the instructor. She took me through several
rooms all furnished, as she told me, in the Chinese
manner ; sprawling dragons, squatting pagods, and
clumsy mandarines, were stuck upon 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 re-
semble a knight in an enchanted castle, who ex
pects to meet an adventure at every turning. But,
madam, said I, do not accidents ever happen to all
this finery 7 Man, sir, replied the lady, is born to
misfortunes, and it is but fit I should have a share.
Three weeks ago, a careless servant snapped off
the head of a favourite mandarine : I had scarce
done grieving for that, when a monkey broke a
beautiful jar; this I took the more to heart, as the
injury was done me by a friend ! However, I sur-
vived the calamity ; when yesterday crash went
half a dozen dragons upon the marble hearthstone •
and yet I live ; I survive it all : you can't conceive
what comfort I find under afiiictions from philoso-
phy. There is Seneca and BoUngbroke, and soma
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
2r^
ethers, who guide me through Ufe, and teach me to
support its calamities. — 1 could not but smile at a
woman who makes her own misfortunes, and then
deplores the miseries of her situation. Wherefore,
tired of 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, pur-
suant to the directions of his mistress. Adieu.
LETTER XV
r
From the same.
The better sort here pretend to the utmost com-
passion for animals of every kind : to hear them
epeak, 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 would
take them for the harmless friends of the whole
creation ; the protectors of the meanest insect or
reptile that was privileged with existence. And
yet (would you believe it ?) I have seen the very
men who have thus boasted of their tenderness, at
the same time devouring the flesh of six different
animals tossed up in a fricassee. Strange contra-
riety of conduct! they pity, and they eat the ob-
jects of their compassion ! The lion roars with ter-
ror over its captive ; the tiger sends forth its hideous
shriek to intimidate its prey; no creature shows
any fondness for its short-hved prisoner, except a
man and a cat.
Man was born to live with innocence and sim-
plicity, but he has deviated from nature; he was
born to share the bounties of heaven, but he has
monopolized them ; he was born to govern the brute
creation, but he is become their tyrant. If an epi-
cure 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,
honest brahmins of the East; ye inofl'ensive friends
of all that were born to happiness as well as you;
you never sought a short-lived pleasure 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 purifi-
ed and refined are all your sensations than ours! you
distinguish every element with the utmost precision;
a stream untasted before is new luxury, a change
of air is a new banquet, too refined for Western
imaginations to conceive.
Though the Europeans do not hold the transmi-
gration of souls, yet one of their doctors has, with
great force of argument, and great plausibility of
reasoning, endeavoured to prove, that the bodies
of animals are the habitations of demons and wicked
spirits, which are obliged to reside in these prisons
till the resurrection pronounces their e\erlasting
punishment ; but are previously condemned to suf-
fer all the pains and hardships inflicted upon them
by man, or by each 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 excruciat-
ing tortures, and are serving him up to the very table
where he was once the most welcome companion.
"Kabul," says the Zcndevesta, "was born on
the rushy banLs of the river Mawra ; his posses-
sions were great, and his luxuries kept pace with
the affluence of his fortune ; he hated the harmless
brahmins, and des])ised their holy religion ; every
day his table was decked out with the flesh of a
hundred different animals, and his cooks had a
hundred difl'erent ways of dressing it, to solicit even
satiety.
" Notwithstanding all his eating, he did not ar-
rive at old age ; he died of a surfeit, caused by in-
temperance : 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
liis judges.
" He trembled before a tribunal, to every mem-
ber of which he had formerly acted as an unmer-
ciful 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 wor-
thy of coming once to his table. Were my advice
followed, he should do penance in the shape of a
hog, which in life he most resembled.
" I am rather, cries a sheep upon the bench, for
having him sutler 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 cal^
he should rather assume such a form as mine ; 1
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 go-
ing to condemn him without further delay, when
the ox rose up to give his opinion : I am informed,
says this counsellor, that the prisoner at the bar
has left a wife with child behind him. By my know-
ledge in divination, I foresee that this chdd will be
a son, decrepit, feeble, sickly, a plague to himself
and all about him. What say you, then, my com-
panions, if we condemn the father to animate the
body of his own son ; and by this means make him
feel in himself those miseries his intemperance must
otherwise have entailed upon his posterity? The
whole court applauded the ingenuity of his torture
they tlianked him for Iiis advice. Kabul wai
264
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
driven once more to revisii the earth; and his soul
m the body of his own son, passed a period of thirty
vears, loaded with misery, anxiety, and disease."
LETTER XVI.
From 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 allowed to be a man,
and placed at the head of the church ; in England,
however, they plainly prove him 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 nei-
ther? When I survey the absurdities and false-
hoods 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.
The 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 their religion, filled with the most
monstrous fables, and attested 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 with. I shall
confine myself to the accounts which some of their
lettered men give of the persons of some of the in-
habitants on our globe : and not satisfied with the
most solemn asseverations, they sometimes pre-
tend to have been eye-witnesses of what they de-
Bcribe.
A Christian doctor, in one of his principal per-
formances,* says, that it was not impossible for a
•whole nation to have but one eye in the middle of
the forehead. He is not satisfied with leaving it
in doubt; but in another work,1- assures us, that
the fact was certain, and that he himself was an
eye-witness of it. When, says he, / took a journey
into Ethiopia, in company with several other ser-
vants of Christ, in order to preach the gospel there,
I beheld, in the southern provinces of that country,
a nation which had only one eye in the midst of
their foreheads.
You will no doubt be surprised, reverend Fum,
With this author's efi;rontery ; but, alas! he is not
alone in this story : he has only borrowed it from
aeveral others who wrote before him. Solinus
' Augustin. de Civit. Dei, lili. xvi. p. 422.
1 Augustin. ad frau-es in Eremo, Serm. xxiviL
creates another nation of Cyclops, the Arimaspian^
who mhabit those countries that border on th»
Caspian 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 swift-
ness, and live by hunting. These people we
scarcely know how to pity or admire : but the men
whom Pliny calls Cynamolci, who have got the
heads of dogs, really deserve our compassion; in-
stead of language, they express their sentiments
by barking. Sohnus confirms what Plinv men-
tions; and Simon Mayole, a French bishop, talks
of them as of particular and familiar acquaintances.
After passing the deserts of Egypt, says he, ue
meet with 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 resem-
bles that of a greyhound ; and they excel in swift-
ness and agility. Would you think it, my friend,
that these odd kind of people are, notwithstanding
their figure, excessively delicate; not even an alder-
man's wife, or Chinese mandarine, can excel them
m this particular. These people, continues our
faithful bishop, never refuse wine; love roast and
boiled meat: they are particularly curious in hav-
ing 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
xcith 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 con-
fess, a little extraordinary. Did ever the disciples
of Fohi broach any thing more ridiculous?
Hitherto we have seen men with heads strange-
ly deformed, and with dogs' heads; but what would
you say if you heard of men without any heads at all7
Pomponius Mela, Solinus, and Aulus Gellius, de-
scribe them to our hand : " The BlemiiE 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 an-
tipathy to the human form, and were resolved to
make a new figure of their own : but let us do them
justice. Though they sometimes deprive us of a
leg, an arm, a head, or some such trifling part of
the body, they often as liberally bestow upon us
something that we wanted 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 Eng-
lish of his time, which is not more than a hundred
years ago, as having tails. His own words are as
follow : In England there are some families which
have tails, as a punishment for deriding an Au-
gust in friar sent by St. Gregory, and who preach-
ed in Dorsetshire. They sewed the tails of differ-
eM animals to his clothes; but soon they found
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
265
tkat those tails entailed on them and their posteri-
ty/or ever. It is certain that the author had some
ground for this description. Many of the Enghsh
wear tails to their wigs to this very day, as a mark,
I suppose, of tiie antiquity of their famiUes, and
perhaps as a symbol of those tails with which they
were formerly distinguished by nature.
You see, my friend, there is nothing so ridicu-
lous that has not at some time been said by some
philosopher. The writers of booksin Europe seem
to think themselves authorized to say what they
please; and an ingenious philosopher among them*
has openly asserted, that he would undertake to
persuade the whole republic of readers to believe,
that the sun was neither the cause of light nor heat,
if he could only get six philosophers on liis side.
Farewell.
LETTER XVII.
From ihe same.
Were an Asiatic politician to read the treaties
of peace and friendship that have been annually
making for more than a hundred years among the
inhabitants of Europe, he would probably be sur-
prised how it should ever happen that Christian
princes could quarrel among each other. Their
compacts for peace are drawn up with the utmost
precision, and ratified with the greatest solemnity ;
to these each party promises a sincere and in-
violable obedience, and all wears the appearance of
open friendship and unreserved reconciliation.
Yet, notwithstanding those treaties, the people
of Europe are almost continually at war. There
is nothing more easy than to break a treaty ratified
in all the usual forms, 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 premeditated reprisal ; this brings
on a return of greater 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 them-
selves 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 excessive-
ly irritated, and all upon account of one side's de-
siring to wear greater (quantities oijurs than the
other. • • ,
* Funtenelle.
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 possession for time immemorial. The savages
of Canada claim a property in the country in dis.
pute ; they have all the pretensions which long pos-
session can confer. Here they had reigned for
ages without rivals in dominion, and knew no ene-
mies but the prowling bear or insidious tiger; their
native forests produced all the necessaries of life,
and they found ample luxury in the enjoyment. 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 was found that furs were things very
much wanted in England ; the ladies edged some
of their clothes with furs, and mufTs were worn both
by gentlemen and ladies. In short, furs were found
indispensably necessary for the happiness of the
state ; and the king was consequently petitioned to
grant, not only 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
compUed 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 mulls 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 nut his to give.
Wherever the French landed they called the coun-
try their own ; and the English took possession
wherever they came, upon the same equitable pre-
tensions. The harmless savages made no opposi-
tion ; and, could the intruders have agreed together,
they might peaceably have shared this desolate
country between them ; but they quarrelled about
the boundaries of their settlements, about grounds
and rivers to which neither side could show any
other right than that of power, and which neither
could occupy but by usurpation. Such is the con-
test, that no honest man can heartily wish success
to either party.
The war has continued for some time with va-
rious success. At first the French seemed victo-
rious ; 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 contrary, both parties must be
heartily tired, to effect even a temporary reconcilia-
tion. It should seem the business of the victorious
party to oiler terms of peace ; but there are many
in England who, encouraged by success, are for
still protracting the war.
The best English jwlitieians, however, are sen-
I sible, that to kvep their present com^uests w«uld b«
266
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
rather a jurdei. 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 consti-
tution : if the iimbs 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 inde-
pendent also ; thus subordination is destroyed, and
a country swallowed up 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 colo-
nies into this late acquisition, for peopling the de-
serts of America with the refuse of their country-
men, and (as they express it) with the waste of an
exuberant nation. But who are those unhappy
creatures who are to be thus drained away 1 Kot
the sickly, for they are unwelcome guests abroad as
well as at home ; nor the idle, for they would
starve as well behind the Apalachian 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 country at home,
of men who ought to be regarded as the sinews of
the people, and cherished with every degree of po-
litical indulgence. And what are the commodi-
ties which this colony, when established, arc to
produce in return 1 why, raw silk, hemp, and to-
bacco. England, therefore, must make an ex-
change 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
snufl" and a silk petticoat. Strange absurdity !
Sure the politics of the Daures are not more strange
who sell their religion, their wives, and their liber-
ty, for a glass bead, or a paltry penknife. Fare-
well.
LETTER XVII.
From the Same.
The English love their wives with much pas-
sbn, the Hollanders with much prudence ; the
English, when they give their hands, frequently
give their hearts; the Dutch give the hand but
keep the heart wisely in their own possession.
The English love witn violence, and expect vio-
lent love in return ; the Dutch are satisfied with
thr slightest acknowledgment, for they give little
awav. The English expend many of the matri-
monial comforts in the first year ; the Dutch fru-
gally husband out their pleasures, and are always
constant because they are always indiilerent.
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 Para-
dise behind the curtain ; and Yiffrow is not more
a goddess on the wedding-night, than after twenty
years matrimonial acquaintance. On theother hand
many of the English marry in order to have one
haj)py month in their lives ; they seem incapable
of looking beyond that period ; they unite in hopes
of finding rapture, and disappointed in that, dis-
dain ever to accept of happiness. From hence we
see open hatred ensue ; or what is worse, concealed
disgust under the appearance of fulsome endear-
ment. 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 1 am taught, whenever I see a new-
married couple more than ordinarily fond before
faces, to consider them as attempting to impose
upon the comjiany 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 hap
piness to bestow. Love, when founded in the
heart, will show itself in a thousand unpremedi-
tated sallies of fondness ; but every cool deliberate
exhibition of the passion, only argues little under-
standing, or great insincerity.
Choang was the fondest husband, and Hansi,
the most endearing wife in all the kingdom of Ko-
rea: they were a pattern of conjugal bliss ; the in
habitants 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, showing
every mark of mutual satisfaction, embracing,
kissing, their mouths were forever 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 no-
thing could interrupt their mutual peace ; when
an accident happened, which, in some measure,
diminished 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
(being clothed all over in white), fanning the wet
clay that was raised over one of the graves with a
large fan which she held in her hand. Choang,
who had early been taught wisdom in the school
of Lao, was unable to assign a cause for her pre-
sent employment : and coming up civilly demanded
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
267
tlie reason. Alas ! replied the lady, her eyes
bathed in tears, how is it possible to survive the
loss of rny husband, who lies buried in this grave !
he was the best of men, the tenderest of husbands;
with his dying breath he l)id me 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 em-
ployed two whole days in fulfilling his commands,
and am determined not to marry till they are punc-
tually obeyed, even though his grave should take
up four days in drying.
Choang, who was struck with the widow's beau-
ty, could not, however, avoid smiling at her haste
to be married; but concealing the cause of his
mirth, civilly invited her home, adding, that he had
a wife who might be capable of giving her some
consolation. As soon as he and his guest were re-
turned, he imparted to Hansi in private what he
had seen, and could not avoid expressing his unea-
siness, that such might be his own case if his dear-
est 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
chiJe his suspicions ; the widow herself was in-
veighed against ; and Hansi declared, she was re-
solved never to sleep under the same roof with a
wretcli, who, Uke her, could be guilty of such bare-
faced inconstancy. The night was cold and stormy ;
however, 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 honourable seat at supper, and the wine
began to circulate with great freedom. Choang
and Hansi exhibited open marks of mutual tender-
ness, and unfeigned reconciliation : nothing could
equal their apparent happiness ; so fond a husband,
so obedient a wife, few could behold without re-
gretting their own infelicity : when, lo ! their hap-
piness was at once disturbed by a most fatal acci-
dent. Choang fell lifeless in an apoplectic fit upon
the floor. Every method was used, but in vain, for
pis recovery. Hansi was at first inconsolable for
his death: after some hours, however, she found
spirits to read his last will. The ensuing day, she
began to moralize and talk wisdom ; the next day,
she was able to conifc)rt 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 apart-
ments ; the body of Choang was now thrust into an
old coffin, and placed in one of the meanest rooms,
tliere to lie unattended until the tune 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 3
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 approach-
ing happiness ; the apartments were brightened up
with lights that diffused the most exquisite per-
fume, and a lustre more bright than noon-day.
The lady expected her youthful lover in an inner
apartment with impatience ; when his servant, ajv
proaching with terror in his countenanc** iformed
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 applied 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 coffin where Choang
lay, resolving to apply the heart of her dead hus-
band as a cure for the living. She therefore struck
the hd with the utmost violence. In & few blows
the coffin flew open, when the body, which to all
appearance had been dead, began to move. Ter-
rified at the sight, Hansi dropped the mattock, and
Choang walked out, astonished at his ov/n situa-
tion, his wife's unusual magnificence, and her more
amazing surprise. He went among the apart-
ments, unable to conceive the cause of so much
splendour. He was not long in suspciise 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
information, or to reproach her infidelity. But she
prevented liis reproaches : he found her weltering
in blood ; for she had stabbed herself to the heart,
being unable to survive her shame and disappoint-
ment.
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
coffin 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 beforehand, they knew how to excuse them
after marriage. They lived together for many
years in great tranquillity, and not expjcting rap-
ture, made a shift to find contentment. Farewell.
LETTER XIX. , , ' ,
To the Same.'
The gentleman dressed in black, who was my
companion tliiough "Westminster Abbey, came yes*
iC8
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
terday to pay me a visit ; and after drinking tea, vc
both resolved to take a walk together, in order to en-
joy the freshness of the country, which now begins
to resume its verdure. Before we got out of the
suburbs, however, we 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 understood. The people were
highly pleased with the dispute, which, upon in-
quiry, we found to be between Dr. Cacafogo, an
apothecary, and his wife. The doctor, it seems,
coming unexpectedly 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 flagrant insult, imme-
diately flew to the chimney-piece, and taking down
a rusty blunderbuss, drew the trigger upon the de-
filer of his bed : the delinquent 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 quar-
rel without a second. He was furious, and she
loud ; their noise had gathered all the mob, who
charitably assembled on the occasion, not to pre-
vent, but to enjoy the quarrel.
Alas ! said 1 to my companion, what will become
of this unhappy creature thus caught in adultery 7
Believe me, I pity her from my heart ; her hus-
band, I suppose, will show her no mercy. Will
they burn her as in India, or behead her as in Per-
sia? Will they load her with stripes as in Tur-
key, or keep her in perpetual imprisonment as
with us in China? Prithee, what is the wife's
punishment in England for such offences 7 When
a lady is thus caught tripping, replied my com-
panion, they never punish her, but the husband.
You surely jest, interrupted 1 ; I am a foreigner,
and you would abuse my ignorance ! 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 : the 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 separate
maintenance. Amazing ! cried I ; is it not enough
that she is permitted to live separate from the ob-
ject she detests, but must he give her money to
keep her in spirits too 1 That he must, said my
guide, and be called a cuckold by all his neigh-
bours into the bargain. The men will laugh at
him, the ladies will pity him : and all that his
warmest friends can say in his favour will be, thai
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
icaools of penitence to show her folly ; no rods for
such delinquents? Psha, man, replied he, smiling,
if every delinquent among us were to be treated in
your manner, one-half of the kingdom would flog
the 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 laughed 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
1 went out, to tell my wife where 1 was going, lest
I should unexpectedly meet her abroad in compa-
ny with some dear deceiver. Whenever 1 return-
ed, I would use a peculiar rap at the door, and give
four loud hems as 1 walked deliberately up the
staircase. I would never inquisitively peep under
her bed, or look under the curtains. And, even
though 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 be-
have most wisely in such circumstances. The
wife promises her husband never to let him see her
transgressions 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 afl5rm-
ative. Upon this, the father, turning the lady
three times round, and giving her three strokes
with his cudgel on the back. My dear, cries he,
these are the last blows you are ever to receive
from your tender father : I resign my oMthority,
and my cudgel, to your husband ; he knows bet-
ter than me the use of either. The bridegroom
knows decorum 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 politeness, while one refuses, and
the other offers the cudgel. The whole, however,
ends with the bridegroom's taking it ; upon which
the lady drops a courtesy in token of obedience,
and the ceremony proceeds as usual.
There is something excessively fair and open in
this method of courtship : 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
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
269
parties to declare they are sliarpers in the begin-
ning. In England, I am told, both sides use every
art to ijonceal their defects frona each other before
marriage, and the rest of their lives may be regard-
ed as doing penance for their former dissimulation.
Farewell.
LETTER XX. . '
From the same.
The Republic of Letters, is a very common ex-
pression among the Europeans; and yet, when ap-
plied to the learned of Europe, is the most absurd
ihat can be imagined, since nothing is more unlike
a republic than the society which goes by that name.
From this expression, one would be apt to imagine
that 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 literary societies in China, where each
acknowledges a just subordination, and all contri-
bute to build the temple of science, without at-
tempting, 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 assistajl"'^ 5 the
same pursuit. They calumniate, they injure, they
despise, they ridicule each other ; if one man writes
a book that pleases, others shall write books to show
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
assure the public that all 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 : and their jarring constitution, instead of
being styled a republic of letters, should be entitled
an anarchy of literature.
It is true, there are some of superior abilities
Who reverence and esteem each other; but their
mutual admiration is not sufTicicnt to shield ofi' 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 societies; have few meetings, no
cabals ; the dunces hunt in full cry, till they have
run 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 re-
spectable name, most frequently reproaching each
other with stu[)idity and dulncss; resembling the
wolves of the Russian forest, who prey upon veni-
son, 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 compilers rob from compilations.
Confucius observes, that it is the duty of the
learned to unite society more closely, and to per-
suade men to become citizens of the world ; but
the authors I refer to, are not only for disuniting
society but kingdoms also : if the English are at
war with France, the dunces of France think it
their duty to be at war with those of England.
Thus Freron, one of their first-rate scribblers,
thinks proper i6 characterize all the Enghsh wri-
ters in the gross : " Their whole merit (says he)
consists in exaggeration, and often in extravagance :
correct their pieces as you please, there still re-
mains a leaven which corrupts the whole. They
somctunes discover genius, but not the smallest
share of taste : England is not a soil for the plants
of genius to thrive ni." This is open enough, with
not the least adulation in the picture : but hear
what a Frenchman of acknowledged abilities says
upon the same subject ; " I am at a loss to deter-
mine in what we excel the English, or where they
excel us : when I compare the merits of both in
any one species of literary composition, so many
reputable and pleasing writers present themselves
from either country, that my judgment rests in sus-
pense : I am pleased with the disquisition, without
finding the object of my inquiry." But lest yoa
should think the French alone are faulty in this
respect, hear how an English journalist delivers his
sentiments of them : " We are amazed (says he)
to find so many works translated from the French,
while we have such numbers neglected of our own.
In our opinion, notwithstanding their fame through-
out the rest of Europe, the French are the most
contemptible reasoners (we had almost said wri-
ters) that can be imagined. However, neverthe-
less, excepting," etc. Another English writer,
Shaftesbury if I remember, on the contrary, says
that the French authors arc pleasing and judicious,
more clear, more methodical and entertaining, than
those of his own country.
From these opposite pictures, you perceive, that
the good authors of either country praise, and the
bad revile each other ; and yet, perhaps, you will
be surprised that indiflcront 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 them-
selves, should be most ready to declare their opi-
nions, since what they say might pass for decision.
But the truth happens to be, that the great are so-
licitous only of raising their own reputations, while
the opposite class, alas ! are solicitous of bnngmg
every reputation down to a level with their own.
270
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
But let us acquit them of malice and envy. A
critic is often guided by the same motives that di-
rect his author. The author endeavours to per-
suade us, that he has written a good book ; the
critic is equally solicitous to show that he could
write a better, had he thought proper. A critic is
a being possessed of all the vanity, but not the ge-
nius of a scholar ; incapable, from his native weak-
ness, of lifting himself from the ground, he applies
to contiguous merit for support ; makes the spor-
tive 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 measures 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 public 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 assure the pub-
lic that they ought to laugh without restraint.
Another set are in the mean time quietl}' employed
in writing notes to the book, intended to show 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
book-binders, 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 sutlers, number-
less servants, women and children in abundance,
and but few soldiers. Adieu.
LETTER XXL
To the Same.
The English are as fond of seeing plays acted
as the Chinese ; but there is a vast difference
in the manner of conducting them. We play our
pieces in the open air, the English theirs under
cover ; we act by daylight, they by the blaze of torch-
es. One of our plays continues eight or ten days
successively ; an English piece seldom takes up
above four hours in the representation.
My companion in black, with whom I am now
beginning to contract an intimacy, introduced me
a few nights ago to the play-house, where we
placed ourselves conveniently at the foot of the
stage. As the curtain was not drawn before my
arrival, I had an opportunity of observing the be-
haviour of the spectators, and indulging those re-
jections which novelty generally inspires.
The rich in general were placed in the lowest
seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees pro-
portioned to their poverty. The order of prece-
dence seemed here inverted ; those who were un-
dermost all the day, now enjoyed a temporary emi-
nence, and became masters of the ceremonies. It
was they who called for the music, indulging every
noisy freedom, and testifying all the insolence of
beggary in exaltation.
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 ex-
pectation, in eating oranges, reading the story of
the play, or making assignations.
Those who sat in the lowest rows, which are
called the pit, seemed to consider themselves as
judges of the merit of the poet and the performers;
they were assembled partly to be amused, and
partly to show their taste ; appearing to labour un-
der that restraint which an affectation of superior
discernment generally produces. My companion,
however, informed me, that not one in a hundred
of them knew even the first principles of criticism ;
that they assumed the right of being censors be-
cause there was none to contradict their preten-
sions ; and that every man who now called himself
a connoisseur, became such to all intents and pur-
poses.
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 entertain-
ments themselves. I could not avoid considering
them as acting parts in dumb show — not a courte-
sy or nod that was not the result of art ; not a look
nor a smile that was not designed for murder.
Gentlemen and ladies ogled each other through
spectacles ; for my companion observed, that blind-
ness 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 conspired to make a most agreeable pic-
ture, and to fill a 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 courtseying to the audience, who clapped
their hands upon her appearance. Clapping of
hands, is, it seems, the manner of applauding io
England ; the manner is absurd, but every country,
you know, has its peculiar absurdities. I was
equally surprised, however, at the submission of the
actress, who should have considered herself as a
queen, as at the little discernment of the audience
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
271
who gave her such marks of applause before she
attempted to deserve them. Preliminaries between
her and the audience being thus adjusted, the dia-
logue was su[)ported between her and a most hope-
ful 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 hus-
band comes in, who, seeing the queen so much
affected, 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.
Truly, said I to my companion, these kings and
queens are very much disturbed at no very great mis-
fortune : certain I am, were people of humbler sta-
tions 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,
•t seems, refused his proffered tenderness, had
ipurned his roj'al embrace ; and he seemed resolv-
ed not to survive her fierce disdain. After he had
thus fretted, and the queen had fretted through the
Kecond 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 her-
self by degrees ; but the king is for immediate ten-
derness, or instant death: death and tenderness
are leading passions of every modern buskined
hero; this moment they embrace, and the next
etab, mixing daggers and kisses in every period.
I was going to second his remarks, when my at-
tention was engrossed by a new object ; a man
came in balancing a straw upon his nose, and the au-
dience were clapping their hands in all the raptures
of applause. To what purpose, cried I, does this
tmmcaning figure make his appearance ; is he a
part of the plot? Unmeaning do you call him ? re-
plied my friend in black ; this is one of the most
important characters of the whole play; nothing
pleases the peoj)le more than seeing a straw bal-
anced : there is a great deal of meaning in the
straw; there is something suited to every ap])re-
hension in the sight; and a fellow possessed of
talents like these is sure of making his fortune.
The third act now began with an actor who
came toinform us that he was the villain of the play,
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 cla[)ping interrupted me once more :
a child of six years old was learning to dance on
the stage, which gave the ladies and mandarines
infinite 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. Q,uite the reverse, interrupted my com-
panion ; dancing is a very reputable and genteel
employment here ; men have a greater chance for
encouragement from the merit of their heels than
their heads. One who jumps up and flourishes his
toes three times before becomes to the ground, maj
have three hundred a-year ; he who flourishes them
four times, gets four 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
mnst who shows 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 smait parts
and great qualifications; wherefore, she' wisely
considers that the crown will fit his head better
than that of her husband, whom she knows to be
a driveller. 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 curtain drops, and
the act is concluded.
Observe the art of the poet, cries my companion.
When the queen can sa}' no more, she fails into a
fit. While thus her eyes are shut, while she is
supported in the arms of her abigail, 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. <
Tiie fifth act began, and a busy piece it was.
Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs halloo-
ing, carpets spreading, guards bustling from one
door to another ; gods, demons, daggers, racks, and
ratsbane. But whether the king was killed, or the
queen was drowncJ, or the son was poisoned, I
liavc absolutely forgotten.
When the play was over, I could not avoid ob-
serving, that tlie persons of the drama appeared iu
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
and intended to show strange things before all was passion; 1 hate to hear an actor mouthing trifles;
over. He was joined by another, who seemed as neither startings, strainings, nor attitudes affect
much disposed for mischief as he : their intrigues me, uidess there be cause : after I have been onre
continued through this whole division. If that be or twice deceived by those uiimeamng alarms my
272
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
heart sleeps in peace, probably unaffected 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 contri-
bute to make that the greater : if the actor, there-
fore, exclaims upon every occasion in the tones of
despair, he attempts to move us too soon ; he anti-
cipates the blow, he ceases to affect, though he
gains our applause.
I scarcely perceived that the audience were al-
most all departed; wherefore, mixing with the
crowd, my companion and 1 got into the street;
where, essaying a hundred obstacles from coach-
wheels and palanquin poles, like birds in their
flight through the branches of a forest, after vari-
ous turnings we both at length got home in safety.
Adieu.
LETTER XXII.
To 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 China, 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 sympathise at my disap-
pointment.
Every account I receive from the East seems to
come loaded with some new affliction. My wife
and daughter were taken from me, and yet I sus-
tained the loss with intrepidity; my son is made a
slave among the barbarians, which was the only
blow that could have reached my heart : yes, I will
indulge the transports of nature for a little, in order
to show I can overcome them in the end. True
Tnagnanimity consists not in SEysR falling, but
in RISING every time loejall.
When our mighty emperor had published his
displeasure at my departure, and sdzed upon all
that was mine, my son was privately secreted from
his resentment. Under the protection and guard-
ianship of Fum Hoam, the best and the wisest of
all the inhabitants of China, he was for some time
instructed in the learning of the missionaries, and
the wisdom of the East. But hearing of my ad-
ventures, and incited by filial piety, he was resolved
to follow my fortunes, and share my distress.
He passed the confines of China in disguise,
nired himself as a camel-driver to a caravan that
was crossing the deserts of Thibet, and was within
one day's journey of the river Laur, which divides
that country from India, when a body of wander-
ing Tartars falling unexpectedly upon the caravan,
plundered it, and made those who escaped their first
fury slaves. By those he was led into the exten-
sive and desolate regions that border on the shores
of the Aral 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
virtues, and even his beauty, were qualifications
that no way served to recommend him; they knew
no merit, but that of providing large quantities ct
milk and raw flesh; and were sensible of no happi-
ness but that of rioting on the undressed meal.
Some merchants from Mesched, however, coming
to trade with the Tartars 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 looksof a voluptuous and cruel
master, a man fond of pleasure, yet incapable of re-
finement, 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.* Good Heavens, why was this 1 Why
have I been introduced into this mortal apartment^
to be a spectator of my own misfortunes, and the
misfortunes of my fellow-creatures7 Wherever )
turn, what a labyrinth of doubt, error, and disap-
pointment appears ! Why was I brought into be-
ing ; for what purposes made; from whence have 1
come ; whither strayed ; or to what regions am I
hastening? Reason can not resolve. It lends a
ray to show the horrors of my prison, but not i.
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 jfetonishmerit.
The Christian who believes in three Gods is high-
ly absurd. The Jews, who pretend that deity is
pleased with the effusion of blood, are not less dis-
pleasing. I am equally surprised, that rational be-
ings can come from the extremities of the earth, in
order to kiss a stone, or scatter pebbles. How con-
trary to reason are those ! and yet all pretend to
teach me to be happy.
Surely all men are blind and ignorant of truth.
Mankind wanders, unknowing his way, from
morning till evening. Where shall we turn after
happiness ; 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 of himself, for a plan of
liis universal system ! O for the reasons of our
• Tliis whole apostrophe seems most literally traoslated
from Ambulaaohamed, the Arabian poet.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
273
creation ; or why were we created to be thus un-
happy ! If we are to experience no other felicity
Dut what this life affords, then are we miserable in-
deed ; if we are born only to look about us, repine
and die, then has Heaven been guilty of injustice.
If this lifp, terminates my existence, I despise the
blessings of Providence, and the wisdom of the
giver : if this life be my all, let the following epitaph
be written on the tomb of Altangi : By my father'' s
crimes I received this ; by my own crimet I bequeath
it to posterity.
LETTER XXin.
To the Same.
Yet, while I sometimes lament the case of hu-
manity, and the depravity of human nature, there
r.ow and then appear gleams of greatness that serve
lo relieve the eye oppressed with the hideous pros-
pects, and resemble those cultivated spots that are
sometimes found in the midst of an Asiatic wilder-
ness. I see many superior excellencies among the
English, which it is not in the power of all their
*()llies to hide : I see virtues, which in other coun-
tries are known only to a few, practised here by
every rank of people.
I know not whether it proceeds from their su-
perior opulence that the English are more chari-
table than the rest of mankind ; whether by being
possessed of all the conveniences of life themselves,
they have more leisure to perceive the uneasy situ-
ation of the distressed; whatever be the motive,
they are not only the most charitable of any other
nation, but most judicious in distinguishing the
properest objects of compassion.
In other countries, the giver is generally influ-
enced by the immediate impulse of pity ; his gener-
osity is exerted as much to relieve his own uneasy
sensations as to comfort the object in distress. In
England, benefactions are of a more general na-
ture. Some men of fortune and universal benevo-
lence projioso the proper objects; the wants and
the merits of the petitioners arc canvassed by the
people ; neither passion nor pity find a place in the
cool discussion ; and charity is then only exerted
when it has received the approbation of reason.
.A late instance of this finely directed benevo-
lence 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 politi-
cal reasons to induce them to mutual hatred, but
often the more prevailing motive of private interest
to widen the breach. A war between other coun-
tries is carried on collectively ; army fights against
army, and a man's own private resent iTient is lost
in that of the community: but in England and
18
France, the individuals of each country plunder
each other at sea without redress, and consequent-
ly feel that animosity against each other which
passengers do at a robber. They have for some
time carried on an expensive war ; and several cap-
tives have been taken on both sides : those made
prisoners by the French have been used with cruel-
ty, and guarded with unnecessary 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 which arise from want of
covering and long confinement.
Their countrymen were informed of their de-
plorable situation ; but they, more intent on annoy-
ing their enemies than relieving their friends, re-
fused the least assistance. The English now saw
thousands of their fellow-creatures starving in
every prison, forsaken by those whose duty it was
to protect them, labouring with disease, and with-
out clothes to keep off the severity of the season.
National benevolence prevailed over national ani-
mosity; their prisoners were indeed enemies, but
they were enemies in distress ; they ceased to be
hateful, when they no longer continued to be formi-
dable : forgetting, therefore, their national hatred,
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 sub-
due. 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 al-
most entirely English ; scarcely one foreigner ap-
pears among the number. It was for Englishmen
alone to be capable of such exalted virtue. I own,
I can not look over this catalogue of good men and
philosophers, without thinking better of myself, be-
cause 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 world, to French-
men, prisoners of war, and naked. I only wish
that he may find as much pleasure from his virtues
as I have done in reflecting u])on them ; that alone
will amply reward him. Such a one, my friend,
is an honour to human nature; he makes no pri-
vate distinctions of party; all that are stamped
with the divine image of their Creator are friends
to him; he is a native of the world; and the em-
peror of China may be proud that he has such a
countryman.
To rejoice at the destruction of our enemies, is
a foible grafted upon human nature, and we must
be permitted to indulge it ; the true way of atoning
274
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
for such an ill-founded pleasure, is thus to turn
our triumph into an act of benevolence, and to
testify GUI own joy by endeavouring 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 Nankin in order to enjoy
the glory of his conquest. After he had rested for
some days, the people, who are naturally fond of
processions, impatiently expected the triumphant
entry, which emperors upon such occasions were
accustomed to make : their murmurs came to the
emperor's ear ; he loved his people, and was will-
ing to do all in his power to satisfy their just de-
sires. He therefore assured them, that he intend-
ed, upon the next feast of the Lanterns, to exhibit
one of the most glorious triumphs that had ever
been seen in China.
The people were in raptures at his condescen-
sion ; and, on the appointed day, assembled at the
gates of the palace with the most eager expecta-
tions. Here they waited for some time, without
seeing any of those preparations which usually
precede a pageant. The lantern, with ten thou-
sand tapers, was not yet brought forth ; the fire-
works, which usually covered the city walls, were
not yet lighted; 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 his necessities for
the year. The people were at first amazed, but
soon perceived the wisdom of their king, who
taught them, that to make one happy man was
more truly great than having ten thousand captives
groaning at the wheels of his chariot. Adieu.
LETTER XXIV.
To the Same.
time, knowledge of a bedfellow, or hinderance of
business.
When I consider the assiduity of this profession,
their benevolence amazes me. They not only in
general give their medicine for half value, but use
the most persuasive remonstrances to induce the
sick to come and be cured. Sure, there must be
something strangely obstinate in an English pa-
tient, who refuses so much health upon such easy
terms : does he talie a pride in being bloated with
a dropsy 7 does he find pleasure in tiie alternations
of an intermittent fever? or feel as much satisfac-
tion in nursing up his gout as he found pleasure
in acquiring it 7 He must, otherwise he would
never reject such repeated assurances of instant
relief. What can be more convincing than the
manner in which the sick are invited to be well 7
The doctor first begs the most earnest attention of
the public to what he is going to propose ; he so-
lemnly 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, notwith-
standing all this, there are many here who now
and then think proper to be sick. Only sick, die
I say? there are some who even think proper to
die! Yes, by the head of Confucius! they die,
though they might have purchased the health-
restoring specific for half-a-crown at every corner.
I am amazed, my dear Fum Hoam, that these
doctors, who know what an obstinate set of people
they have to deal with, have never thought of at-
tempting to revive the dead. When the living
are found to reject their prescriptions, they ought
in conscience to apply to the dead, from whora
they can expect no such mortifying repulses ; they
would find in the dead the most complying patiems
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 any tiling
chimerical in such an attempt; they already per-
form cures equally strange. What can be more
truly astonishing, than to see old age restored to
youth, and vigour to the most feeble constitutions 1
Yet this is perfonued here every day : a simple
electuary effects these wonders, even without the
bunghng 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 receive all their know-
ledge of medicine by immediate inspiration from
Heaven. Some are thus inspired even in the
Whatever may be the merits of the English in
other sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in
the art of healing. There is scarcely a disorder
incident to humanity, against which they are not
possessed with a most infallible antidote. The
professors of other arts confess the inevitable in-
tricacy of things ; talk with doubt, and decide with ! womb ; and what is very remarkable, understand
hesitation ; but doubting is entirely unknown in their profession as well at three years old as at
medicine ; the advertising professors here delight threescore. Others have spent a great part of
in cases of difficulty : be the disorder never so their hves unconscious of any latent excellence,
desperate or radical, you will find numbers in till a bankruptcy, or a residence in gaol, have
every street, who, by levelling a pill at the part called their miraculous powers into exertion. And
affected, promise a certain cure, without loss of others still there are indebted to their superlative
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
2>
Ignorance alone for success ; the more ignorant the
practitioner, the less capable is he thought of de-
ceiving. 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 examina-
tion ; he asks very few questions, and those only
for form sake. He knows every disorder by in-
tuition ; he administers the pill or drop for every
distemper ; nor is more inquisitive than the farrier
while he drenches a 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 was
incurable.
LETTER XXV.
From the Same.
I WAS some days ago in company with a politi-
cian, who very pathetically declaimed upon the
miserable situation of his country : he assured 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 with the wars on the conti-
nent? we are a commercial nation ; we have only
to cultivate commerce, like our neighbours the
Dutch ; it is our business to increase trade by set-
tling new colonies ; riches are the strength of a na-
tion ; 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 conde-
scension and contempt ; and I proceeded as follows,
to describe The Rise and Declension of the
Kingdom of Lao.
Northward of China, and in one of the doublings
of the great wall, the fruitful province of Lao en
joyed its liberty, and a peculiar government of its
own. As tlic inhabitants were on all sides sur-
rounded by the wall, they feared no sudden inva-
sion from the Tartars; and being each possessed
of property, they were zealous in its defence.
The natural consequence of security and af-
f uence in any country is a love of pleasure ; when
the wants of nature are supplied, we seek after the
conveniences; when possessed of these, we desire
the luxuries of life ; and when every luxury is pro-
vided, it is then ambition takes up the man, and
leaves him still sometliing to wish for : the inhabi-
tants of the country, from primitive simplicity, soon
began to aim at elegance, and from elegance pro-
ceeded to refinement. It was now found abso-
lutely requisite, for the good of the state, that the
people should be divided. Formerly, the same hand
that was employed in tilling the ground, or in dress- -
ing up the manufactures, was also, in time of need,
a soldier ; but the custom was now changed ; for it
was perceived, that a man bred up from cldldhood
to the arts of either peace or war, became more
eminent by this means in his respective profession.
The inhabitants were, therefore, now distinguished
into artisans and soldiers ; and while those im-
proved the luxuries of life these watched for the
security 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
artisans were most likely to preserve internal liber-
ty ; and a nation of soldiers were fittest to repel a
foreign invasion. Hence naturally rose a division
of opinion between the artisans and soldiers of the
kingdom. The artisans, ever complaining that
freedom was threatened by an armed internal force,
were for disbanding the soldiers, and insisted that
their walls; their walls alone, were sufficient to re-
pel the most formidable invasion : the warriors, on
the contrary, represented the power of the neigh-
bouring kings, the combinations formed against
their state, and the weakness of the wall, which
every earthquake might overturn. While this al-
tercation continued, the kingdom might be justly
said to enjoy its greatest share of vigour ; every or-
der in the state, by being watchful over each other,
contributed to diffuse happiness equally, and ba-
lanced the state. The arts of peace flourished, nor
were those of war neglected : the neighbouring
powers, who had 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 manufac-
tured in Lao, and paid a large price for them upon
their return.
By these means, this people at length became
moderately rich, and their opulence naturally in-
vited the invader : a Tartar prince led an immense
army against them, and they as bravely stood up
in their own defence ; they were still inspired with
a love of their country; they fought the barbarous
enemy with fortitude, and gained a complete vic-
tory.
From this moment, which they regarded as the
completion of their glory, historians date their down-
fal. They had risen in strength by a love of their
country, and fell by indulging ambition. The
country, possessed by ttie invading Tartars, seemed
to them a prize that would not only render the®
276
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
more formidable for the future, but vhich would
increase their opulence for the preseiit ; it was
unanimously resolved, therefore, both by soldiers
and artisans, that those desolate regions should be
peopled by colonies from Lao. When a trading
nation begins to act the conqueror, it is then per-
fectly undone : it subsists in some measure by the
support of its neighbours : while they continue to
regard it without envy or apprehension, trade may
flourish ; but when once it presumes to assert as its
right what is only enjoyed as a favour, each coun-
trv reclaims that part of commerce which it has
power to take back, and turns it into some other
channel mors honourable, though perhaps less con-
venient.
Every neighbour now began to regard with jeal-
ous eyes this ambitious commonwealth, and forbade
their subjects any future intercourse with them.
The inhabitants of Lao, however, still pursued the
same ambitious maxims : it was from their colonies
alone they expected riches; and riches, said they,
are strength, and strength is security. Numberless
were the migrations of the desperate and enter-
prising of this country, to people the desolate do-
minions lately possessed by the Tartar. Between
these colonies and the mother country, a very ad-
vantageous traffic was at first carried on : the re-
public sent their colonies large quantities of the
manufactures of the country, and they in return
provided the republic with an equivalent in ivory
and ginseng. By this means the inhabitants be-
came immensely rich, and this produced an equal
degree of volu{)tuousness ; for men who have much
money will always find some fantastical modes of
enjoyment. How shall I mark the steps by which
they declined 7 Every colony in process of time
spreads over the whole country where it first was
planted. As it grows more populous, it becomes
more polite ; and those manufactures for which it
was in the beginning obliged to others, it learns to
dress up itself: such was the case with the colonies
of Lao ; they, in less than a century, became a
powerful and a polite people, and the more polite
they grew the less advantageous was the commerce
which still subsisted between them and others. By
this means the mother country being abridged in
its commerce, 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 neigh-
bours was totally destroyed, and that with their
colonies was every day naturally and necessarily
declining ; they still, however, preserved the inso-
lence of weahh, without a power to support it, and
persevered in being luxurious, while contemptible
from poverty. In 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 them more
impotent, as those individuals who are reduced from
riches to poverty are of all men the most unfor-
tunate and helpless. They had imagined, because
their 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 colo-
nies ever afforded but temporary affluence ; and
when cultivated and polite, are no longer useful.
From such a concurrence of circumstances they
soon became contemptible. The Emperor Honti
invaded them with a powerful army. Historians
do not say whether their 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 walls were now found
but a weak defence, and they at length were
obliged to acknowledge subjection to the empire of
China.
Happy, very happy might they have been, had
they known when to bound their riches and their
glory: had they known that extending empire is
often diminishing power ; that countries are evei
strongest which are internally powerful: that colo-
nies, by draining away the brave and enterprising,
leave the country in the hands of the timid and
avaricious ; that walls give little protection, imless
manned with resolution ; that too much commerce
may injure a nation as well as too Uttle ; and that
there is a wide difference between a conquering
and a flourishing empire. Adieu.
LETTER XX VL
To the Same.
Though fond of many acquaintances, I desire
an intimacy only with a few. The man in black
whom 1 have often mentioned, is one whose friend-
ship 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 a humorist in a nation of humorists.
Though he is generous even to profusion, he af-
fects to be thought a prodigy of parsimony and
prudence ; though his conversation be replete with
the most sordid and selfish maxims, his heart is di-
lated with the most unbounded love. 1 have known
him profess himself a man-hater, while his cheek
was glowing with compassion ; and, while his looks
were softened into pity, I have heard him use the
language of the most unbounded ill-nature. Some
affect humanity and tenderness, others boast of hav-
ing such dispositions from nature; but he is the
only man 1 ever knew who seemed ashamed of hia
natural benevolence. He takes as much pains to
hide his feelings, as any hypocrite would to conceal
his indiflerence ; but on every unguarded moment
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
the mask drops off, and reveals him to the most su-
perficial observer.
In one of our late excursions into the country,
happening to discourse upon the provision that was
made for the poor in England, he seemed amazed
how any of his countrymen could be so foolishly
weak as to relieve occasional objects 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 : 1 am surprised that the peo-
ple are found to relieve them, when they must be
at the same time sensil)le that it, in some measure,
encourages idleness, extravagance, and imposture.
Were I to advise any man for whom I had the least
regard, I would caution him by all means not to be
imposed upon by their false pretences : let me as-
sure you, sir, they are impostors, every one of them,
and rather merit a prison than relief.
He was proceeding in this strain earnestly, to
dissuade me from an iQi[>ru(lence of which I am
seldom guilty, when an old man, who still 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 pro-
fession, to support a dying wife, and five hungry
children. Being prepossessed against such false-
hoods; his story had not the least influence upon
me ; but it was quite otherwise with the man in
black: I could see it visibly operate upon his coun-
tenance, and eflectually interrupt his harrangue.
I could easily perceive that his heart burned to re-
lieve 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
opportunity of giving the poor petitioner a piece of
silver, bidding 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 unperceived, 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 econo-
my, with his profound skill in discovering im[)os-
tors ; he explained the manner in which he would
deal with beggars were he a magistrate, hinted at
enlarging some of the prisons for their reception,
and told two stories of ladies that were robbed by
beggar-men. 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 wistfully
upon the poor petitioner, bid 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 disa-
bled and rendered unfit for service. The sailor
replied in a tone as angrily as he, that he had been
an officer on board a private ship of war, and that
he had lost his leg abroad, in defence of those who
did nothing at home. At this reply, all my friend's
importance vanished in a moment; lie had not a
single question more to ask; he now only studied
what method he should take to relieve him unob-
served. He had, however, no easy part to act, as
he was obliged to preserve the appearance of iU-
nature before me, and yet relieve himself by re-
lieving 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, desired in a surly tone to have a shilling's
worth. The sailor seemed at first surprised at his
demand, but soon recollected himself, and present-
ing his whole bundle, " Here, master," says lie,
"take all my cargo, and a blessing into the bar-
gain."
It is impossible to describe with what an air of
triumph my friend marched off with his new pur-
chase : he assured me, that he was firmly of opi-
nion that those fellows must have stolen their goods,
who could thus aflbrd to sell them for half value.
He informed me of several dill'erent uses to wliich
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 can not tell how long this panegyric upon frugality
and matches might have continued, had not his at-
tention been called off by another object more dis-
tressful than either of the former. A woman in
rags, with one cliild in her arms and another on
her back, was attempting to sing ballads, but with
such a mournful voice, that it was difficult to de-
termine 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 i»o
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 already
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 his. He continued to search for soma
278
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
time, but to no purpose, till, at length recollecting
himself, with a face of ineflable good-nature, as he
had no money, he put into her hands \ns shilling's
Worth of matches.
LETTER XXVII.
To the Same.
A.S there appeared to be something reluctantly
good in the character of my companion, I must
own it surprised me what could be his motives for
thus concealingyirtues 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 benevo-
lence was rather the effect of appetite than reason.
It was not, however, till after repeated solicita-
tions he thought proper to gratify my curiosity.
" If you are fond," says he, " of hearing hair-
breath escapes, my history must certainly please ;
for I have been for twenty years upon the very
verge of starving, without ever being starved.
" 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 ge-
nerosity 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 was all he warfted.
The same ambition that actuates a monarch at the
heaa of an army, influenced my father at the head
of his table; he told the story of the ivy -tree, and
that was laughed at ; he repeated the jest of the
two scholars and one pair of breeches, and the
company laughed at that ; but the story of Taffy
in the sedan-chair was sure to set the table in a
roar : thus his pleasure increased in proportion to
the pleasure he gave ; he loved all the world, and
he fancied all the world loved him.
"As his fortune was but small, he lived up to
the very extent of it ; he had no intentions of leav-
ing 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 undertook to instruct us him-
self; and took as much pains to form our morals as
to improve our understanding. We were told, that
universal benevolence was what first cemented so-
ciety ; we were taught to consider aU the wants of
mankind as our own; to regard the "human face
divine" with affecti(m and esteem; he wound us
up to be mere macliines 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 can not 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 without armour in the amphi-
theatre 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, be-
cause they were then topics of the busy world, but
that now were utterly useless, because connected
with the busy world no longer.
" The first opportunity he had of finding his ex-
pectations disappointed, was in the very middling
figure I made in the university ; he had flattered
himself that he should soon see me rising into the
foremost rank in literary reputation, but was mor-
tified to find me utterly unnoticed and unknown.
His disappointment might have been partly ascrib-
ed to his having overrated 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 objects, than desirous
of reasoning upon those I knew. This did not,
however, please my tutor, who observed, indeed,
that I was a little dull ; but at the same time allow-
ed, that I seemed to be very good-natured, and had
no harm in m.e.
"After I had resided at college seven years, my
father died, and left me — his blessing. Thus shoved
from shore without ill-nature to protect, or cunning
to guide, or proper stores to subsist me in so dan-
gerous 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 my liberty, that I absolutely rejected the pro-
posal. A priest in England is not the same mor-
tified creature with a bonze in China : with us, not
he 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
harm in him, and was so very good-natured.
"Poverty naturally begets dependence, and I
was admitted as flatterer to a great man. At first
I was surprised, that the situation of a flatterer at
a great man's table could be thought disagreeable:
there was no great trouble in listening attentively
when his lordship spoke, and laughing when he
looked round for applause. Tliis even good man-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
279
ners might have obliged me to perform. I found,
however, too soon, tliat his lordship was a greater
dunce than myself; and from that very moment
flattery was at an end. I now rather aimed at set-
tintj him right, than at receiving his absurdities
with submission : to flatter those we do not know,
is an easy task ; but to flatter our intimate acquaint-
ances, all whose foibles are strongly in our eye, is
drudgery insupportable. Every time I now open-
ed my lips in praise, my falsehood went to my con-
science : 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 to
love. A young lady, who hved with her aunt, and
was possessed of a pretty fortune in her own dis-
posal, had given me, as I fancied, some reason to
expect success. The symptoms by which I was
quided were striking. She had always laugh-
ed with me at her awkward acquaintance, and at
ner aunt among the number; she always observed
that a man of sense would make a better husband
than a fool, and I as constantly applied the obser-
vation in my own favour. She continually talked,
in my company, of friendship and the beauties of
the mind, and spoke of Mr. Shrimp my rival's
nigh-heeled shoes with detestation. These were
tircumstances which I thought strongly in ray fa-
vour; so, after resolving, and re-resolving, I had
courage enough to tell her my mind. Miss heard
my proposal with serenity, seeming at the same
time to study the figures of 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
consolation, however, she observed, that though I
was disappointed in her, my addresses to her aunt
would probably kindle her into sensibility : 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 Friendship !
thou fcmd soother of the human breast, to thee we
flv in every calamity ; to thee the wretched seek for
succour; on thcc the care-tired son of misery fond-
ly relics; from thy kind assistance the unfortunate
always hopes relief, and may be ever sure of — dis-
apliointment ! My first ap[>lication was to a city-
scrivener, who had frequently offered to lend me
money, when he knew I did n-'t want it. I in-
formed 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 ! In-
deed I never wanted it more, returned I. I am
sorry for that, cries the scrivener, with all my
heart ; for they who want money when they come
to borrow, will always want money when they
should come to pay.
"From him I flew with indignation to one of the
best friends I had in the world, and made the same
request. Indeed, Mr. Dry-bone, cries my friend,
I always thought it would come to this. You know,
sir, I would 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 me
see, you want two hundred pounds. Do you onlj
want two hundred, sir, exactly? To confess a
truth, returned I, I shall want three hundred ; but
then I have another friend, from whom I can bor-
row 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 oue 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 more indolent and
simple. A friend was arrested for fifty pounds ; I
was unable to extricate him, except by becoming
his bail. When at liberty, he fled from his credi-
tors, and left me to take his place. In prison I ex-
pected greater satisfactions than I had enjoyed at
large. I hoped to converse with men in this new
world, simple and beUeving like myself, but I found
them as cunning and as cautious as those in the
world I had left behind. They sponged up my
money whilst it lasted, borrowed my coals, and
never paid for them, and cheated me when I play-
ed at cribbage. All this was done because they
believed me to be very good-natUred, and knew that
1 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
I was now on one side 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 was to be supplied another. I seized every
precarious meal v/ith the utmost good-humour;
indulged no rants of spleen at my situation ; never
called down Heaven and all the stars to behold me
dining upon a halfpenny-worth of radishes; my
very companions were taught to believe that I hked
salad better than mutton. I contented myself with
thinking, that all my hfe I should either eat white
bread or brown ; considered all that happened wa9
best ; laughed when I was not in pain, took the
280
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the world as it went, and read Tacitus often, for
want of more books and company.
" How long I might have continued in this tor-
pid state of simplicity, I can not tell, had I not been
roused by seeing an old acquaintance, whom 1
knew to be a prudent blockhead, preferred to a
place in the government. I now found that 1 had
pursued a wrong track, and that the true way of
-being able to relieve others, was first to aim at in-
dependence myself : my immediate care, therefore,
was to leave my present habitation, and make an
entire reformation in my conduct and behaviour.
For a free, open, undesigning deportment, I put
on that of closeness, prudence, and economy. One
of the most heroic actions 1 ever performed, and
for which I shall praise myself as long as 1 hve,
was the refusing half-a-crown to an old acquaint-
ance, at the time when he wanted it, and 1 had it
to spare : for this alone I deserve to be decreed an
ovation.
" I now therefore pursued a course of uninter-
rupted frugality, seldom wanted a dinner, and was
consequently invited to twenty. I soon began to
get the character of a saving hmiks that had znonej',
and insensibly grew into esteem. Neighbours
have asked my advice in the disposal of their
daughters ; and 1 have always taken care not to
give any. I have contracted a friendship with an
alderman, only by observing, that if we take a far-
thing from a thousand pounds, it will be a thou-
sand 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
bread was rising. If ever I am asked a question,
whether 1 know it or not, instead of answering, I
only smile and look wise. If a charity is proposed,
I go about with the hat, but put nothing 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 the truest way of finding es-
teem, even from the indigent, is to give away no-
thing, and thus havemuchin our power to give."
LETTER XVIIL
To the Same.
Lately, in company with ray friend in black,
whose conversation is now both my amusement
and instruction, I could not avoid observing the
great numbers of old bachelors and maiden ladies
with which this city seems to be overrun. Sure,
marriage, said I, is not sufficiently encouraged, or
we should never behold such crowds of battered
beaux, and decayed coquettes, still attempting to
drive a trade they have been so long unfit for, and
swarming upon the gaiety of the age. 1 behold an
old bachelor in the most contemptible light, as an
animal that lives upon the common stock without
contributing his share : he is a beast of prej^, 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 oh him
with impunity, every well-bred company should
laugh at him; and if, when turned of sixty, he of-
fered to make love, his mistress might spit in his
face, or, what would be perhaps a greater punish-
ment, should fairly grant the favour.
As for old maids, continued I, they should not
be treated with so much severity, because I sup-
pose none would be so if they could. No lady in
her senses would choose to make a subordinate
figure at christenings or lyings-in, when she might
be the principal herself ; nor curry favour with a
sister-in-law, when she might command a 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 demure for-
mality, when she might, with matrimonial free-
dom, 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. 1
consider an unmarried lady, declining into the vale
of years, as one of those charming countries bor-
dering on China, that Ues waste for want of proper
inhabitants. "We are not to accuse the country,
but the ignorance of its neighbours, who are insen-
sible of its beauties, though at Uberty to enter and
cultivate the soil.
"Indeed, sir," replied my companion, "you are
very little acquainted with the English ladies, to
think they are old maids against their will. I dare
venture to affirm, that you can hardly select one
of them all, but has had frequent offers of mar-
riage, 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 cruel-
ty : a soldier does not exult more when he counts
over the wounds he has received, than a female
veteran when she relates the wounds she has for-
merly given: exhaustless when she begins a nar-
rative 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 the sash, threw himself in an agony —
into his arm chair ; of the parson, who, crossed in
love, resolutely swallowed opium, which banished
the stings of despised love — by making him sleep.
In short, she talks over her former losses with
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281
pleasure, and, like some tradesmen, finds consola-
tion in the many bankruptcies she has suffered.
"For this reason, whenever I see a superan-
nuated beauty still unmarried, I tacitly accuse her
either of pride, avarice, coquetry, or affectation.
There's Miss Jenny Tindcrbox, I once remember
her to have had some beauty, and a moderate for-
tune. Her elder sister hapi)ened to marry a man
of quality, and this 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 su-
periors, she now acts in the capacity of tutoress to
her sister's children, and undergoes the drudgery
of three servants, without receiving the wages of
one.
" Miss Squeezfe was a pawnbroker's daughter ;
her father had early taught her 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 she had got, that she was resolved
never to part with a fiirtliing without an equality
on the part of the 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
have made an abatement in her pretensions, from
her face being pale, and marked with the small-
pox.
" Lady Betty Tempest, on the contrary, had
beauty, with fortune and family. But fond of
conquests, she passed from triumph to triumph;
elie 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
oniy for the gay, giddy, inconstant, and thought-
less: after she had thus rejected hundreds who
liked her, and sighed for hundreds who despised
her, she found herself insensibly deserted ; at pre-
sent she is company only for her aunts and cou-
sins, and sometimes makes one in a country ilance,
with only one of the chairs for a partner, casts off
round a joint-tool, and sets to a corner cupboard.
In a word, she is treated with civil contempt from
every quarter, and placed, like a piece of old-
fashioned lumber, merely to fill up a (;orner.
" But Sophronia, the sagacious Sophronia, how
shall 1 mention hcrl She was taught to love
Greek, 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 discover 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, with-
out on(> good feature in her face, she talks inces-
santly of the beauties of the mind." Farewell.
LETTER XXIX.
From the Same.
Wlre we to estimate the learning of the English
by the number of books that are every day pub-
lished among them, perhaps no country, not even
China itself, could equal them in this particular.
I hr.ve reckoned not less than twenty-three new
books published in one day; which, uj)on compu-
tation, 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. History, politics, poetry, mathe-
matics, metaphysics, and the philosojjhy of nature,
are all comjirised in a manual not larger than
that in which our children are taught the letters.
If then we suppose the learned of England to read
but an eighth part of the works which daily come
from the press (and surely none can pretend to
learnnig upon less easy terms), at this rate every
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 pos-
sessed of, who 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
English are not in reality so learned as would seem
from this calculation. We meet but few who know
all arts and sciences to perfection ; whether it is
that the generality are incapable of such extensive
knowledge, or that the authors of those books are
not adequate instructors. In China, the emperor
himself takes cognizance of all the doctors in the
kingdom who profess authorship. In Eiigland,
every man may be an author that can write; for
they have by law a liberty not only of sayitig what
they please, but 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
number to throw off the books I daily saw crowd-
ing from the press. I at first imagined that their
learned seminaries might take this method of in-
structing the world. But, to obviate this objection,
my companion assured me, that the doctors of col-
leges never wrote, 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 introduce you this evening to a club, which
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.
My friend took this opportunity of letting mo
into the characters of tlie principal members of the
club, not even the host excepted; who, it seem^
282
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
was once an author himself, but preferred by a
bookseller to tliis situation as a reward for his for-
mer services.
The first person, said he, of our society, is
Doctor Nonentity, a metaphysician. Most people
think him a profound scholar ; but as he seldom
speak:5, I can not be positive in that particular : he
generally spreads himself before the fire, sucks his
pipe, talks little, drinks much, and is reckoned very
good company. I'm told he writes indexes to per-
fection, he makes essays on the origin of evil, phi-
losophical inquiries 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
handkerchief 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 a hymn for
the Tabernacle. You will know him by his shab-
by 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 oft' an eastern tale to perfection: he
understands the business of an author as well as
any man, for no bookseller alive can cheat him.
You may distinguish him by the peculiar clumsi-
ness 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 Parliament, 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 proceeding in his description
when the host came running in with terror on his
countenance to tell us, that the door was beset with
bailiffs. If that be the case then, says my com-
panion, we had as good be going ; for 1 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 which com-
pose his character alone, and I to write as usual to
my friend the occurrences of the day. Adieu.
LETTER XXX.
From the Same.
By my last advices from Moscow, I find the
caravan has not yet departed for China: I still con-'
tinue to write, expecting that you may receive a
lurire number of my letters at once. In them you
will find rather a minute detail of English pecu-
lifuitifis, than a general picture of their manners or ,
dispositions. Happy it were for mankind if all
travellers would thus, instead of characterizing a
people in general terms, lead us into a detail of
those minute circumstances which first influenced
their opinion. The genius of a country should be
investigated with a kind of experimental inquiry : by
this means, we 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
authors; where, upon our entrance, we found the
members all assembled, and engaged in a loud
debate.
The poet, in shabby finery, holding a manuscript
in his hand, was earnestly endeavouring to persuade
the company to hear him read the first book of an
heroic poem, which he had composed the day
before. But 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 them had pub-
lished 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 in-
sensible 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 reading his own 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 com-
pany 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 prudence, and, laying down
the sum by law established, he insisted on his pre-
rogative.
A profound silence ensuing, he began by ex-
plaining his design. " Gentlemen," says he, " the
present piece is not one of your common epic poems,
which come from the press like paper-kites in sum-
mer: there are none of your Turnus's or Dido's in
it ; it is an heroical description of Nature. I only
beg you'll endeavour to make your souls in unison
with mine, and hear with the same enthusiasm
with which I have written. The poem begins with
the description of an author's bedchamber; the pic-
ture was sketched in my own apartment : for you
must know, gentlemen, that 1 am myself the hero."
Then putting himself into the attitude of an orator,
with all the emphasis of voice and action, he pro-
ceeded :
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283
f
" Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham-
paigne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ;
There, in a lonely room, from bailifls snug.
The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ;
A window patch'd with paper lent a ray.
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ;
The sanded floor, that grits beneath the tread j
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ;
The royal game of goose was there in view.
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
Ani^ brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black
face.
■ The morn was cold, he views with keen desire.
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney
board ;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night — a stocking all the day!"
With this last line he seemed so much elated,
that he was unable to proceed. " There, gentle-
men," cries he, "there is a description for you;
Rabelais' bed-chamber is but a fool to it.
A cap by night — a stocking all the day !
There is sound, and sense, and truth, and nature,
in the trifling compass often 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
president, " And pray, Mr. Squint," says he, " let
us have your opinion." " Mine! " answered the
president (taking the manuscript out of the au-
thor's hand), " May this glass suflfocate me, but I
think it equal to any thing I have seen ; and I fan-
cy (continued he, doubling up the poem and forcing
it into the author's {)ocket) that you will get great
honour when it comes out ; so I shall 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 Hcrculcm, wc 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 re-
luctance, he was at last obliged to sit down, con-
tented with the commendations for which he had
j)aid.
When this tempest of poetry and praise was
blown over, one of the company changed the sub-
ject, by wondering how any man could be so dull
as to write poetry at present, since prose itself
would hardly pay : " Would you think it, gentle-
men," continued he, " 1 have actually written last
week, sixteen prayers, twelve bawdy jests, and
three sermons, all at the rate of sixpence a-piece;
and what is still more extraordinary, the bookseller
has lost by the bargain. Such sermons would
once have gained me a prebend's stall ; but 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
working at the press, instead of finding it employ-
ment.
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 nobility 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 pos-
sible, yet 1 can hardly get a single subscription in
a week. The houses of the great are as inaccessi-
ble as a frontier garrison at midnight. I never see
a nobleman's door half-opened, that some surly
porter or footman does not stand fidl in the breach.
I was yesterday to wait with a subscription-propo-
sal upon my Lord Squash the Creohn. 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
superscription, and not knowing the hand, con-
signed it to his valet de chanibre; this respectable
personage, treated it as his master, and put it into
the hands of the porter ; the porter grasped my pro-
posal frowning; and measuring my figure from
top to toe, put it back into my own hands un-
opened."
" To the devil 1 pitch all the nobility," cries a lit-
tle man in a peculiar accent, " I am sure they have
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 sat myself
down, and vamped up a fine flaunting poetical
panegyric, which I had written in such a strain,
that 1 fancied it would have even wheedled milk
from a mouse. In tliis I represented the whole king-
dom welcoming his grace to his native soil, not
forgetting the loss France and Italy would sustain
in their arts by his departure. I expected to
touch for a bank-bill at least; so folding up my
verses in gilt paper, 1 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 limes aa
big as mine. Guess my ecstasy at tno prospect of
284
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
so fine a return. I eagerly took the packet into
my hands, that trembled to receive it. 1 kept it
some time unopened before me, brooding over the
expected treasure it contained ; when, opening it,
as I hope to be saved, gentlemen, his grace liad
sent me in payment for my poem, no bank-bills,
but six copies of verse, each longer than mine, ad-
dressed to him upon the same occasion."
"A nobleman," cries a member, who had hith-
erto been silent, "is created as much for the con-
fusion of us authors, as the catch-pole. I'll tell
you a story, gentlemen, which is as true as that
this pipe is made of clay. When I was delivered
of my first book, I owed my tailor for a suit of
clothes; \)ut that is nothing new, you know, and
may be any man's case, as well as mine. Well,
owing him for a suit of clothes, and hearing
that my book took very well, he sent for his mo-
ney, and insisted upon being paid immediately:
though I was at that time rich in fame, for my
book ran like wild-fire, yet I was very 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 choosing abroad. In vain the bailifl's
used all their arts to decoy me from 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 urgent message from my aunt
in the 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, insensible,
rock, adamant; the bailiffs could make no impres-
sion on my hard heart, for I eficctually 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 lie had read
my book, and was in raptures with every hue of it;
he impatiently longed to see the author, and had
some designs which might turn out greatly to my
advantage. 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 powers, hov*' my heart triumphed at
my own importance ! I saw a long perspective of
felicity before me ; I applauded the taste of the
times which never saw genius forsaken ; I had pre-
pared a set introductory speech for the occasion;
five glaring compliments for his lordship, and two
more modest for myself. The next morning,
therefore, in order to be punctual to my appoint-
ment, 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 pull up the win-
dow as I went along, to keep off the busy part of
mankind, and, big with expectation, fancied the
coach never went fast enough. At length, how-
ever, the wished-for moment of its stopping tkt
rived: this for some time I impatiently expeo id,
and letting down the window in a transport, in
order to take a previous view of his lordship's
magnificent palace and situation, 1 found, poi-
son to my sight! I found myself, not in an
elegant street, but a paltry lane ; not at a noble
man's door, but at the door of a sponging house : I
found the coachman had all this while been just
driving me to gaol ; and I saw the bailiff, with a
devil's face, coming out to secure me."
To a philosopher, no circumstance, however
trifling, is too minute ; he finds instruction and en-
tertainment in occurrences which are passed over
by the rest of mankind as low, trite, and indiffer-
ent ; it is from the number of these particulars,
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 characterize this people than histories of
their public treaties, courts, ministers, negotiations,
and ambassadors. Adieu,
LETTER XXXI.
From the Same.
The English have not yet brought the art of
gardening to the same perfection with the Chinese,
but have lately begun to imitate them ;vnature is
now followed with greater assiduity than formerly;
the trees are suffered to shoot out into the utmost
luxuriance ; the streams, no longer forced from their
native beds, are permitted to wind along tlie val-
leys ; spontaneous flowers take place of the finished
parterre, 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. A
European 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 taught wis-
dom as he walks, and feels the force of some noble
truth, or delicate precept, resulting from the dis-
position of the groves, streams, or grottos. 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 happiness 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 beau-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
285
tiful in porcelain, statuary, and painting. This
passage from the house opened into an area sur-
rounded with rocks, llowers, trees, and shrubs, but
all so disposed as if each was the spontaneous pro-
duction of nature. As you proceeded forward on
this lawn, to your right and left hand were two
gates, opposite each other, of very different archi-
tecture and design, and before you lay a temple,
built rather with minute elegance than ostenta-
tion.
The right hand gate was planned with the ut-
most simplicity, or rather rudeness : 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 ac-
cess ; dragons and serpents were seen in the most
hideous attitudes, to deter the spectator from ap-
proaching ; and the perspective view that lay be-
hind, seemed dark and gloomy to the last degree ;
the stranger was tempted to enter only from the
motto — Pervia Virtuti.
The opposite gate was formed in a very different
manner; the architecture was light, elegant, and
inviting; flowers hung in wreaths round the pil-
lars; all was finished in the most exact and mas-
terly manner ; the very stone of which it was built
Btill preserved its polish ; nymphs, wrought by the
hand of a master, in the most alluring attitudes,
beckoned the stranger to approach ; while all that
lay behind, as far as the eye could reach, seemed
gay, luxuriant, and capable of affording endless
pleasure. The motto itself contributed 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 designed to represent the road
to Virtue ; the opposite, the more agreeable passage
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 took to the left, which promised most
entertainment.
Immediately upon his entering the gate of Vice,
the trees and flowers were disposed in such a man-
ner as to make the most pleasing impression ; but
as he walked farther on, he insensibly found the
garden assume the air of a wilderness, the land-
scapes began to darken, the paths grew more intri-
cate, he appeared to go downwards, frightful rocks
seemed to hang over his head, gloomy caverns, un-
expected precipices, awful ruins, heaps of unburied
bones, and terrifying sounds, caused by unseen wa-
ters, began to take place of what at first appeared
80 lovely; it was in vain to attempt returning, the
labyrinth was too much perplexed for any but my-
self to find the way back. In short, when suflli-
ciently impressed with the horrors of what he saw,
and the imprudence of his choice, I brought him by
a hidden door a shorter way back into the area
from whence at first he had strayed.
The gloomy gate now presented itself before the
stranger; and though there seemed little in its ap-
pearance to tempt his curiosity, yet, encouraged by
the motto, he generally proceeded. The darkness
of the entrance, the frightful figures that seemed to
obstruct his way, the trees, of a mournful green,
conspired at first to disgust him ; as he went for-
ward, liowever, all began to open and wear a more
pleasing appearance ; beautiful cascades, beds of
flowers, trees loaded with fruit or blossoms, and un-
expected brooks improved the scene : he now found
that he was ascending, and, as he proceeded, all
nature grew more beautiful, the prospect widened
as he went higher, even the air itself seemed to be-
come more pure. Thus pleased and-'happy from
unexpected beauties, I at last led him to an arbour,
from whence he could view the garden, and the
whole country around, and where he might own,
that the road to Virtue terminated in Happiness.
Though from this description you may imagine,
that a vast tract of ground was necessary to exhibit
such a pleasing variety in, yet be assured, I have
seen several gardens in England take up ten times
the space which mine did, without half the beauty.
A very small extent of ground is enough for an
elegant taste ; the greater room is required if mag-
nificence is in view. There is no spot, though
ever so httle, which a skilful designer might not
thus improve, so as to convey a delicate allegory,
and impress the mind with truths the most useful
and necessary. Adieu.
LETTER XXXII.
From the Same.
In a late excursion with my friend into the coun-
try, a gentleman with a blue riband tied round his
shoulder, and in a chariot drawn by six horses,
passed swiftly by us, attended with a numerous
train of captains, lacqueys, 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 he seemed to despise, would in China be re-
garded with the utmost reverence, because such dis-
tinctions were always the reward of merit; the
greatness of a mandarine's retinue being a most
certain mark of the superiority of his abilities 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 abilitiea
nor virtue ; it is enough for liim that one of his an-
286
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
cestors was possessed of these qualities two hun-
dred years before him. There was a time, indeed,
when his family deserved their title, but they are
long since degenerated; and his ancestors, 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, sim-
ple as he seems, is descended from a race of states-
men and heroes ; but, unluckily, his great-grand-
father marrying a conk-maid, and she having a
trifling passion for his lordship's groom, they some-
how crossed the strain, and produced an heir, who
took after his mother in his great love to good eat-
ing, and his father in a violent afloction for horse-
Jlesh. These passions have for some generations
passed on from father to son, and are now become
the characteristics of the family ; his present lord-
ship being equally remarkable for his kitchen and
his stable.
But such a nobleman, cried I, deserves our pity,
thus placed in so high a sphere of life, which only
the more exposes to contempt. A king may con-
fer titles, but it is personal merit alone that ensures
respect. I suppose, added I, that such men are
despised by their equals, neglected by their infe-
riors, and condemned to live among involuntary
dependants in irksome solitude.
You are still under a mistake, replied my com-
panion ; for though this nobleman is a stranger to
generosity ; though he takes twenty opportunities
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 im-
proving others by his conversation, and never
known to enrich any by his bounty; yet, for all
this, his company is eagerly sought after : he is a
lord, and that is as much as most people desire in
a companion, duality and title have such allure-
ments, that hundreds are ready to give up 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 understanding, or sharing their
generosity: they might be happy among their
equals, but those are despised for company where
they are despised in turn. You saw what a crowd
of humble cousins, card-ruined beaux, and captains
on half-pay, were willing to make up this great
man's retinue down to his country-seat. 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 lukewarm dinner, served up be-
tween two pewter plates from a cook's shop. Yet,
poor devils ! they are willing to undergo the imper-
tinence and pride of their entertainer, merely to be
tnought to live among the great : they are willing
to pass the summer in bondage, though conscious
they an; taken down only to approve his lordship's
taste upon every occasion, to tag all his stupid ob-
servations with a very true, to praise his stable, and
descant upon his claret and cookery.
The pitiful humiliations of the gentlemen you
are now describing, said I, puts me in mind of a
custom among the Tartars of Koreki, not entirely
dissimilar to this we are now considering.* The
Russians, who trade with them, carry thither a kind
of mushrooms, which they exchange for turs of
squirrels, ermines, sables, and foxes. These mush-
rooms the rich Tartars lay up in. large quantities
for the winter; and when a nobleman makes a
mushroom-feast, all the neighbours around are in-
vited. The mushrooms are prepared by boiling,
by which the water acquires an intoxicating quali-
ty, and is a sort of drink which the Tartars prize
beyond all other. When the 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 mushroom-broth to distraction
as well as the rich, but can not afford it at the first
hand, post themselves on these occasions round the
huts of the rich, and watch the opportunities ol Jhe
ladies and gentlemen as they come down to pass
their hquor ; and holding a wooden bowl, catch the
delicious fluid, very little altered by filtration, being
still strongly tinctured with the intoxicating quali-
ty. Of this they drink with the utmost satisfac-
tion, and thus they get as drunk and as jovial aa
their betters.
Happy nobility ! cries my companion, who can
fear no diminution of respect, unless by being seized
with strangury, and who when most; drunk are
most useful. Though we have not this custom
among us, I foresee, that if it were introduced, we
might have many a toad-eater in England ready to
drink from the wooden bowl on these occasions,
and to praise the flavour of his lordship's liquor.
As we have different classes of gentry, who knows
but we may see a lord holding the bowl to a min-
ister, a knight holding it to his lordship, and a
simple 'squire drinking it double distilled from
loins of knighthood? For my part, I shall never
for the future hear a great man's flatterers harangu-
ing in his praise, that I shall not fancy I behold
the wooden bowl; for I can see no reason why a
man, who can live easily and happily at home,
should bear the drudgery of decorum, and the im-
pertinence of his entertainer, unless intoxicated
with a passion for all that was quality; unless
he thought that whatever came from the great was
delicious, and had the tincture of the mushroom in
it. Adieu.
' Van Stralenberg, a writer of credit, gives the same ac-
count of this people. See an Historico-Geographical Deecrip.
tio.T of the north-eastern parts of Europe and Asia, p. 397,
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
287
LETTER XXXIII.
From the Same.
I iM disgusted, O Fura Hoam, even to sickness
disgusted. Is it possible to bear the presumption
of those islanders, when they pretend to instruct
me in the ceremonies of Gliina ! They lay it down
as a maxim, that every person who comes from
thence must express himself in metaphor; svpear
by Alia, rail against wine, and behave, and talk,
and write, like a Turk or Persian. They make
no distinction between our elegant manners, and
the voluptuous barbarities of our Eastern neigh-
bours. Wherever I come, I raise either difEdence
or astonishment : some fancy me no Chinese, be-
cause I am formed more like a man than a monster;
and others wonder to find one born five thousand
miles from England, endued with common sense.
Strange, say they, that a man who has received
his education at such a distance from London,
should have common sense : to tie born out of Eng-
land, and yet have common sense! Impossibie!
He must be some Englishman in disgiuse; his
very visage has nothing of the true exotic barbari- j
ty- _ _ I
I yesterday received an invitation from a lady of
distinction, who it seems had collected all her know-
ledge of Eastern manners from fictions every day
propagated here, under the titles of Eastern tales
and Oriental histories: she received me very polite-
ly, but seemed to wonder that I neglected bringing-
opium and a tobacco-box ; when chairs were drawn
for the rest of the company, I was assigned my
place on a cushion on the floor. It was in vain
that I protested the Chinese used chairs as in Eu-
rope ; she understood decorums too well to entertain
me with the ordinary civilities.
I had scarcely been seated according to her di-
rections, when the footman was ordered to pin a
napkin under my chin : this I protested against, as
being no way Chinese ; however, the whole com-
pany, who it seems were a club of connoisseurs,
gave it unanimously against me, and the napkin
was pinned accordingly.
It was impossible to be angry with people, who
seemed to err only from an excess of politeness,
and I sat contented, expecting their importunities
were now at an end ; but as soon as ever dinner
was served, the lady demanded, whether I was for
a plate of Bears' claws, or a slice of Birds' nests?
As these were dishes with which I was utterly un-
ac([uaintcd, 1 was desirous of eating only what I
knew, and therefore begged to be helped from a
piece of beef that lay on the side-table : my request
at once disconcerted the whole company. A Chi-
nese eat beef! thai could never be! there was no
local propriety in Chinese beef, whatever there
might be in Ciiinese pheasant. Sir, said m^ en-
tertainer, I think I have some reasons to fancy my-
self a judge of these matters ; in short, the Chinese
never eat beef; so that I must be permitted to re-
commend the Pilaw. There was never better
dressed at Pekin ; the saffron and rice are well
boiled, and the spices in perfection.
I had no sooner begun to eat what was laid be-
fore me than I found the whole company as much
astonished as before ; it seems I made no use of my
chop-sticks. A grave gentleman, whom I take to
be an author, harangued very learnedly (as the
company seemed to think) upon the use which was
made of them in China. He entered into a long
argument with himself about their firstintroduction,
without once appealing to me, who might be sup-
posed best capable of silencmg the inquiry. As
the gentleman therefore took my silence for a mark
of his own superior sagacity, he was resolved to
pursue the triumph: he talked of our cities, moun-
tains, and animals, as familiarly as if he had been
born in Gluamsi, but as erroneously as if a native
of the moon. He attempted to prove that I had
nothing of the true Chinese cut in my visage ;
showed that ray cheek-bones should have been
higher, and my foreheail broader. In short, he
almost reasoned me out of my country, and effect-
ually persuaded the rest of the company to be of
his opinion.
I was going to expose his mistakes, when it was
insisted that I had nothing of the true Eastern
manner in my dehvery. This gentleman's con-
versation (says one of the ladies, who was a great
reader) is like our own, mere chit-chat and com-
mon sense : there is nothing like sense in the true
Eastern style, where nothing more is required but
sublimity. Oh ! for a history of Aboulfaouris, the
grand voyager, of genii, magicians, rocks, bags of
bullets, giants, and enchanters, where all is great,
obscure, magnificent, and unintelligible ! — I have
written many a sheet of Eastern tale myself, in-
terrupts the author, and I defy the severest criiic
to say but that I have stuck close to the true man-
ner. I have compared a lady's chin to the snow
upon the mountains of Bomek ; a soldiers sword,
to the clouds that obscure the face of heaven. If
riches are mentioned, I compared them to the flocks
that graze the verdant Tefliis ; if poverty, to the
mists that veil the brow of mount Baku. I have
used thee and thou upon all occasions; I have de-
scribed fallen stars and splitting mountains, not
forgetting the little Hourics, who make a pretty
figure in every description. But you shall hear
how I generally begin: " Eben-ben-bolo, who wag
the son of Ban, was born on the foggy summits of
Benderabassi. His beard was whiter than the
feathers which veil the breast of the penguin ; his
eyes were like the eyes of doves when washed by
the dews of tiic morning ; his hair, which hung Iik«
the willow weeping over the glassy stream, was so
2ft8
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
beautiful that it seemed to reflect its own bright-
ness , and his feet were as the feet of a wild deer
which fleeth to the tops of the mountains." There,
there is the true Eastern taste for you ; every ad-
vance made towards sense is only a deviation from
sound.* Eastern tales should always be sonorous,
loft}', musical, and unmeaning.
I could not avoid smiling to hear a native of
England attempt to instruct me in the true Eastern
idiom ; and after he looked round some time for
applause, I presumed to ask him, whether he had
ever travelled into the East ; to which he replied in
the negative. I demanded whether he understood
Chinese or Arabic ; to which also he answered as
before. Then how, sir, said I, can you pretend to
determine upon the Eastern style, who are en-
tirely unacquainted with the Eastern writings?
Take, sir, the word of one who is professedly a
Chinese, and who is actually acquainted with the
Arabian writers, that what is palmed upon you
daily for an imitation of Eastern writing no way
resembles their manner, either in sentiment or dic-
tion. In the East, similes are seldom used, and
metaphors almost wholly unknown ; but in China
particularly, the very reverse of what you allude to
takes place ; a cool phlegmatic method of writing
prevails there. The writers of that country, ever
more assidiuus to instruct than to please, address
rather the judgment than the fancy. Unlike many
authors of Europe, who have no consideration of
the reader's time, they generally leave more to be
understood than they express.
Besides, sir, you must not expect from an in-
habitant of China the same ignorance, the same
unlettered simplicity, that you find in a Turk,
Persian, or native of Peru. The Chinese are
versed in the sciences as well as you, and are mas-
ters of several arts unknown to the people of Eu-
rope. Many of them are instructed not only in
their own national learning, but are perfectly well
acquainted with the languages and learning of the
West. If my word in such a case is not to be
taken, consult your own travellers on this head,
who affirm, that the scholars of Pekin and Siam
sustain theological theses in Latin. The college
of Masprend, which is but a league from Siam
(says one of your travellers,*) came in a body to
salute our ambassador. Nothing gave me more
sincere pleasure than to behold a number of priests,
venerable both from age and modesty, followed by
a number of youths of all nations, Chinese, Ja-
■panese, Tonquinese, of Cochin China, Pegu, and
Siam, all willing to pay their respects in the most
polite manner imaginable. A Cochin Chinese
made an excellent Latin oration upon this occa-
joumdl ou Suite du Voyage de Siam, en forme de Let-
tres familiores, fait en 1685 et 1686, par N. L. D. C, p. 174.
BJit. Amstelod 1686.
sion ; he was succeeded, and even outdone, by a
student of Tonquin, who was as well skilled in the
Western learning as any scholar of Paris. Now,
sir, if youths, who never stirred from home, are so
perfectly skilled in your laws and learning, surely
more must be expected from one like me, who have
travelled so many thousand miles; who have con-
versed familiarly for several years with the English
factors established at Canton, and the missionaries
sent us from every part of Europe. The unaffect-
ed of every country nearly resemble each other,
and a page of our Confucius and of your Tillotson
have scarcely any material difference. Paltry af-
fectation, strained allusions, and disgusting finery,
are easily attained by those who choose to wear
them : and they are but too frequently the badges
of ignorance, or of stupidity, whenever it would
endeavour to please.
I was proceeding in my discourse, when looking
round, I perceived the company in no way atten-
tive to what I attempted, with so much earnest-
ness, to enforce. One lady was whispering her
that sat next, another was studying the merits of
a fan, a third began to yawn, and the author him-
self fell fast asleep. I thought it, therefore, high time
to make a retreat; nor did the company seem to
show any regret at my preparations for departure :
even the lady who had invited me, with the most
mortifying insensibility, saw me seize my hat, and
rise from my cushion ; nor was I invited to repeat
my visit, because it was found that I aimed at ap-
pearing rather a reasonable creature than an out-
landish ideot. Adieu.
LETTER XXXIV.
To tlie Same.
The polite arts are in this country subject to as
many revolutions as its laws or politics : not only
the objects of fancy and dress, but even of delicacy
and taste, are directed by the capricious influence
of fashion. I am told there has been a time when
poetry was universally encouraged by the great;
when men of the first rank not only patronized the
poet, but produced the finest models for his imita-
tion. It was then the English sent forth those
glowing rhapsodies, which we have so often read
over together with rapture; poems big with all the
sublimity of Mentius, and supported by reasoning
as strong as that of Zimpo,
The nobility are fond of wisdom, but they are
also fond of having it without study; to read poetry
required thought; and the English nobility weie
not fond of thinking: they soon therefore placed
their aflections upon music, because in this they
might indulge a happy vacancy, and yet still hava
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
289
pretensions to delicacy and taste as before. They j
soon brought their numerous dependants into an
approbation of their pleasures; who in turn led]
their thousand imitators to feel or feign a similitude
of passion. Colonies of singers were now im-
ported from" abroad at a vast expense; and it was
expected the English would soon be able to set
examples to Europe. All these expectations, how-
ever, were soon dissipated. In spite of the zeal
which fired the great, the ignorant vulgar refused
to be taught t-> sing; refused to undergo the cere-
monies which were to initiate them in the singing
fraternity: thus the colony from abroad dwindled
by degrees; for they were of themselves unfortu-
nately incapable of propagating the breed.
Music having thus lost its splendour, painting
is now become the sole object of fashionable care.
The title of connoisseur in that art is at present
the safest passport in every fashionable society ; a
well-timed shrug, an admiring attitude, and one
or two exotic tones of exclamation, are sufficient
qualifications for men of low circumstances to curry
favour. Even some of the young nobility are
themselves early instructed in handling the pencil,
while their happy parents, big with expectation,
foresee the walls of every apartment covered with
the manufactures of their posterity.
But many of the English are not content with
giving all their time to this art at home; some
young men of distinction are found to travel
through Europe, with no other intent than that of
understanding and collecting pictures, studying
seals, and describing statues. On they travel from
this cabinet of curiosities to that gallery of pictures ;
waste the prime of life in wonder; skilful in pic-
tures, ignorant in men; yet impossible to be re-
claimed, because their follies take shelter under the
names of delicacy and taste.
It is true, painting should have due encourage-
ment; as the painter can undoubtedly fit up our
apartments in a much more elegant manner than
the upholsterer; but I should think a man of fash-
ion makes but an indifferent exchange who lays
out all that time in furnishing his house which he
should have employed in the furniture of his head.
A person who shows no other symptoms of taste
than his cabinet or gallery, might as well boast to
me of the furniture of his kitchen.
I know no other motive but vanity that induces
the great to testify such an inordinate passion for
pictures. After the piece is bought, and gazed at
eio'ht or ten days successively, the purchaser's plea-
sure must surely be over; all the satisfaction he
can then have is to show it to others; he may be
considered as the guardian of a treasure of which
he makes no manner of use; his gallery is furnish-
ed not for himself but the connoisseur, who is ge-
nerally some humble flatterer, ready to feign a rap-
ture he does iK)t feel, and as necessary to the hap-
19
piness of a picture-buyer as gazers are to the mag-
nificence of an Asiatic procession.
I have enclosed a letter from a youth of distinc-
tion, on his travels, to his father in . England ;
in which he appears addicted to no vice, seems
obedient to his governor, of a good natural dis'
position, and fond of improvement, but at the
same time early taught to regard cabinets and gal-
leries as the only proper schools of improvement,
and to consider a skill in pictures as the properest
knowledge for a meui of quality.
"My Lord,
"We have been but two days an Antwerp,
wherefore I have sat down as soon as possible, to
give you some account of what we have seen since
our arrival, desirous of letting no opportunity pass
without writing to so good a father. Immediately
upon alighting from our Rotterdam machine, my
governor, who is immoderately fond of paintings,
and at the same time an excellent judge, would let
no time pass till we paid our respects to the church
of the virgin mother, which contains treasure be-
yond estimation. We took an infinity of pains in
knowing its exact dimensions, and differed half a
foot in our calculation; so I leave that to some
succeeding information. I really believe my go
vernor and I could have lived and died there.
There is scarce a pillar in the whole church that
is not adorned by a Reubens, a Vander Meuylen,
a Vandyke, or a Wouverman. What attitudes,
carnations, and draperies ! I am almost induced
to pity the English, who have none of those exqui-
site pieces among them. As we were willing to
let slip no opportunity of doing business, we im-
mediately after went to wait on Mr. Hogendoi-p,
whom you have so frequently commended for his
jutiicious collection. His cameos are indeed be-
yond price : his intaglios not so good. He showed
us one of an officiating flamen, which he thought
to be an antique; but my governor, who is not to
be deceived in these particulars, soon found it to be
an arrant cinque cento. I could not, however,
sufficiently admire the genius of Mr. Hogendorp,
who has been able to collect, from all parts of the
world, a thousand things which nobody knows the
use of. Except your lordship and my governor,
I do not know any body I admire so much. He
is indeed a surprising genius. The next morning
early, as we were resolved to take the whole day
before us, we sent our compliments to Mr. Van
Sprokken, desiring to see his gallery, which request
he very politely complied with. His gallery mea-
sures fifty feet by twenty, and is well filled ; but
what surprised me most of all, was to see a holi/
family just like your lordship's, which this inge-
nious gentleman assures me is the true original
I own this gave me inexpressible uneasiness, and
1 fear it will to your lordship, as I had flatteifed
290
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
myself that the only original was in your loJship's
possession; I would advise you, howe-ver, to take
your's down, till its merit can be ascertained, my
governor assuring me, that he intends to write a
long dissertation to prove its originality. One
might study in this city for ages, and still find
something new : we went from this to view the
cardinal's statues, which are really very fine ; there
were three spintria executed in a very masterly
manner, all arm in arm ; the torse which I heard
you talli so much of, is at last discovered to be a
Hercules spinning, and not a Cleopatra bathing,
as your lordship had conjectured j there has been
a treatise written to prove it.
" My Lord Firmly is certainly a Goth, a Van-
dal, no taste in the world for painting. 1 wonder
how any call him a man of taste : passing through
the streets of Antwerp a few days ago, and ob-
serving the nakedness of the inhabitants, he was
so barbarous as to observe, that he thought the
best method the Flemings could take, was to sell
their pictures, and buy clothes. Ah, Cogline !
We shall go to-morrow to Mr. Carwarden's cabi-
net, and the next day we shall see the curiosities
collected by Van Rau, and the day after we shall
pay a visit to Mount Calvary, and after that
but I find my paper finished ; so, with the most
sincere wishes for your lordship's happiness, and
with hopes, after having seen Italy, that centre of
pleasure, to return home worthy the care and ex-
pense which has been generously laid out in my
mprovement, I remain, my Lord, yours," etc.
LETTER XXXV.
From flingpo, a Slave in Pereia, to Altangi, a travelling Phi-
losopher of China, by the way of Moscow.
Fortune has made me the slave of another, but
nature and inclination render me entirely subser-
vient to you : a tyrant commands my body, but you
are master of my heart. And yet let not thy inflexi-
ble nature condemn me when I confess, that I find
my soul shrink with my circumstances. 1 feel my
mind not less than my body bend beneath the ri-
gours of servitude ; the master whom I serve
grows every day more formidable. In s[)ite of
reason, which should teach me to despise him, his
hideous image fills even my dreams with horror.
A few days ago, a Christian slave, who wrought
in the gardens, happening to enter an arbour,
where the tyrant was entertaining the ladies of his
haram with coffee, the unhappy captive was in-
stantly stabbed to the heart for his intrusion. I
have been preferred to his place, which, though
'ess laborious than my former station, is yet more
ungrateful, as it brings me nearer him whose pre-
sence excites sensations at once of disgust and ap-
prenension.
Into what a state of misery are the moderK Per-
sians fallen ! A nation famous for setting the
world an example of freedom is now become a land
of tyrants, and a den of slaves. The houseless
Tartar of Kamtschatka, who enjoys His herbs and
his fish in unmolested freedom, may be envied, if
compared to the thousands who pine here in hope-
less servitude, and curse the day that gave them
being. Is this just dealing, Heaven! to render
millions wretched to swell up the happiness of a
few ? can not the powerful of this earth be happy
without our sighs and tearsi must every luxury of
the great be woven from the calamities of the poor?
It must, it must- syarely be, that this jarring dis-
cordant life is but the prelude to some future har-
mony : the soul attuned to virtue here shall go
from hence to fill up the universal choir where
Tien presides in person, where there shall be no
tyrants to frown, no shackles to bind, nor no whips
to threaten ; where I shall once more meet my
father with rapture, and give a loose to filial piety;
where I shall hang on his neck, and hear the wis-
dom of his Hps, and thank him for all the happi-
ness to which he has introduced me.
The wretch whom fortune has made my master
has lately purchased several slaves of both sexes ;
among the rest I hear a Christian captive talked
of with admiration. The eunuch who bought
her, and who is accustomed to survey beauty with
indiflference, speaks of her with emotion ! Her
pride, however, astonishes her attendant slaves not
less than her beauty. It is reported t^hat she re-
fuses the warmest solicitations of her haughty lord;
he has even offered to make her one of his four
wives upon changing herreHgion, and conforming
to his. It is probable she can not refuse such ex-
traordinary oilers, and her delay is perhaps intend-
ed to enhance her favours.
I have just now seen her; she inadvertently ap-
proached the place without a veil, where I sat
writing. She seemed to regard the heavens alone
with fixed attention; there her most ardent gaze
was directed. Genius of the sun ! what unex-
pected softness ! what animated grace ! her beauty
seemed the transparent covering of virtue. Ce-
lestial beings could not wear a look of more per-
fection, while sorrow humanized her form, and
mixed my admiration with pity. I rose from the
bank on which I sat, and she retired ; happy that
none observed us; for su<rh an interview might
have been fatal.
I have regarded, till now, the opulence and the
power of my tyrant without envy. I saw him
with a mind incapable of enjoying the gifts offer
tune, and consequently regarded him as one loaded
rather than enriched with its favours ; but at pre-
sent, when I think that so much beauty is reserv-
ed only for him ; that so many charms should be
lavished on a wretch incapable of feeling the great-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
291
ness of the blessing, I own I feel a reluctance to
which I have hitherto been a stranger.
But let not my father impute those uneasy sen-
sations to so trifling a cause as love. No, never
let it be thought that your son, and the pupil of the
wise Fum Hoani, could stoop to so degrading a
passion ; I am only displeased at seeing so much
excellence so unjustly disposed of.
The uneasiness which I feel is not for myself,
but for the beautiful Christian. When I reflect
on the barbarity of him for whom she is designed,
1 pity, indeed I pity her ; when I think that she
must only share one heart, who deserves to com-
mand a thousand, excuse me if I feel an emotion
which universal benevolence extorts from me. As
I am convinced that you take a pleasure in those
sallies of humanity, and particularly pleased with
compassion, 1 could not avoid discovering the sen-
sibility with wliich I felt this beautiful stranger's
distress. I have for a while forgot, in her's, the
miseries of my own hopeless situation ; the tyrant
grows every day more severe ; and love, which soft-
ens all other minds into tenderness, seems only to
have increased his severity. Adieu.
LETTER XXXVL
From the Same.
The whole liaram is filled with a tumultuous
5oy ; Zelis, the beautiful captive, has consented to
embrace the religion of Mahomet, and become one
of the wives of the flistidious Persian. It is im-
possible to describe the transport that sits on every
face on this occasion. Music and feasting fill
every apartment, the most miserable slave seems
to forget liis chains, and sympathizes with the
happiness of Mostadad. Tlie herb we tread be-
neath our feet is not made more for our use than
every slave around him for their imperious master ;
mere machines of obedience, they wait with silent
assiduity, feel his pains, and rejoice in his exulta-
tion. Heavens, how much is requisite to make
one man happy !
Twelve of the most beautiful slaves, and I among
the number, have got orders to prepare for carry-
ing liim in triumph to the bridal apartment. The
blaze of perfumed torches are to imitate the day ;
the dancers and singers are hired at a vast expense.
The nuptials are to be celebrated on the aji-
proachiiig feast of Barboura, when a hundred taels
of gold are to be distributed among the barren
wives, in order to pray for fertility from the ap-
proaching union.
What will not riches procure ! A hundred do-
mestics, who curse the tyrant in their souls, are
commanded to wear a face of joy, and they are
joyful. A hundred flatterers are ordered to attend,
and they fill his ears with praise. Beauty, all-com-
manding beauty, sues for admittance, and scarcely
receives an answer : even love itself seems to wait
upon fortune, or though the passion be only feigned,
yet it wears every appearance of sincerity : and
what greater pleasure can even true sincerity con-
fer, or what would the rich have more 1
Nothing can exceed the intended magnificence
of the bridegroom, but the costly dresses of the bride :
six eunuchs, in the most sumptuous habits, are to
conduct him to the nuptial couch, and wait his
orders. Six ladies, in all the magnificence of Per-
sia, are directed to undress the bride. Their busi-
ness is to assist, to encourage her, to divest her of
every encumbering part of her dress, all but the
last covering, which, by an artful complication of
ribands, is purposely made difficult to unloose, and
with which she is to part reluctantly even to the
joyful possessor of her beauty.
Mostadad, O my father! is no philosopher ; and
yet he seems perfectly contented with ignorance.
Possessed of numberless slaves, camels and women,
he desires no greater possession. He never open-
ed the page of Mentius, and yet all the slaves tell
me that he is happy.
Forgive the weakness of my nature, if I some-
times feel my heart rebellious to the dictates of wis-
dom, and eager for happiness like his. Yet why
wish for his wealth with his ignorance? to be like
him, incapable of sentimental pleasures, incapable
of feehng the happiness of making others happy,
incapable of teaching the beautiful Zelis philosophyl
What! shall I in a transport of passion give up
the golden mean, the universal harmony, the un-
changing essence, for the possession of a hundred
camels, as many slaves, thirty -five beautiful horses,
and seventy -three fine women? First blast me to
the centre! degrade me beneath the most degraded!
pare my nails, ye powers of Heaven! ere I would
stoop to such an exchange. What! part with phi-
losophy, which teaches me to suppress my passions
instead of gratifying them, which teaches me even
to divest my soul of passion, which teaches serenity
in the nudst of tortures! philosophy, by which even
now 1 am so very serene, and so very much at ease,
to be persuaded to part with it for any other en-
joyment! Never, never, even though persuasion
spoke in the accents of Zelis!
A female slave informs me that the bride is to be
arrayed in a tissue of silver, and her hair adorned
with the largest pearls of Ormus: but why tease
you with particulars, in which we both are so little
concerned. The pain 1 feel in separation throws
a gloom over my mind, which in this scene of uni-
versal joy, I fear may be attributed to some other
cause : how wretched are those who arc, like me,
denied even the last resource of misery, their tears!
Adieu.
LETTER XXXVII.
From the Same.
I BEGIN to have doubts whether wisdom be alone
sufficient to make us happy : whether every step
we make in refinement is not an inlet into new
disquietudes. A mind too vigorous and active
serves only to consume the body to which it is
joined, as the richest jewels are soonest found to
Wear their settings.
When we rise in knowledge, as the prospect
widens, the objects of our regard become more
obscure ; and the unlettered peasant, whose views
are only directed to the narrow sphere around him,
beholds Nature with a finer relish, and tastes her
blessings with a keener appetite than the philoso-
pher whose mind attempts to grasp a universal
system.
As I was some days ago pursuing this subject
among a circle of my fellow-slaves, an ancient
Guebre of tlie number, equally remarkable for his
piety and wisdom, seemed touched with my con-
versation, and desired to illustrate what I had been
saying with an allegory taken from the Zendavesta
of Zoroaster: by this we shall be taught, says he,
that they who travel in pursuit of wisdom walk
only in a circle ; and after all their labour, at last
return to their pristine ignorance ; and in this also
we shall see, that enthusiastic confidence or u)isat-
isfying doubts terminate all our inquiries.
In early times, before myriads of nations covered
the earth, the whole human race lived together in
one valley. The simple inhabitants, surrounded
on every side by lofty mountains, knew no other
world but the little spot to which they were confin-
ed. They fancied the heavens bent down to meet
the mountain tops, and formed an impenetrable
wall to surround them. None had ever yet ven-
tured to climb the steepy cliff, in order to explore
those regions that lay beyond it ; they knew the
nature of the skies only from a tradition, which
mentioned their being made of adamant : traditions
make up the reasonings of the simple, and serve to
silence every inquiry.
In this sequestered vale, blessed with all the
spontaneous productions of Nature, the honeyed
blossom, the refreshing breeze, the gliding brook,
and golden fruitage, the simple inhabitants seemed
happy in themselves, in each other ; they desired
no greater pleasures, for they knew of none great-
er ; ambition, pride, and envy, were vices unknown ,
among them ; and from this peculiar simplicity ,
of its possessors, the country was called the Valley
of Ignorance.
At length, however, an unhappy youth, more
aspiring than the rest, undertook to climb the \
mountiiin's side, and examine the summits which
were hitherto deemed inaccesiiible. The inhabit- \
ants from below gazed with wonder at his intre-
pidity ; some ap|)lauded his courage, others censur
ed his folly ; still, however, he proceeded towards
the place where the earth and heavens seemed to
unite, and at length arrived at the wished-for height
with extreme labour and assiduity.
His first surprise was to find the skies, not as he
expected within his reach, but still as far oflT as be-
fore ; his amazement increased when he saw a wide
extended region lying on the opposite side of the
mountain, but it rose to astonishment when he
beheld a country at a distemce more beautiful and
alluring than even that he had just left behind.
As he continued to gaze with wonder, a genius,
with a look of infinite modesty, approaching, offer-
ed to be his guide and instructor. The distant
country which you so much admire, says the an-
gelic being, is called the Land of Certainty: in that
charming retreat, sentiment contributes to refine
every sensual banquet ; the inhabitants are blessed
with every solid enjoyment, and still more blessed
in a perfect consciousness of their own felicity : ig-
norance in that country is wholly unknown ; all
there is satisfaction without allay, for every pleasure
first undergoes the examination of reason. As foi
me, I am called the Genius of Demonstration, and
am stationed here in order to conduct every adven
turer to that land of happiness, through those inter-
vening regions you see overhung with fogs and
darkness, and horrid with forests, cataracts, cav-
erns, and various other shapes of danger. But fol-
low me, and in time I may lead you to that distant
desirable land of tranquillity. v
The intrepid traveller immediately put himself
under the direction of the genius, and both jour-
neying on together with a slow but agreeable pace,
deceived the tediousness of the way by conversa-
tion. The beginning of the journey seemed to
promise true satisfaction, but as they proceeded
forward, the skies became more gloomy and the
way more intricate; they often inadvertently ap-
proached the brow of some frightful precipice, or
the brink of a torrent, and were obliged to measure
back their former viay: the gloom increasing as
they proceeded, their pace became more slow ; they
paused at every step, frequently stumbled, and their
distrust and timidity increased. The Genius of
Demonstration now therefore advised his pupil to
grope upon hands and feet, as a method, though
more slow, yet less liable to error.
In this manner they attempted to pursue their
journey for some time, when they were overtaken
by another genius, who with a precijiitate pace
seemed travelling the same way. He was instant-
ly known by the other to be the Genius of Proba-
hilily. Pie wore two wide extended wings at his
back, which incessantly waved, without incre&sing
the rapidity of his motion ; his countenaiice be-
trayed a confidence that the ignorant migh* ms-
take for sincerity, and he had but one eye, which
was rixed in the middle of his forehead.
Servant of Hormizda, cried he, approaching tlie
mortal pilgrim, if thou art travelling to the Land
of Certainty, how is it possible to arrive there un-
der the guidance of a genius, who proceeds for-
ward so slowly, and is so little acquainted with the
way? Follow me, we shall soon perform the
journey to where every pleasure waits our arrival.
The peremptory tone in which this genius spoke,
and the speed with which he moved forward, in-
duced the traveller to change his conductor, and
leaving his modest companion behind, he proceed-
ed forward with his more confident director, seem-
ing not a little pleased at the increased velocity of
his motion.
But soon he found reasons to repent. When-
ever a torrent crossed their way, his guide taught
him to despise the obstacle by plunging him in ;
whenever a precipice presented, he was directed to
fling himself forward. Thus each moment miracu-
lously escaping, his repeated escapes only served
to increase his temerity. He led him therefore
forward, amidst infinite difficulties, till they arrived
at the borders of an ocean, which appeared innavi-
gable from the black mists that lay upon its sur-
face. Its unquiet waves were of the darkest hue,
and gave a lively representation of the various agi-
tations of the human mind.
The Genius of Probability now confessed his
temerity, owned his being an improper guide to the
Land of Certainty, a country where no mortal
had ever been permitted to arrive ; but at the same
time offered to supply the traveller with another
conductor, who should carry him to the Land of
Confidence, a region where the inhabitants lived
with the utmost tranquillity, and tasted almost as
much satisfaction as if in the Land of Certainty.
Not waiting for a reply, he stamped three times on
the ground, and called forth the Demon of Error,
a gloomy fiend of the servants of Arimanes. The
yawning earth gave up the reluctant savage, who
seemed unable to bear the light of the day. His
stature was enormous, his colour black and hideous,
his aspect betrayed a thousand varying passions,
and he spread forth pinions that were fitted for the
most rapid flight. The traveller at first was shock-
ed at the spectre; but finding him obedient to su-
perior power, he assumed his former tranquillity.
I have called you to duty, cries the genius to the
demon, to bear on your back a son of mortality
over the Ocean of Doubts, into the Land of Con-
fidence: I expect you'll perform your commission
with punctuality. And as for you, continued the
genius, addressing the traveller, when once I have
bound this fillet round your eyes, let no voice of
persuasion, nor threats the most terrifying, per-
suade you to unbind it in order to look round ; keep
the fillet fast, look not at the ocean below, and
you tnay certainly expect to arrive at a region of
pleasure.
Thus saying, and the traveller's eyes being
covered, the demon, muttering curses, raised him
on his back, and instantly upborne by his strong
pinions, directed his flight among the clouds. Nei-
ther the loudest thunder, nor the most angry tem-
pest, could persuade the traveller to unbind his
eyes. The demon directed his flight downwards,
and skimmed the surface of the ocean ; a thousand
voices, some with loud invectives, others in the
sarcastic tones of contempt, vainly endeavoured to
persuade him to look round ; but he still continued
to keep his eyes covered, and would in all proba-
bility have arrived at the happy land, had not flat-
tery eflfected what other means could not perform.
For now he heard himself welcomed on every side
to the promised land, and a universal shout of joy
was sent forth at his safe arrival. The wearied
traveller, desirous of seeing the long wished for
country, at length pulled the fillet from his eyes,
and ventured to look round him. But he had un-
loosed the band too soon ; he was not yet above
half-way over. The demon, who was still hover-
ing in the air, and had produced those sounds only
in order to deceive, was now freed from his com-
mission ; wherefore throwing the astonished travel-
ler from his back, the unhappy youth fell headlong
into the subjacent Ocean of Doubts, from whence
he never after was seen to rise.
LETTER XXXVIIL
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First I*residfent of the
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin in China.
When Parmenio, the Grecian, had done some-
thing which excited a universal shout from the
surrounding multitude, he was instantly struck
with the doubt, that what had their approbation
must certainly be wrong ; and turning to a philoso-
pher who stood near him. Pray, sir, says he, jpar-
don me; I fear I have been guilty of some ab-
surdity.
You know that I am not less than him a dcspiser
of the multitude ; you know that I equally detest
flattery to the great ; yet so many circumstances
have concurred to give a lustre to the latter part of
the present English monarch's reign, that I can not
withhold my contribution of praise ; 1 can not avoid
the acknowledging the crowd, for once, Justin their
unanimous approbation.
Yet think not that battles gained, dominion ex-
tended, or enemies brought to submission, are the
virtues which at present claim my admiration.
Were the reigning monarch only famous for his
victories, I should regard his character with indif-
ference : the boast of heroism in this enlitrhtened
age is justly regarded as a qualification of a very
.J
204
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS,
subordinate rank, and mankind now begin to look
wiln becoming horror on these foes to man. The
virtue in this aged monarch which I have at pre-
sent in view, is one of a much more exalted nature,
is one of the most difficult of attainment, is the least
praised of all kingly virtues, and yet deserves the
greatest praise ; the virtue I mean is Justice ; strict
administration of justice, without severity and with-
out favour.
Of all virtues this is the most difficult to be prac-
tised by a king who has a power to pardon. All
men, even tyrants themselves, lean to mercy when
unbiassed by passions orinterest ; the heart natural-
ly persuades to forgiveness, and pursuing the dic-
tates of this pleasing deceiver, we are led to prefer
our private satisfaction to public utility. What a
thorough love for the public, what a strong com-
mand over the passions, what a finely conducted
judgment must he possess, who opposes the dic-
tates of reason to those of his heart, and prefers the
future interest of his people to his own immediate
satisfaction!
If still to a man's own natural bias for tender-
derncss, we add the numerous solicitations made
by a criminal's friends for mercy ; if we survey a
king not only opposing his own feelings, but re-
luctantly refusing those he regards, and this to
satisfy the public, whose cries he may never hear,
whose gratitude he may never receive, this surely
is true greatness ! Let us fancy ourselves for a
moment in this just old man's place, surrounded
by numbers, all soliciting the same favour, a favour
that nature disposes us to grant, where the induce-
ments to pity are laid before us in the strongest
light, suppliants at our feet, some ready to resent
a refusal, none opposing a compliance ; let us, I
say, suppose ourselves in such a situation, and I
fancy we should find ourselves more apt to act the
character of good-natured men than of upright
magistrates.
What contributes to raise justice above all other
kingly virtues is, that it is seldom attended with a
due share of applause, and those who practise it
must be influenced by greater motives than emptj'
fame: the people are generally well pleased with a
remission of punishment, and all that wears the
appearance of humanity ; it is the wise alone who
are capable of discerning that impartial justice is
the truest mercy : they know it to be very difficult,
at once to compassionate, and yet condemn an ob-
ject that pleads for tenderness.
1 have been led into this common-place train of
thougnt by a late striking instance in this country
of the impartiality of justice, and of the king's in-
flexible resolution of inflicting punishment where
it was justly due. A man of the first quality, in
a fit either of passion, melancholy, or madness,
murdered his senant: it was expected that his sta-
tion in life would have lessened the ignominy of his
punishment ; however, he was arraigned, condemn-
ed, and underwent the same degrading death with
the meanest malefactor. It was well considered
that virtue alone is true nobility; and that he whose
actions sink him even beneath the vulgar, has no
right to those distinctions which should be the re-
ward only of merit : it was perhaps considered that
crimes were more heinous among the higher classes
of people, as necessity exposes them to fewer temp-
tations.
Over all the East, even China not excepted, a
person of the same quality, guilty of such a crime,
might, by giving up a share of his fortune to the
judge, buy off his sentence. There are several
countries, even in Europe, where the servant is
entirely the property of his master : if a slave kills
his lord, he dies by the most excruciating tortures;
but if the circumstances are reversed, a small fine
buys off the punishment of the offender. Happy
the country where all are equal, and where those
who sit as judges have too much integrity to receive
a bribe, and too much honour to pity from a simili-
tude of the prisoner's title or circumstances with
their own. Such is England: yet think not that
it was always equally famed for this strict imparti-
ality. There was a time, even here, when title
softened the rigours of the law, when dignified
wTetches were suffered to live, and continue for
years an equal disgrace to justice and nobility.
To this day, in a neighbouring country, the great
are often most scandalously pardoned for the most
scandalous offences. A person is still alive among
them who has more than once deserved" the most
ignominious severity of justice. His being of the
blood royal, however, was thought a sufficient atone-
ment for his being a disgrace to humanity. This
remarkable personage took pleasure in shooting at
the passengers below from the top of his palace;
and in this most princely amusement he usually
spent some time every day. He was at length ar-
raigned by the friends of a person whom in this
manner he had killed, was found guilty of the
charge, and condemned to die. His merciful mon-
arch pardoned him, in consideration of his rank
and quality. The unrepenting criminal soon after
renewed his usual entertainment, and in the same
manner killed another man. He was a second
time condemned; and, strange to think, a second
time received his majesty's pardon! Would you
believe it? A third time the very same man was
guilty of the very same offence; a third time, there-
fore, the laws of his country found him guilty: — 1
wish, for the honour of humanity, I could suppress
the rest — a third time he was pardoned! Will you
not think such a story too extraordinary for belief?
will you not think me describing the savage inhabi-
tants of Congo? Alas! the story is but too true;
and the country where it was transacted regarils
itself as the politest in Europe ! Adieu.
LETTER XXXIX.
from Lien Chi Altangi to ' * *, Merchant in Amsterdam.
Ceremonies are different in every country; but
true politeness is every where the same. Ceremo-
nies, which taise up so much of our attention, are
only artificial helps which ignorance assumes, in
order to imitate politeness, which is the result of
good sense and good nature. A person possessed
of those qxialities, though he had never seen a court,
is truly agreeable ; and if without them would con-
tinue a clown, though he had been all his life a
gentleman usher.
How would a Chinese, bred up in the formalities
of an Eastern Court, be regarded, should he carry
all his good manners beyond the Great Wall?
How would an Englishman, skilled in all the de-
corums of Western good-breeding, appear at an
Eastern entertainment — would he not be reckoned
more fantastically savage tiian even his unbred
tbotmanl
Ceremony resembles that base coin which circu-
lates through a country by the royal mandate; it
serves every purpose of real money at home, but is
entirely useless if carried abroad : a person who
should attempt to circulate his native trash in ano-
ther country, would be thought either ridiculous or
culpable. He is truly well-bred, who knows when
to value and when to despise those national pecu-
liarities, which are regarded by some with so much
observance : a traveller of taste at once perceives
that the wise are polite all the world over, but that
fools are polite only at home.
I have now before me two very fashionable let-
ters upon the same subject, both written by ladies
of distinction; one of whom leads the fashion in
England, and the other sets the ceremonies of
China: they are both regarded in their respective
countries, by all the beau monde, as standards of
taste, and models of true politeness, and both give
us a true idea of what they imagine elegant in their
admirers : which of them understands true polite-
ness, or whether either, you shall be at liberty to
determine. The English lady writes thus to her
female confidant: —
As I live, my dear Charlotte, I believe the colo-
nel will carry it at last; he is a most irresistible fel-
low, that is flat. So well dressed, so neat, so
spri'Thtly, and plays about one so agreeably, that I
vow, he has as much spirits as the Marquis of
Monkeyman's Italian greyhound. I first saw him
at Ranelagh; he shines there: he is nothing with-
out Ranelagh, and Ranelagh nothing without him.
The next day he sent a card and compliments, de-
siring to wait on mamma and me to the music sub-
scription. He looked all the time with such irre-
sistible impudence, that }X)sitively he had somotliiiig
in his face gave me as much pleasure as a pair-
royal of naturals in my own hand. He waited on
mamma and me the next morning to know how
we got home : you must know the insidious devil
makes love to us both. Rap went the footman at
the door; bounce went my heart: I thought he
would have rattled the house down. Chariot drove
up to the window, with his footmen in the prettiest
liveries ; he has infinite taste, that is flat. Mamma
had spent all the morning at her head ; but for my
part I was in an undress to receive him ; quite easy,
mind that; no way disturbed at his approach:
mamma pretended to be as degagie as I ; and yet
I saw her blush in spite of her. Positively he is a
most killing devil ! We did nothing but laugh all
the time he staid with us ; I never heard so many
very good things before : at first he mistook mamma
for my sister; at which she laughed : then he mis-
took my natural complexion for paint ; at which I
laughed : and then he showed us a picture in the
lid of his snuff-box, at which we all laughed. He
plays piquet so very ill, and is so very fond of cards,
and loses with such a grace, that positively he has
won me : I have got a cool hundred ; but have lost
my heart. I need not tell you that he is only a
colonel of the train-bands. I am, dear Charlotte,
yours for ever, Belinda.
The Chinese lady addresses ner confidant, a poor
relation of the family, upon the same occasion ; in
which she seems to understand decorums even bet-
ter than the Western beauty. You, who have re-
sided so long in China, will readily acknowledge
the picture to be taken from nature ; and, by being
acquainted with the Chinese customs, will better
apprehend the lady's meaning.
FROM YAOTJA TO YAYA.
Papa insists upon one, two, three, four hundred
taels from the colonel my lover, before he parts
with a lock of my hair. Flo, how I wish the dear
creature may be able to produce the money, and
pay papa my fortune. The colonel is reckoned
the politest man in all Shensi. The first visit he
paid at our house, mercy, what stooping, and cring-
ing, and stopping, and fidgeting, and going back,
and creeping forward, there was between him and
papa; one would have thought he had got the seven-
teen books of ceremonies all by heart. When he
was come into the hall he flourished his hands three
times in a very graceful manner. Papa, who would
not be outdone flourished his four times; upon this
the colonel began again, and both thus continued
flourishing for some minutes in the politest mann-T
imaginable. I was posted in the usual place be-
hind the screen, where I saw the whole ceremony
through a slit. Of this the colonel was sensible,
for papa informed him. I would have given the
world to have shown him mv little shoes, but hud
2%
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
no opportunity. It was the first time I had ever
tlie happiness of seeing any man but papa, and 1
vow, my dear Yaya, I thought my three souls
would actually have fled from my lips. Ho, but
he looked most charmingly ; he is reckoned the
best shaped man in the whole province, for he is
very fat, and very short ; but even those natural
advantages are improved by his dress, which is
fashionable past description. His liead was close
shaven, all but the crown, and the hair of that was
braided into a most beautiful tail, that reached
down to his heels, and was terminated by a bunch
of yeJlow roses. Upon his first entering the room,
I could easily perceive he had been highly perfum-
ed with assafoetida. But then his looks, his looks,
my dear Yaya, were irresistible. He kept his
eyes steadfastly fixed on the wall during the whole
ceremony, and I sincerely believe no accident could
have discomposed his gravity, or drawn his eyes
away. After a polite silence of two hours, he
gallantly begged to have the singing women in-
troduced, purely for my amusement. After one
of them had for some time entertained us with her
voice, the colonel and she retired for some minutes to-
gether. I thought they would never have come back :
I must own he is a most agreeable creature. Upon
his return, they again renewed the concert, and
he continued to gaze upon the wall as usual, when
in less than half an hour more, ho! but he retired
out of the room with another. He is indeed a
most agreeable creature.
When he came to take his leave, the whole
ceremony began afresh ; papa would see him to
the door, but the colonel swore he would rather see
the earth turned upside dowij than permit him to
stir a single step, and papa was at last obliged to
comply. As soon as he was got to the door, papa
went out to see him on horseback ; here they con-
tinued half an hour bowing and cringing, before
one would mount or the other go in, but the colo-
nel was at last victorious. He had scarce none a
hundred paces from the house, when papa, run-
ning out, halloo'd after him, A good journey ; ui)-
on which the colonel returned, and would see
papa into his house before ever he would depart.
He was no sooner got home than he sent me a
very fine present of duck eggs j)ainted of tw'enty
difierent colours. His generosity I own has won
me. 1 have ever since been trying over the eight
whom we bought that and our ribands cheated u»
as if she had no conscience, and so to quiet mine I
cheated her. All this is fair, you know. I remain,
n)y dear Yaya, your ever faithful
Yaoua.
LETTER XL.
From the Same.
You have always testified the highest esteem
for the English poets, and thought, them not infe-
rior to the Greeks, Romans, or even the Chinese,
in the art. But it is now thought even by the
English themselves, that the race of their poets is
extinct ; every day produces some pathetic excla-
mation upon the decadence of taste and genius.
Pegasus, say they, has slipped the bridle from
his mouth, and our modern bards attempt to direct
his flight by catching him by the tail.
Yet, my friend, it is only among the ignorant
that such discourses prevail ; men of true discern-
ment can see several poets still among the English
some of whom equal if not surpass their predeces-
sors. The ignorant term that alone poetry which
is couched in a certain number of syllables in every
line, where a vapid thought is drawn out into a
number of verses of equal length, and perhaps
pointed with rhymes at the end. But glowimr
sentiment, striking imagery, concise expression,
natural description, and modulated periods, are full
sufficient entirely to fill up my idea of this art, and
make way to every passion.
If my idea of poetry therefore be just, the Eng-
lish are not at present so destitute of poetical merit
as they seem to imagine. I can see several poets
in disguise among them; men furnished with that
strength of soul, sublimity of sentiment, 'and gran-
deur of expression, which constitute the character.
Many of the writers of their modern odes, sonnets,
tragedies, or rebuses, it is true, deserve not the
name, though they have done nothing but clink
rhymes and measure syllables for years together :
their Johnsons and Smollets are truly poets ; though
for aught I know they never made a single verse
in their whole lives.
In every incipient language, the poet and the
prose writer are very distinct in their qualifica-
tions; the poet ever proceeds first; treading un-
letters of good fortune, and have great hopes. All ; beaten paths, enriching his native funds, and em.
Ihave to apprehend is, that after he has married ployed in new adventures. The other follows with
more cautious steps, and though slow in his mo-
mc, and that 1 am carried to his house close shut
up in my chair, when he comes to have the first
sight of my face, he may shut me up a second time
and send me back to jiapa. However, I shall ap-
tions, treasures up every useful or pleasing disco-
very. But when once all the extent and the force
of the language is known, the poet then seems to
bu V the Xr, r ' '- '""^ r" '"'^Z ^"^" ''^"^ '' "^* ''^-^"^ ^'^ ''^t'""^' ^"'^ '^ ^' 1-gth overtaken by
Zt^tTanJ-:^'^1""-\ \r t» have a his assiduous pursuer. Both characters are then
ZZit^n^l -y hair, the beak of which blended into one ; the historian and orator catch
will rtdch do«n to my nose; the milliner from all the poet's fire, and leave him no real mark of
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
i-xj',
Jistinction, except- the iteration of numbers regu-
Lirly returning. Thus, in the decline of ancient
European learning, Seneca, though he wrote in
prose, is as much a poet as Lucan, and Longinus,
though but a critic, more sublime than ApoUonius.
From this then it appears, that poetry is not
discontinued, but altered among the English at pre-
sent ; the outward form seems different from what
it was, but poetry still continues internaliy the
the same: the only question remains, whether the
metric feet used by the good writers of the last age
or the prosaic numbers employed by thn good
writers of this, be preferable 1 And here *hf prac-
tice of the last age appears to me superior • they
submitted to the restraint of numbers rni F'rnilar
sounds : and this restraint, instead of diminishing,
augmented the force of their sent'm'^nt and style.
Fancy restrained may be compared *o a fountain,
which plays highest by dimiMifhi'^g the aperture.
Of the truth of this m-iJ-'m in every language,
-■very fine writer is ye^fectly «^nsible from his own
"•xperience, and yet to explain the reason would
«>e [)erhap6 as diffjcdt as to make a frigid genius
srofit by the discovery.
There is still another reason in f.ivour of the
i'xuriice of the last age, to be drawn from the va-
/vety of modulation. The musical period in prose
>* confined to a very few changes: the numbers in
verse are capable of infinite variation. I speak not
now from the practice of modern verse-writers, few
of whom have any idea of musical variety, but run
on in the same monotonous flow through the whole
poem ; but rather from the example of their former
poets, who were tolerable masters of this variety,
and also from a capacity in the language of still
admitting various unanticipated music.
Several rules have been drawn up for varying
the poetic measure, and critics have elaborately
talked of accents and syllables; but good sense and
a fine ear, which rules can never teach, are what
alone can in such a case determine. The raptur-
ous flowings of joy, or the interruptions of in-
dignation, require accents placed entirely different,
and a structure consonafit to the emotions they
would express. Changing passions, and numbers
changing with those passions, make the whole
secret of Western as well as Eastern poetry. In
a word, the great faults of the modern professed
English poets are, that they seem to want numbers
which should vary with the passion, and arc more
employed in describing to the imagination than
striking at the heart.
LETTER XLL
From the Same.
Some time since I sent thee, holy disciple of
'(mfucius, an account of the grand abbey or mau-
soleum of the kings and heroes of this nation : 1
have since been introduced to a temple not so an-
cient, but far superiour in beauty and magnificence
In this, which I's the most considerable of the em-
pire, there are o pompous inscriptions, no flattery
paid the dead, but all is elegant and awfully simjile.
There are, however, a few rags hung round the
walls, which have, at a vast expense, been taken
from the enemy in the present war. The silk of
which they are composed, when new, might do
valued at half a string of copper money in China;
ye'; this wise people fitted out a fleet and an army
in order to seize them, though now grown old, and
scarcely capal)le of being patched up into a hand-
kerchief. By this conquest, tne English arc said
to have gained, atid the French to have lost, much
honour. Is the honour of European nations placed
only in tattered silk ?
In this temple I was permitted to remain during
the whole service ; and were you not already ac-
quainted with the religion of the English, you
might, from my description, be inclined to believe
them as grossly idolatrous as the disciples of Lao.
The idol which they seem to address, strides like a
colossus over the door of the inner temple, which
here, as with the Jews, is esteemed the most sacred
part of the building. Its oracles are delivered in a
hundred various tones, which seem to inspire the
worshippers with enthusiasm and awe: an old
woman, who appeared to be the priestess, was em-
ployed in various attitudes as she felt the inspira-
tion. When it began to speak, all the people re-
mained fixed in silent attention, nodding assent,
looking a})probation, appearing highly edified by
those sounds which to a stranger might seem inar-
ticulate and unmeaning.
When the idol had done speaking, and the
priestess had locked up its lungs with a key, ob-
serving almost all the company leaving the temple,
I concluded the service was over, and taking my
hat, was going to walk away with the crowd, when
I was stopjied by the man in black, who assured
me that the ceremony had scarcely yet begun!
What, cried I, do I not see almost the whole
body of the worshippers leaving the church f
Would you persuade me that such numbers who
profess rehgion and morality, would, in this shame
less maimer, quit the temple before the service was
concluded! You surely mistake: not even the
Kalmucks would be guilty of such an indecency,
though all the object of their worship was but :i
joint-stool. My friend seemed to blush for lii-
countrymen, assuring me th;it those whom I saw
running away, were only a parcel of musical block
heads, whose passion was merely for sounds, ami
whose heads were as empty as a fiddle-case: thos«-
who remain behind, says he, are the true religioub,
they make use of music to warm their iie.irt.s and
to lift them to a proper i>itch of rapture : cxaiuinc
their behaviour, and you will confess there are some
ainonij us who practise true devotion.
I now looked round me as directed, but saw
nothing of that fervent devotion which he had
promised : one of the worshippers appeared to be
oglin<f the company tlirough a glass ; another was
fervent, not in addresses to Heaven> but to his mis-
tress; a third whispered, a fourth took snuiT, and
the priest himself, in a drowsy tone, read over the
duties of the day.
Bless my eyes, cried I, as I happened to look to-
wards the door, what do 1 see ! one of the worship-
pers fallen fast asleep, and actually sunk down on
ins cushion! Is he now enjoying the benefit of a
trance, or does he receive the influence of some
mysterious vision? Alas! Alas! replied my com-
panion, no such thing ; he has only had the mis-
fortune of eating too hearty a dinner, and finds
it impossible to keep his eyes open. Turning to
another part of the temple, I perceived a young
lady just in the same circumstances and attitude :
Strange ! cried I, can she too have over-eaten her-
self? O fie! replied my friend, you now grow
censorious. She grow drowsy from eating too
much! that would he a profanation! She only
sleeps now from having sat up all night at a brag
party. Turn me where I will then, says I, I can
perceive no single symptom of devotion among the
worshippers, except from that old woman in the
corner, who sits groaning behind the long sticks
of a mourning fan ; she indeed seems greatly edi
fied with what she hears. Ay, replied my friend,
I knew we should find some to catch you; I know
her; that is the deaf lady who lives in the clois-
ters.
In short, the remissness of behaviour in almost all
the worshippers, and some even of the guardians,
struck me with surprise. I liad been taught to be-
lieve that none were ever promoted to offices in the
temjjle, but men remarkable for their superior
sanctity, learning, and rectitude ; that there was
no such thing heard of, as persons being introduced
into the church merely to oblige a senator, or pro-
vide for the younger branch of a noble family : I
expected, as their minds were continually set upon
heavenly things, to see their eyes directed there
also; and hoped, from their behaviour, to perceive
their inclinations corresponding with their duty.
But I am since informed, that some are appointed
to preside over temples they never visit; and,
while they receive all the money, are contented
with letting others do all the good. Adieu.
LETTER XLIT.
from Fum Hoam, to I.ien Chi Altangi, the discontented
Wanderer, by the way of Moscow.
Mdst I ever continue to condemn thy persever-
Buce, and blame that curiosity wb' "h destroys thy
happiness! What yetuntastcd banquet, what lu3
ury yet unknown, has rewarded thy painful ad
ventures? Name a pleasure which thy nativecoun-
try could not amply procure ; frame a wish that
might not have been satisfied in China! Why then
such toil, and such danger, in pursuit of raptures
within your reach at home?
The Europeans, you will say, excel us in sci-
ences and in arts; those sciences which bound the
aspiring wish, and those arts which tend to gratify
even unrestrained desire. They may perhaps out-
do us in the arts of building ships, casting cannons,
or measuring mountains ; but are they superior in
the greatest of all arts, the art of governing king-
doms and ourselves?
When I compare the history of China with that
of Europe, how do I exult in being a native of that
kingdom which derives its original from the sun.
Upon opening the Chinese history, I there behold
an ancient extended empire, established by laws
which nature and reason seem to have dictated.
The duty of children to their parents, a duty which
nature implants in every breast, forms the strength
of that government, which has subsisted for time
immemorial. Filial obedience is the first and great-
est requisite of a state ; by this we become good
subjects to our emperors, capable of behaving with
just subordination to our superiors, and grateful
dependants on Heaven: by this we become fonder
of marriage, in order to be capable of exacting
obedience from others in onr turn : by this we be-
come good magistrates ; for early submission is the
Iruest lesson to those who would learn to rule. By
this the whole state may be said to resemble one
family, of which the emperor is the protector,
father, and friend.
In this happy region, sequestered frpm the rest
of mankind, I see a succession of princes who in
general considered themselves as the fathers of theii
people ; a race of philosophers who bravely com-
bated idolatry, prejudice, and tyranny, at the ex-
pense of their private happiness and immediate,
reputation. Whenever a usurper or a tyrant in-
truded into the administration, how have all the
good and great been united against him! Can Eu-
ropean nistory produce an instance like that of the
twelve mandarines, who all resolved to apprize the
vicious emperor Tisiang of the irregularity of his
conduct? He who first undertook the dangerous
task was cut in two by the emperor's order; the
second was ordered to be tormented, and then pu»
to a cruel death : the third undertook the task with
intrepiility, and was instantly stabbed by the ty-
rant's hand: in this manner they all suffered ex-
cept one. But not to be turned from his purpose,
the brave survivor, entering the palace with the
instruments of torture in his hand, Here, cried he,
addressing himself to the throne, here, O Tisiang,
are the marks your faithful subjects receive f'-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
299
their loyalt]/ ; lam uearicd xcith serving a tyrant,
and now come for my reward. The emperor,
struck with his intrepidity, instantly forgave the
boldness of his conduct, and reformed his own.
What European annals can thus boast of a tyrant
thus reclaimed to lenityl
When five brethren had set upon the great em-
peror Ginsong alone, with his sabre he slew four
of them; he was stuggling with the fifth, when his
guards coming up were going to cut the conspi-
ator into a thousand pieces. No, no, cried the
emperor with a calm and placid countenance, of all
his brothers he is the only one remaining, at least
let one of the family be suffered to live, that his
aged parents may have somebody left to feed and
comfort them !
When Haitong, the last emperor of the house
of Ming, saw himself besieged in his own city by
the usurper, he was resolved to issue from his pa-
lace with six hundred of his guards, and give the
enemy battle; but they forsook him. Being thus
without liopes, and choosing death rather than to
fall alive into the hands of a rebel, he retired to his
garden, conducting his little daughter, an only
child, in his hand ; there, in a private arbour, un-
sheathing his sword, he stabbed the young inno-
cent to the heart, and then disj)atched himself, leav-
ing the following words written with his blood on
the border of his vest : Forsaken by my subjects,
abandoned by my friends, use my body as you
will, but spare, O spare my people !
An empire wliich has thus continued invariably
the same for such a long succession of ages; which,
though at last conquered by the Tartars, still pre-
serves its ancient laws and learning, and may more
properly be said to annex the dominions of Tartary
to its empire, than to admit a foreign conquercr ; an
empire as large as Europe, governed by one law, ac-
knowledging subjection to one prince, and exjicri-
encing but one revolution of any continuance in the
space of four thousand years; this is something so
peculiarly great, that 1 am naturally led to despise all
other nations on the comparison. Here we see no
religious persecutions, no enmity between man-
kind, for difference in opinion. The disciples of
Lao Kium, the idolatrous sectaries of Fohi, and the
philosophical children of Confucius, only strive to
show by their actions the truth of their doctrines.
Now turn from this happy, peaceful scene, to
Europe, the theatre of intrigue, avarice, and ambi-
tion. How many revolutions does it not experience
in the compass even of one age ! and to what do
these revolutions tend but the destruction of thou-
sands? Every great event is replete with some new
calamity. The seasons of serenity are passed over
in silence, their histories seem to speak only of the
storm.
There we see the Romans extending their pow-
er over barbarous nations, and in turn becoming a
prey to those whom they had conquered. We see
those barbarians, when become Christians, engaged
in a continual war with the followers of Mahomet;
or, more dreadful still, destroying each other. We
see councils in the earlier ages authorizing every
iniquity; crusades spreading desolation in the
country left, as well as that to be conquered ; ex-
communications freeing subjects from natural alle-
giance, and persuading to sedition; blood flowing
in the fields and on scaffolds; tortures used as ar-
guments to convince the recusant; to heighten the
horror of the piece, behold it shaded with wars, re-
bfllions, treasons, plots, politics, and poison.
And what advantage has any country of Europe
obtained from such calamities? Scarcely any. Their
dissensions for more than a thousand years have
served to make each other unhappy, buthave enrich-
ed none. All the great nations still nearly preserve
their ancient limits ; none have been able to subdue
the other, and so terminate the dispute. France,
in spite of the conquests of EdwaAl the Third and
Henry the Fifth, notwithstanding the efforts of
Charles the Fifth and Philip the Second, still re-
mains within its ancient limits. Spain, Germany,
Great Britain, Poland, the States of the North,
are nearly still the same. What effect then has
the blood of so many thousands, the destruction of
so many cities, produced? Nothing either great or
considerable. The Christian princes have lost in-
deed much from the enemies of Christendom, but
they have gained nothing from each other. Their
princes, because they preferred ambition to justice,
deserve the character of enemies to mankind; and
their priests, by neglecting morality for opinion,
have mistaken the interests of society.
On whatever side wc regard the history of Eu-
rope, we shall perceive it to be a tissue of crimes,
follies, and misfortunes, of politics w'ithout design,
and wars without consequence : in this long list of
human infirmity, a great character, or a shining
virtue, may sometimes happen to arise, as we often
meet a cottage or a cultivated spot in the most
hideous wilderness. Butfor an Alfred, an Alphon-
so, a Frederick, or an Alexander III., we meet a
thousand princes who have disgraced humanity.
LETTER XLIIL
From Lien Clii Allangi, lo Fum Iloam, Firet President of the
Ceremonial Aciidemy at Pekin, in Cliira.
Wk liavc just received accounts here, that Vol
tuire, the poet and philosopher of Europe, is dead I
He is now beyond the reach of the thousand ene-
mies, who, while living, degraded his writings, and
branded his character. Scarcely a page of his lat
ter productions, that docs not betray the agonic-, of
a heart bleeding under the scourge of unmcritet'
r.;i-roach. Happy, therefore, at last in escaping
from calumny ; hajjpy in leaving a world that was
unworthy of him and his writings!
Let others, my friend, bestrew the hearses of the
great with panegyric; but such a loss as the world
has now sufTered, affects me with stronger emo-
tions. When a philosopher dies, I consider my-
self as losing a patron, an instructor, and a friend.
I consider the world losing one who might serve to
console her amidst the desolations of war and am-
bition. Nature every day produces in abundance
men capable of filling all the requisite duties of au-
thority; but she is niggard in the birth of an exalt-
ed mind, scarcely producing in a century a single
genius to bless and enlighten a degenerate age.
Prodigal in the production of kings, governors,
mandarines, chams, and courtiers, she seems to
have forgotten, for more than three thousand years,
the manner in which she once formed the brain of
a Confucius ; and well it is she has forgotten, when
a bad world gave him so very bad a reception.
Whence, my friend, this malevolence which has
ever pursued the great even to the tomb? whence
this more than fiend-like disposition of embittering
the lives of those who would make us more wise
and more happyl
When I cast my eye over the fates of several
philosophers, who have at different periods enlight-
ened mankind, I must confess it inspires me with
the most degrading reflections on humanity. When
I read of the stripes of Mentius, the tortures of
Tchin, the bowl of Socrates, and the bath of Sene-
ca ; when I hear of the persecutions of Dante, the
imprisonment of Galileo, the indignities suffered
by Montaigne, the banishment of Cartesius, the
infimy of Bacon, and that even Locke himself es-
caped not without reproach ; when I think on such
subjects, I hesitate whether most to blame the ig-
norance or the villany of my fellow-creatures.
Should you look for the character of Voltaire
among the journalists and illiterate writers of the
age, you will there find him characterized as a
monster, with a head turned to wisdom, and a heart
inclining to vice ; the powers of his mind and the
baseness of his principles forming a detestable con-
trast. But seek for his character among writers
like himself, and you find him very differently de-
Bcribed. You perceive him, in their accounts,
possessed of good- nature, humanity, greatness of
soul, fortitude, and almost every virtue; in this
description, those who might be supposed best ac-
quainted with his character are unanimous. The
royal Prussian,* d' Argents.t Diderot,t d' Alembert,
and Fontenelle, conspire, in drawing the picture,
in describing the friend of man, and the patron of
every rising genius.
riiiloeophe eans souci t Let Chia t EncyclopiiiL
An inflexible perseverance in what he thought
was right, and a generous detestation of flattery,
formed the groundwork of this great man's charac-
ter. Prom these principles many strong virtues
and few faults arose : as he was warm in his friend-
ship, and severe in his resentment, all that mention
him seem possessed of the same qualities, and
speak of him with rajrture or detestation. A per-
son of his eminence can have few indifferent as to
his character ; every reader must be an enemy or
an admirer.
This poet, began the course of glory so early as
the age of eighteen, and even then was author of a
tragedy which deserves applause. Possessed of a
small patrimony, he preserved his independence in
an age of venality, and supported the dignity of
learning, by teaching his contemporary writers to
live like him above the favours of the great. He
was banished his native country for a satire upon
the royal concubine. He had accepted the place
of historian to the French king, but refused to keep
it, when he found it was presented only in order
that he should be the first flatterer of the state.
The great Prussian received him as an orna-
ment to his kingdom, and had sense enough to
value his friendship, and profit by his instructions.
In this court he continued till an intrigue, with
which the world seems hitherto unacquainted, ob-
liged him to quit that country. His own happiness,
the happiness of the monarch, of his sister, of a
part of the court, rendered his departure neces-
sary.
Tired at length of courts, and all the follies of
the great, he retired to Switzerland, a country of
liberty, where he enjoyed tranquillity and the muse.
Here, though without any taste for magnificence
himself, he usually entertained at his table the
learned and poUte of Europe, who were attracted
by a desire of seeing a person from whom they had
received so much satisfaction. The entertainment
was conducted with the utmost elegance, and the
conversation was that of philosophers. Every
country that at once united liberty and science, was
his peculiar favourite. The being an Englishman
was to him a character that claimed admiration
and respect.
Between Voltaire and the disciples of Confucius,
there are many differences ; however, being of a
different opinion does not in the least diminish my
esteem : I am not displeased with my brother, be-
cause he happens to ask our father for favours in a
different manner from me. Let his errors rest in
peace, his excellencies deserve admiration ; let me
with the wise admire his wisdom ; let the envious
and the ignorant ridicule his foibles : the folly of
others is ever most ridiculous to those who are
themselves most foolish. Adieu.
.J
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
301
LETTER XLIV.
From Lien Clii Altangi to Hingpo, a Slave in Persia.
It is impossible to form a philosophic system of
happiness, which is adapted to every condition in
life, since every person who travels in this great
pursuit takes a separate road. The differing colours
which suit different complexions, are not more
various than the different pleasures appropriated to
different minds. The various sects who have pre-
tended to give lessons to instruct me in happiness,
have described their own particular sensations
without considering ours, have only loaded their
disciples with constraint, without adding to their
real felicity.
If I find pleasure in dancing, how ridiculous
would it be in me to prescribe such an amusement
for the entertainment of a cripple : should he, on
the other hand, place his chief delight in painting,
yet would he be absurd in recommending the same
relish to one who had lost the power of distinguish-
ing colours. General directions are, therefore, com-
monly useless : and to be particular would exhaust
volumes, since each individual may require a par-
ticular system of precepts to direct his choice.
Every mind seems capable of entertaining a cer-
tain quantity of happiness, which no institutions
can increase, no circumstances alter, and entirely
independent of fortune. Let any man compare his
present fortune with the past, and he will probably
find himself, upon the whole, neither better nor
worse than formerly.
Gratified ambition, or irreparable calamity, may
produce transient sensations of pleasure or distress.
Those storms may discompose in proportion as
they are strong, or the mind is pliant to their im-
pression. But the soul, though at first lifted up
by the event, is every day operated upon with di-
minished influence, and at length subsides into the
level of its usual tranquillity. Should some unex-
pected turn of fortune take thee from fetters, and
place thee on a throne, exultation would be natural
upon the change; but the temper, like the face,
would soon resume its native serenity.
Every wish, therefore, which leads us to expect
happiness somewhere else but where we are, every
institution which teaches us that we should be bet-
ter by being possessed of something new, which
promises to lift us a step higher than we are, onl)'
lays a foundation for uneasiness, because it con-
tracts debts which we can not rejiay; it calls that
a good, which, when we have found it, will, in fact,
add nothing to our happiness.
To enjoy the present, without regret for the past
or solicitude for the future, has been the advice ra-
ther of poets than philosophers. And yet the pre-
cept seems more rational than is generally imagined.
it is the only general precept respecting the pursuit
of happiness, that can be applied with propriety to
every c^dition of life. The man of pleasure, t!ie
man of business, and the philosopher, are equally
interested in its disquisition. If we do not find
happiness in the present moment, in what shall we
find it? either in reflecting on the past, or prognos-
ticating the future. But let us see how these arc
capable of producing satisfaction.
A remembrance of what is past, and an antici-
pation of what is to come, seem to be tlie two facul-
ties by which man differs most from other animals.
Though brutes enjoy them in a limited degree, yet
their whole life seems taken up in the present, re-
gardless of the past and the future. Man, on the
contrary, endeavours to derive his happiness, and
experiences most of his miseries, from these two
sources.
Is this superiority of reflection a prerogative of
which we should boast, and for which we should
thank nature ; or is it a misfortune of which we
should complain and be humble ? Either from the
abuse, or from the nature of things, it certainty
makes our condition more miserable.
Had we a privilege of calling up, by the power
of memory, only such passages as were pleasing,
unmixed with such as were disagreeable, we might
then excite at pleasure an ideal hajjpiness, per-
haps more poignant than actual sensation. But
this is not the case: the past is never represented
without some disagreeable circumstance, which
tarnishes all its beauty; the remembrance of an evil
carries in it nothing agreeable, and to remember a
good is always accompanied with regret. Thus
we lose more than we gain by the remembrance.
And we shall find our expectation of the future
to be a gift more distressful even than the former.
To fear an approaching evil is certainly a most
disagreeable sensation : and in expecting an ap-
proaching good, we experience the inquietude oi
wanting actual possession.
Thus, whichever way we look, the prospect is
disagreeable. Behind, we have left pleasures we
shall never more enjoy, and therefore regret ; and
before, we see pleasures which we languish to pos-
sess, and are consequently uneasy till *ve ])Ossesa
them. Was there any method of seizing the pre-
sent, unembittered by such reflections, then would
our state be tolcralily easy.
This, indeed, is the endeavour of all mankind,
who, untutored by philosophy, pursue as much as
they can a life of amusement and dissipation.
Every rank in life, and every size of understand-
intr, seems to follow this alone; or not pursuing »t,
deviates from happiness. The man of pleasure
pursues dissipation by profession ; the man of busi-
ness pursues it not less, as every voluntary lalwur
he undergoes is only dissipation in disguise. The
philosopher himself, even while he reasons upon tlio
subject, does it unknowingly, with a view of djuai
pating the thoughts of what he was, or what .he
must be.
The subject therefore comes to this : which is
the most perfect sort of dissipation — pleasure, busi-
ness, or philosophy? Which best serves to exclude
tliose uneasy sensations which memory or antici-
pation produce 7
Tlie enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by in-
tervals. The highest rapture lasts only for a mo-
ment ; and all the senses seem so combined as to
be soon tired into languor by the gratification of
any one of them. It is only among the poets we
hear of men changing to one delight, when satiated
with another. In nature it is very different : the
glutton, when sated with the full meal, is unquali-
fied to feel the real pleasure of drinking ; the drunk-
ard in turn finds few of those transports which
loYers boast in enjoyment; and the lover, when
cloyed, finds a diminution of every other appetite.
Thus, after a full indulgence of anyone sense, the
man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed, in
a chasm between past and expected enjoyment,
perceives an interval which must be filled up. The
present can give no satisfaction, because he has
already robbed it of every charm : a mind thus left
without immediate employment, naturally recurs
to the past or "future ; the reflector finds that he was
happy, and knows that he can not be so now ; he
sees that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour
was come ; thus every period of his continuance is
miserable, except that very short one of immediate
gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none
has more frequent conversations with disagreeable
se{f than he; his enthusiasms are but few and
transient; his appetites, like angry creditors, con-
tinually making fruitless demands for what he is
unable to pay; and the greater his former pleasure,
the more strong his regret, the more impatient his
expectations. A life of pleasure is therefore the
most unpleasing life in the world.
Habit has rendered the man of business more
cool in his desires ; he finds less regret for past
pleasures, and less solicitude for those to come.
The Ufe he now leads, though tainted in some
measure with hope, is yet not afflicted so strongly
with regret, and is less divided between short-lived
rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he
has enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to
expect can not consequently create so much anxiety.
The philosopher, who extends his regard to all
mankind, must still have a smaller concern for what
has already affected, or may hereafter affect him-
self: the concerns of others make his whole study,
and that study is his pleasure; and tliis pleasure is
contmuing in its nature, because it can be changed
at will, leaving but few of these anxious intervals
which are employed in remembrance or anticipa-
lion. The philosopher by this means leads a life
:tf almost continued dissipation; and reflection,
which makes the uneasiness and misery of others,
serves as a companion and instructor to him.
In a word, positive happiness is constitutional,
and incapable of increase ; misery is artificial, and
generally proceeds from our folly. Philosophy can
add to our happiness in no other manner, but by
diminishing our misery : it should not pretend to
increase our present stock, but make us economists
of what we are possessed of. The great source of
calamity lies in regret or anticipation ; he, therefore,
is most wise, who thinks of the present alone, re-
gardless of the past or the future. This is impos-
sible to the man of pleasure ; it is difficult to the
man of business ; and is in some measure attainable
by the philosopher. Happy were we all born
philosophers, all born with a talent of thus dissi-
pating our own cares, by spreading them upon all
mankind ! Adieu.
LETTER XLV.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of the
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China.
Though the frequent invitations I receive from
men of distinction here might excite the vanity of
some, I am quite mortified, however, when I con-
sider the motives that inspire their civility. I am
sent for not to be treated as a friend, but to satisfy
curiosity ; not to be entertained so much as wonder-
ed at ; the same earnestness which excites them to
see a Chinese, would have made them equally
proud of a visit from the rhinoceros. ''
From the highest to the lowest, this people seem
fond of sights and monsters. I am told of a person
here who gets a very comfortable livelihood by
making wonders, and then selling or shovs'ing them
to the people for money ; no matter how insigni-
ficant they were in the beginning, by locking them
up close, and showing for money, they soon be-
come prodigies ! His first essay in this way was
to exhibit himself as a wax-work figure behind a
glass door at a puppet-show. Thus, keeping the
spectators at a proper distance, and having his head
adorned with a copper crown, he looked extremely
natural, and very like the life itself. He continued
this exhibition with success, till an involuntary fit
of sneezing brought him to life before all the spec-
tators, and consequently rendered him for that time
as entirely useless as the peaceable inhabitant of a
catacomb.
Determined to act the statue no more, he next
levied contributions under the figure of an Indian
king; and by painting his face, and counterfeiting
the savage howl, he frighted several ladies and
cliildren with amazing success: in this manner,
tlicrcfore, he might have lived very comfortably^
had he not been arrested for a debt that was ron-
tracted when he was the figure in. wax-work : thus
his face underwent an involuntary ablution, and
he found himself reduced toliis primitive complex
ion and indigence.
After some time, being freed from gaol, he was
now grown wiser, and instead of making himself a
wonder, was resolved only to make wonders. He
learned the art of pasting up mummies; was never
at a loss for an artificial lusus naturcB ; nay, it has
been reported, that he has sold seven petrified lob-
sters of his own manufacture to a noted collector of
rarities; but this the learned CracoviusPutridus has
undertaken to refute in avery elaborate dissertation.
His last wonder was nothing more than a halter,
yet by this halter he gained more than by all his
former exhibitions. The people, it seems, had got
it in their heads, that a certain noble criminal was
to be hanged with a silken rope. Now there was
nothing they so much wished to see as this very
rrt[)e ; and he was resolved to gratify their curiosity :
he therefore got one made, not only of silk, but to
render it more striking, several threads of gold were
intermixed. The people paid their money only to
see silk, but were highly satisfied when they found
it was mixed with gold into the bargain. It is
scarcely necessary to mention, that the projector
sold his silken rope for almost what it had cost
him, as soon as the criminal was known to be
hanged in hempen materials.
By their fondness of sights, one would be apt to
imagine, that instead of desiring to see things as
they should be, they are rather solicitous of seeing
them as they ought not to be. A cat with four
legs is disregarded, though never so useful ; but if
it has but two, and is consequently incapable of
catching mice, it is reckoned inestimable, and every
man of taste is ready to raise the auction. A man,
tliough in his person faultless as an aerial genius,
might starve; but if stuck over with hideous warts
like a porcupine, his fortune is made for ever, and
he may propagate the breed with impunity and
applause.
A good woman in m}' neighbourhood, who was
bred a habit-maker, though she handled her needle
tolerably well, could scarcely get employment. But
lieing obliged, by an accident, to have both her
hands cut off from the elbows, what would in
another country have been her ruin, made her for-
tune here: she now was thought more fit for her
trade than before ; business flowed in apace, and all
iieople paid for seeing the mantua-maker who
wrought without hands.
A gentleman showing me his collection of pic-
tures, stopped at one with peculiar admiration :
(here, cries he, is an inestimable piece. I gazed at
Ihe picture for some time, but could see none of
lh.:se graces with which he seemed enra])tured ;
it appeared to me the most paltry piece of the whole
collection : I therefore demanded where those beau-
ties lay, of which I was yet insensible. Sir, cries
he, the merit does not consist in the piece, but in
the manner in which it was done. The painter
drew the whole with his foot, and held the pencil
between his toes: I bought it at a very great price;
for peculiar merit should ever be rewarded.
But these people are not more fond of wonders,
than liberal in rewarding those who show them.
From the wonderful dog of knowledge, at present
under the patronage of the nobility, down to the
man with the box, who professes to show the best
imitation of Nature that was ever seen, thev all
live in luxury. A singing-woman shall collect
subscrijjtions in her own coach and six; a fellow
shall make a fortune by tossing a straw from his toe
to his nose ; one in particular has found that eiifing
fire was the most ready way to live ; and another
who jingles several bells fixed to his cap, is the
only man that I know of, who has received emolu-
ment from the labours of his head.
A young author, a man of good-nature and
learning, was complaining to me some nights ago
of this misplaced generosity of the times. Here,
says he, have I spent part of my youth in attcm[)t-
ing to instruct and amuse my fellow-creatures, and
all my reward has been solitude, povert}', and re-
proach ; while a fellow, possessed of even the small-
est share of fiddling merit, or who has perhaps
learned to whistle double, is rewarded, applauded,
and caressed! Pr'ythee, young man, says 1 to him,
are you ignorant, that in so large a city as this, it
is better to be an amusing than a useful member of
society! Can you leap up, and touch your feet
four times before you come to the ground? No,
sir. Can you pimp for a man of quality? No,
sir. Can you stand upon two horses at full speed?
No, sir. Can you swallow a pen-knife? Ivan do
none of these tricks. Why then, cried I, there is
no other prudent mean of subsistence left, but to
apprise the town that you speedily intend to eat
up your own nose, by subscrijition.
I have frequently regretted that none of our
Eastern posture-masters, or showmen, have ever
ventured to England. I should be pleased to sec
that money circulate in Asia, which is now sent to
Italy and France, in order to bring their vagabonds
hither. Several of our tricks would undoubtedly
irive the English hisrh satisfaction. Men of fishioii
would be greatly pleased with the postures as well
as the condescension of our dancing-girls; and the
ladies would eijnrdly admire the conductors ofcuir
fire-works. Wli:it an agreeable surprise would it
be to see a huge fellow with whiskers flash a
charged blunderbuss full in a lacly's face, without
singeing her hair, or melting her pomatum. Per
haps, when the first surprise was over, she niighi
then grow finiiliar with danger; and the ladies
iiiiirht vie with each other in standini; fire with m
tre|)idity.
But of all the wonders of the East, the most use-
ful, and I should fancy the most pleasing, would
be the looking-glass of Lao, which reflects the
mind as well as the body. It is said that the Em
pcrorChusi, used to make his concubines dress their
heads and their hearts in one of these glasses eve-
ry morning : while the lady was at her toilet, he
would frequently look over her shoulder ; and it
is recorded, that among the three hundred which
composed his seraglio, not one was found whose
mind was not even more beautiful than her per-
son.
I make ho doubt but a glass in this country
would have the very same effect. The English
ladies, concubines and all, would undoubtedly cut
very pretty figures in so faithful a monitor. There
should we happen to peep over a lady's shoulder
wliile dressing, we might be able to see neither
gaming nor ill-nature ; neither pride, debauchery,
nor a love of gadding. We should find her, if
any sensible defect appeared in the mind, more
careful in rectifying it, than plastering up the ir-
reparable decays of the person ; nay, I am even
apt to fancy, that ladies would find more real plea-
sure in this utensil in private, than in any other
bauble imported from China, though ever so ex-
pensive or amusing.
LETTER XL VI.
To the Same.
Upon finisliing my last letter, I retired to rest,
reflecting upon the wonders of the glass of Lao,
wishing to be possessed of one here, and resolved
in such a case to oblige every lady with a sight of
it for nothing. What fortune denied me waking,
fancy supplied in a dream : the glass, I know not
how, was put into possession, and I could perceive
several ladies a[»))roaclung, some voluntarily, others
driven forward against tlieir wills, by a set of dis-
contented genii, whom by intuition I knew were
their husbands.
The apartment in which I was to show away
was filled with several gaming-tables, as if just for-
saken : the candles were burnt to the socket, and
the hour was five o'clock in the morning. Placed
at one end of tiie room, which was of prodigious
length, I could more easily distinguish every female
figure as she marched up from the door ; but guess
my surprise, when I could scarcely perceive one
blooming or agreeable face among the number.
This, however, I attributed to the early hour, and
kindly considered that the face of a lady just risen
from bed, ought always to find a compassionate
advocate.
The first person who came up in order to view
Jier mtellectual face was a commoner's wife, who,
as I afterward found, being bred up during her
virginit3^ in * pawnbroker's shop, now attempted
to make up the defects of breeding and sentiment
by the magnificence of her dress, and the expen
siveness of her amusements. Mr. Showman,
cried she, approaching, I am told you has some-
thing to show in that there sort of magic-lantern,
by which folks can see themselves on the inside :
I protest, as my Lord Beetle says, I am sure it will
be vastly pretty, for I have never seen any thing
like it before. But how ; are we to strip off our
clothes and be turned inside out? if so, as Lord
Beetle says, I absolutely declare off; for I would
not strip for the world before a man's face, and so
I tells his lordship almost every night of my life.
I informed the lady that I would dispense with the
ceremony of stripping, and immediately presented
my glass to her view.
As when a first-rate beauty, after having with
difficulty escaped the small-pox, revisits her fa-
vourite mirror — that mirror which had repeated
the flattery of every lover, and even added force
to the compliment, — expecting to see what had
so often given her pleasure, she no longer beholds
the cherry lip, the polished forehead, and speaking
blush ; but a hateful phiz, quilted into a thousand
seams by the hand of deformity ; grief, resentment,
and rage, fill her bosom by turns : she blames the
fates and the stars, but most of all, the unhappy
glass feels her resentment: so it was with the lady
in question ; she had never seen her own mind be-
fore, and was now shocked at its deformity. One
single look was sufficient to satisfy her curiosity ;
I held up the glass to her face, and she shut her
eyes ; no entreaties could prevail upon her Jk) gaze
once more. She was even going to snatch it from
my hands and break it in a thousand pieces. I
found it was time, therefore, to dismiss her as incor-
rigible, and show away to the next that offered.
This was an unmarried lady, who continued in
a state of virginity till thirty-six, and then admitted
a lover when she despaired of a husband. No
woman was louder at a revel than she, perfectly
free hearted, and almost in every respect a man :
she understood ridicule to perfection, and was once
known even to sally out in order to beat the watch.
" Here, you my dear with the outlandish face
(said she, addressing me), let me take a single
peep. Not that I care three damns what figure I
may cut in the glass of such an old-fashioned crea-
ture ; if I am allowed the beauties of tlie face by
people of fashion, I know the world will be com-
plaisant enough to toss me the beauties of the
mind into the bargain." I held my glass before
her as she desired, and must confess was shocked
with the reflection. The lady, however, gazed for
some time with the utmost complacency ; and at
last, turning to me, with the most satisfied smile
said, she never could think she had been half so
handsome.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
305
Upon her dismission, a lady of distinction was
reluctantly hauled along to the glass by her hus-
band. In bringing her forvyard, as he came first
to the glass himself, his mind appeared tinctured
with immoderate jealousy, and I was going to re-
proach him for using her with such severity ; but
when the lady came to present herself, I immedi-
ately retracted ; for, alas ! it was seen that he had
but too much reason for his suspicions.
The next was a lady who usually teased all her
acquaintance in desiring to be told of her faults,
and then never mended any. Upon approaching
the glass, I could readily perceive vanity, affecta-
tion, and some other ill-looking blots on her mind ;
wherefore, by my advice, she immediately set
about mending. But I could easily find she was
not earnest in the work ; for as she repaired them
on one side, they generally broke out on another.
Thus, after three or four attempts, she began to
make the ordinary use of the glass in settling her
hair.
The company now made room for a woman of
that mind of yours ; but there is still one which I
do not see represented, I mean that of rising be-
times in the morning : I fancy the glass false in
that particular." The young lady smiled at my
simplicity ; and with a blush confessed, that she
and the whole company had been up all night
gaming.
By this time all the ladies, except one, had seen
themselves successively, and disliked the show or
scolded the showman ; I was resolved, however,
that she who seemed to neglect herself, and was
neglected by the rest, should take a view ; and
going up to a corner of the room where she still
continued silting, I presented my glass full in her
face. Here it was that I exulted in my success ; 9
no blot, no stain, appeared on any part of the faith-
ful mirror. As when the large unwritten page
presents its snowy spotless bosorn to the writer's
hand, so appeared the glass to my view. Here, O
ye daughters of English ancestors, cried I, turn
hither, and behold an object worthy imitation ;
look upon the mirror now, and acknowledge its
learninir, who approached with a slow pace and 'justice, and this woman's pre-eminence ! The la
solemn countenance, which, for her own sake, I
could wish had been cleaner. Sir," cried the lady,
flourishing her hand, which held a pinch of snufi',
«' I shall be enraptured by having presented to my
view a mind with which I have so long studied to
be acquainted ; but, in order to give the sex a pro-
per example, I must insist, that all the company
may be permitted to look over my shoulder." I
bowed assent, and presenting the glass, showed the
lady a mind by no means so fair as she had expect-
ed to see. Ill-nature, ill-placed pride, and spleen,
were too legible to be mistaken. Nothing could be
more amusing than the mirth of her female com-
panions who had looked over. They had hated
her from the beginning, and now the apartment
echoed with a universal laugh. Nothing but a
fortitude like her's could have withstood their rail-
lery : she stood it, however ; and when the burst
was exhausted, with great tranquilhty she assured
the company, that the whole was a deccpHo visus,
and that she was too well acquainted with her own
mind to believe any false representations from
another. Thus saying, she retired with a sullen
satisfaction, resolved not to mend her faults, but to
write a criticism on the mental reflector.
1 must own, by this time, 1 began myself to sus-
pect the fidelity of my mirror ; for, as the ladies ap-
peared at least to have the merit of rising early,
since they were up at five, I was amazed to find
nothing of this good quality pictured upon their
minds in the reflection ; I was resolved, therefore,
to communicate rny suspicions to a lady whose in-
tellectual countenance appeared more fair than any
dies, obeying the summons, came up in a group,
and looking on, acknowledged there was some
truth in the picture, as the person now represent-
ed had been deaf, dumb, and a fool from her
cradle !
This much of my dream I distinctly remember ;
the rest was filled with chimeras, enchanted cas-
tles, and flying dragons, as usual. As you, my
dear Fum Hoam, are particularly versed in the in-
terpretation of those midnight warnings, what
pleasure should I find in your explanation ! But
that our distance prevents: I make no doubt, how-
ever, but that, from my description, you will very
much venerate the good qualities of the English
ladies in general, since dreams, you know, go al-
ways by contraries. Adieu.
of the rest, not having above seventy-nine spots ni
all, besides slips and foibles. I own, young wo- 'This letter appears lolwliiilc more than a rli3rsaly of <
man," said I, "that there are some virtues upon linienis from Confuciiu. Vide lUo latin translauou.
LETTER XLVII.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Hingpo, a Slave In Persia.'
Your last letters betray a mind seemingly fond
of wisdom, yet tempested up by a thousand various
passions. You would fondly persuade me, that
my former lessons still influence your conduct, and
yet your mind seems not less enslaved than your
body. Knowledge, wisdom, erudition, arts, and
elegance, what are they but the mere trapinngs of
the mind, if they do not serve to increase the hap-
piness of the possessor? A mind rightly instituted
in the school of pliilosoi)hy, acquires at once the
etabihty of the oak, and the flexibility of the osier.
306
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
The truest manner of lessening our agonies, is to
shrink from their pressure ; is to confess that we
feel them.
The fortitude of European sages is but a dream;
for where lies the merit in being insensible to the
strokes of fortune, or in dissembling our sensibility ?
If we are insensible, that arises only from a happy
constitution ; that is a blessing previously granted
by Heaven, and which no art can procure, no in-
stitutions improve.
If we dissemble our feelings, we only artificially
endeavour to persuade others that we enjoy privi-
leges which we actually do not possess. Thus,
while we endeavour to appear happy, we feel at
W once all the pangs of internal misery, and all the
self-reproaching consciousness of endeavouring to
deceive.
I know but of two sects of philosophers in the
world that have endeavoured to inculcate that for-
titude is but an imaginary virtue ; I mean the fol-
lowers of Confucius, and those who profess the
■ doctrines of Christ. All other sects teach pride
under misfortunes; they alone teach humility.
Night, says our Chinese philosopher, not more
surely follows the day, than groans and tears grow
out of pain ; when misfortunes therefore oppress,
when tyrants threaten, it is our interest, it is our
duty to fly even to dissipation for support, to seek
redress from friendship, or seek redress from the
best of friends who loved us into being.
Philosophers, ray son, have long declaimed
against the passions, as being the source of all our
miseries : they are the source of all our misfortunes,
I own ; but they are the source of our pleasures
too ; and every endeavour of our lives, and all the
institutions of philosophy, should tend to this, not
to dissemble an absence of passion, but to repel
those which lead to vice, by those which direct to
virtue.
The soul may be compared to a field of battle,
where two armies are ready every moment to en-
Counter ; not a single vice but has a more powerful
opponent, and not one virtue but may be overborne
by a combination of vices. Reason guides the
bands of either host ; nor can it subdue one pas-
sion but by the assistance of another. Thus as a
bark, on every side beset with storms, enjoys a
statf. jf rest, so does the mind, when influenced by
a just equipoise of the passions, enjoy tranquillity.
I have used such means as my little fortune
would admit to procure your freedom. I have
lately written to the governor of Argun to pay
your ransom, though at the expense of all the
wealth I brought with me from China. If we be-
come poor, we shall at least have the pleasure of
bearing poverty together; for what is fatigue or
famine, when weighed against friendship and free-
dom. Adieu.
LETTER XLVin.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to ^ , Merchant in Amsterdam,
Happening some days ago to call at a pamter's,
to amuse myself in examining some pictures (I
had no design to buy), it surprised me to see a
young Prince in the working-room, dressed in a
painter's apron, and assiduously learning the trade.
We instantly remembered to have seen each other ;
and, after the usual compliments, I stood by while
he continued to paint on. As every thing done
by the rich is praised ; as Princes here, as well as
in China, are never without followers, tliree or four
persons, who had the appearance of gentlemen,
were placed behind to comfort and applaud him at
every stroke.
Need I tell, that it struck me with very disa-
greeable sensations, to see a youth, who, by his sta-
tion in life, had it in his power to be useful to
thousands, thus letting his mind run to uaste upon
canvass, and at the same time fancying himself
improving in taste, and filing his rank with pro-
per decorum.
As seeing an error, and attempting to redress it,
are only one and the same with me, I took occa-
sion, upon his lordship's desiring my opinion of a
Chinese scroll, intended fqr the frame of a picture,
to assure him, that a mandarine of China thought
a minute acquaintance with such mechanical trifles
below his dignity.
This reply raised the indignation of some, and
the contempt of others : I could hear the names of
Vandal, Goth, taste, polite arts, deUcacy, and fire,
repeated in tones of ridicule or resentment.. But
considering that it was in vain to argue against
people who had so much to say without contradict
ing them, I begged leave to repeat a fairy tale.
This request redoubled their laughter; but, not
easily abashed at the raillery of boys, I persisted,
observing, that it would set the absurdity of placing
our affections upon trifles in the strongest point of
view; and adding, that it was hoped the moral
would compensate for its stupidity. For Heaven's
sake, cried the great man, washing liis brush in
water, let us have no morality at present ; if we
must have a story, let it be without any moral. I
pretended not to hear ; and, while he handled the
brush, proceeded as follows : —
In the kingdom of Bonbobbin, which, by the
Chinese annals, appears to have flourished twenty
thousand years ago, there reigned a prince en-
dowed with every accomplishment which generally
distinguishes the sons of kings. His beauty was
brighter than the sun. The sun, to which he was
nearly related, would sometimes stop his course, in
order to look down and admire him.
His mind was not less perfect than his body : he
CITIZEN OF THZ WORLD.
307
knew all things, without having ever read: phi-
losophers, poets, and historians, submitted their
works to his decision ; and so penetrating was he,
that he could tell the merit of a book, by Icoking
on the cover. He made epic })oems, traget'ies, and
pastorals, with surprising facility ; song, epigram,
or rebus, was all one to him, though it was observ-
ed he could never finish an acrostic. In short, the
fairy who had presided at his birth endowed him
with almost every perfection, or what was just the
same, his subjects were ready to acknowledge he
possessed them all ; and, for his own part, he knew
nothing to the contrary. A Prince so accomplish-
ed, received a name suitable to his merit ; and
he was called Bonbennin-bonbo-bbin-bonbobbinct,
which signifies, Enlightcner of the Sun.
As he was very powerful, and yet unmarried, all
the neighbouring kings earnestly sought his alli-
ance. Each sent his daughter, dressed out in the
most magnificent manner, and with the most
sumptuous retinue imaginable, in order to allure
the Prince ; so that at one time there were seen at
his court not less than seven hundred foreign Prin-
cesses, of exquisite sentiment and beauty, each
alone sufficient to make seven hundred ordinary
men happy.
Distracted in such a variety, the generous Bon-
bennin, had he not been obliged by the laws of the
empire to make choice of one, would very willingly
have married them all, for none understood gal-
lantry better. He spent numberless hours of soli-
citude in endeavouring to determine whom he
should choose ; one lady was possessed of every
perfection, but he disliked her eyebrows ; another
was brighter than the morning star, but he disap-
proved her fong-whang ; a third did not lay white
enough on her cheek ; and a fourth did not sufii-
tiently blacken her nails. At last, after number-
less disappointments on the one side and the other,
he made choice of the incomparable Nanhoa,
Glueen of the scarlet dragons.
The preparations for the royal nuptials, or the
envy of the disappointed ladies, needs no descrip-
tion ; both the one and the other were as great as
they could be: the beautiful Princess was con-
ducted amidst admiring multitudes to the royal
couch, where, after being divested of every encum-
bering ornament, she was placed, in expectance
of the youthful bridegroom, who did not kee[) her
long in expectation. He came more cheerful than
the morning, and printing on her lips a burning
kiss, the attendants took this as a proper signal to
withdraw.
Perhaps I ought to have mentioned in the bc-
gining, that, among several other qualifications,
the Prince was fond of collecting and breeding
mice, which, being a harmless pastime, none of his
counsellors thought jiropcr to dissuade him from :
he therefore kept a great variety of these pret' v
little animals in the most beautiful ^ges enriched
with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and other
precious stones: thus he innocenihj spent four
hours each day, in f.jntemplating their innocent
little pastimes.
But to proceed. The Prince and Princess were
now in bed ; one with all the love and expectation,
the other with all the modesty and fear, which is
natural to suppose; both wilUng, yet afraid to be-
gin ; when the Prince, happening to look towards
the outside of the bed, perceived one of the most
beautiful animals in the world, a white mouse with
green eyes, playing about the floor, and performing
a hundred pretty tricks. He was already master
of blue mice, red mice, and even white mice, with
yellow eyes; but a white mouse with green eyes,
was what he had long endeavoured to possess;
wherefore, leaping from bed with the utmost im-
patience and agility, the youthful Prince attempted
to seize the little charmer, but it was fled in a mo-
ment ; for, alas ! the mouse was sent by a discon-
tented Princess, and was itself a fairy.
It is impossible to describe the agony of the
Prince upon this occasion ; he sought round and
round every part of the room, even the bed where
the Princess lay was not exempt from the inquiry :
he turned the Princess on one side and the other,
stripped her quite naked, but no mouse was to be
found: the Princess herself was kind euouch to
assist, but still to no purpose.
Alas, cried the young Prince in an agony, how
unhappy am I to be thus disappointed! never sure
was so beautiful an animal seen : I would give half
my kingdom, and my Princess, to him that would
find it. The Princess, though not much pleased
with the latter part of his olVer, endeavoured to
comfort him as well as she could : she let him know
that he had a hundred mice already, which ought
to be at least sufficient to satisfy any philosopher
like him. Though none of them had green eyes,
yet he should learn to thank heaven that they had
eyes. She told him (tor she was a profound mo-
ralist), that incurable evils nmst be borne, and that
useless lamentations were vain, and that man was
born to misfortunes : she even entreated him to re-
turn to bed, and she would endeavour to lull him
on her bosom to repose ; but still the Prince con-
tinued inconsolable; and regarding her with a
stem air, for which his family was remarkable, he
vowed never to sleej) in the royal palace, or in-
dulge himself in the innocent pleasures of matri-
mony, till he had found the wliitc mouse wiiii tho
green eyes.
Prithee, Colonel Leech, cried his lordship, tn-
terrupting me, how do you hke that nose? dcf t
vou think there is something of the inannir uf
iienibrandt in it? — A prince in all this agony for
a white mouse, ridiculous! — Dont you think.
Major Vampyrc, that eyebrow stippled very prwl-
808
GOLDSMITH'S WORfeS.
tily? — but pray, what are the green eyes to the
purpose, exwpt to amuse children? I would give
a thousand guineas to lay on the colouring of this
cheek more smoothly. But I ask pardon j pray,
fiir, proceed.
LETTER XLIX.
From the Same.
Kings, continued I, at that time were different
from what they are now; they then never engaged
»heir word for any thing which they did not rigor-
ously intend to perform. This was the case of
Bonbennin, who continued all night to lament his
misfortunes to the Princess, who echoed groan for
groan. When morning came, he published an
edict, offering half his kingdom, and his Princess,
to the person who should catch and bring him the
white mouse with the green eyes.
The edict was scarcely published, when all the
traps in the kingdom were baited with cheese;
numberless mice were taken and destroyed; but
Still the much-wished-for mouse was not among
the number. The privy-council was assembled
more than once to give their advice ; but a:ll their
deliberations came to nothing; even though there
were two complete vermin-killers, and three pro-
fessed rat-catchers of the number. Frequent ad-
dresses, as is usual on extraordinary occasions,
were sent from all parts of the empire ; but though
these promised well, though in them he received an
assurance, that his faithful subjects would assist in
his search with their lives and fortunes, yet, with
all their loyalty, they failed when the time came
that the mouse was to be caught.
The Prince, therefore, was resolved to go him-
seif in search, determined never to lie two nights
in one place, till he had found what he sought for.
Thus, quitting his palace without attendants, he
set out upon his journey, and travelled through
many a desert, and crossed many a river, over high
hills, and down along vales, still restless, still in-
quiring wherever he came; but no white mouse
Was to be found.
As one day, fatigued with his journey, he was
shading himself from the heat of the mid-day sun,
■indcr the arching branchcsof a banana tree, medi-
tating on the object of his pursuit, he perceived an
old woman, hideously deformed, approaching him ;
by her stoop, and the wrinkles of her visage, she
seemc 1 at least five hundred years old ; and the
spotted toad was not more freckled than was her
skin. "Ah! Prince Bonbcnnin-bonbobbin-bon-
bobbinet," cried the creature, "what has led you
so many thousand miles from your own kingdom ?
what is it you look for, and what inthio's you to
travel into the kingdom of the Emmets 1 The
Fnnce, who was excessively complaisant, told her
the whole story three times over ; for she was hard
of hearing. " Well," says the old fairy, for such
she was, " 1 promise to put you in possession of
the white mouse with green eyes, and that imme-
diately too, upon one condition." " One condi-
tion," cried the prince in a rapture, " name a thou-
sand ; I shall undergo them all with pleasure."
"Nay," interrupted the old fairy, " I ask but one,
and that not very mortifying neither; it is only
that you instantly consent to marry me."
It is impossible to express the Prince's confusion
at this demand ; he loved the mouse, but he detest-
ed the bride ; he hesitated ; he desired time to think
upon the proposal : he would have been glad to
consult his friends on such an occasion. " INfey,
nay," cried the odious fairy, "if you demur, I re-
tract my promise ; I do not desire to force my fa-
vours on any man. Here, you my attendants,"
cried she, stamping with her foot, "let my ma-
chine be driven up ; Barbacela, Clueen of Emmets,
is not used to contemptuous treatment." She had
no sooner spoken, than her fiery chariot appeared
in the air, drawn by two snails ; and she was just
going to step in, when the Prince reflected, that
now or never was the time to be possessed of the
white mouse ; and quite forgetting his lawful Prin-
cess Nanhoa, falling on his knees, he implored
forgiveness for having rashly rejected so much
beauty. This well-timed compliment instantly ap-
peased the angry fairy. She affected a hideous
leer of approbation, and taking the young Prince
by the hand, conducted him to a neighbouring
church, where they were married together in a
moment. As soon as the ceremony was perform-
ed, the prince, who was to the last degree Jesirous
of seeing his favourite mouse, reminded the bride
of her promise. " To confess a truth, 'my Prince."
cried she, " I myself am that very white mouse
you saw on your wedding-night in the royal apart-
ment. I now, therefore, give you the choice, whe-
ther you would have me a mouse by day, and a
woman by night, or a mouse by night, and a wo-
man by day." Though the Prince was an excel-
lent casuist, he was quite at a loss how to deter-
mme, but at last thought it most prudent to have
recourse to a blue cat that had followed hirri from
his own dominions, and frequently amused him
with its conversation, and assisted him with its ad-
vice; in fact, this cat was no other than the faith-
ful Princess Nanhoa herself, who had shared with
him all his hardships in this disguise.
By her instructions he was determined in his
choice, and returning to the old fairy, prudently
observed, that as she must have been sensible he
had married her only for the sake of what she had,
and not for her personal qualifications, he thought
it would for several reasons be most convenient, if
she continued a woman by day and appeareu a
mouse by night.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
309
Tlio old fdivy was a good deal mortified at her
hu-ibaiurs want of gallaiilry, though she was re-
luctantly obliged to comply : the day was therefore
spent in the most polite amusements, the gentleman
talked smut, the ladies laughed, and were angry.
At last, the happy night drew near, the blue cat
still stuck by the side of its master, and even fol-
lowed him to the bridal apartment. Barbacela en-
tered the chamber, wearing a train fil'teen yards
long, supported by porcupines, and all over beset
with jewels, which served to render her more de-
testable. She was just stepping into bed to the
Prince, forgetting her promise, when he insisted
upon seeing her in the shape of a mouse. She
had promised, and no fairy can break her word ;
wherefore, assuming the figure of the most beau-
tiful mouse in the world, she skipped and played
about with an infinity of amusement. The Prince,
in an agony of rapture, was desirous of seeing his
pretty play-fellow move a slow dance about the
floor to his own singing; he began to sing, and the
mouse immediately to perform with the most per-
fect knowledge of time, and the finest grace and
greatest gravity imaginable ; it only began, for Nan-
hoa, who had long waited for the opportunity in
the shape of a cat, flew upon it instantly without
remorse, and eating it up in the hundredth part of
a moment, broke the charm, and then resumed her
natural figure.
The Prince now found that he had all along been
under the power of enchantment, tlutt his passion
for the white mouse was entirely fictitious, and not
the genuine complexion of his soul ; he now saw
that his earnestness after mice was an illiberal
amusement, a;nd much more becoming a rat-catcher
than a Prince.- All his meannesses now stared
him in the face; he begged the discreet Princess's
pardon a hundred times. The Princess very rea-
dily forgave him ; and both returning to their pa-
lace in Bonbobbin, lived very happily together, and
reigned many years with all that wisdom, which,
by the story, they appear to have been possessed
of; perfectly convinced, by their former adventures,
that they who place their affections on trifles at
first for amusement, xcillfind those trifles at last
become their most serious concern. Adieu.
LETTER L.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of
tlie Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in Cliina.
elsewhere ; for, in this particular, several states in
Europe excel them ; nor does it arise from a greater
exemption from taxes, for few countries pay more ;
it does .not proceed from their being restrained by
fewer laws, for no people are burdened with so
many; nor does it particularly consist in the se-
curity of their property, for property is pretty well
secured in every polite state in Europe.
How then are the English more free (for more
free they certainly are) than the peojjle of any
other country, or under any other form of govern-
ment whatever! Their freedom consists in their
enjoying all the advantages of democracy, with
this superior prerogative borrowed from monarchy,
that the severity of their laws may be relaxed
xcilhout endangering the constitution.
In a monarchical state, in which the constitution
is strongest, the laws may be relaxed without dan-
ger; for though the people should be unanimous in
the breach of any one in particular, yet still there
is an effective power superior to the people, capable
of enforcing obedience, whenever it may be proper
to inculcate the law either towards the support or
welfare of the community.
But in all those governments where laws derive
their sanction from the people alone, transgressions
can not he overlooked without bringing the consti-
tution into danger. They who transgress the law
in such a case, are those who prescribe it, by which
means it loses not only its influence but its sanc-
tion. In every republic the laws must l)e strong,
because the constitution is feeble; they must resem-
ble an Asiatic husband, who is justly jealous, be-
cause he knows himself impotent. Thus in Hol-
land, Switzerland, and Genoa, new laws are not
frequently enacted, but the old ones are observed
with unremitting severity. In such republics, there-
fore, the people arc slaves to laws of their own
making, little less than in unmixed monarchies,
where they are slaves to the will of one, subject to
frailties like themselves.
In England, from a variety of happy accidents,
their constitution is just strong enough, or, if you
will, monarchical enough to permit a relaxation of
the severity of laws, and yet those laws still to re-
main suflTiciently strong to govern the people. This
is the most perfect state of civil liberty of which we
can form any idea : here we see a greater number
of laws than in any other country, while the people
at the same time obey only such as are immedi-
ately conducive to the interests of society; several
are unnoticed, many unknown; some kept to l)e
revived and enforced upon projier occasions, otheis
Ask an Encrlishman what nation in the world loft to grow obsolete, even without the necessity
enjoys most freedom, and he immediately answers,
his own. Ask him in what tiiat freedom princi-
of abrogation.
There is scarcely an Englishman who docs not
pally consists, and he is instantly silent. This 'almost every day of his life offend with impunit,
happy pre-eminence does not arise frotn the peo- against so.ne express law, and lor winch, ma cer-
ple's enjoyin'T a larger share in legislation than tain conjuncture of circumstances, he would not
m
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
receive punishment. Ganiinw houses, preaching
at prohibited places, assembled crowds, nocturnal
amusements, public shows, and a hundred other
instances, arc forbid and frequented. These pro-
hil>itions are useful; though it be prudent in their
magistrates, and happy for the people, that thev
are not enforced, and none but the venal or merce-
nary attempt to enforce them.
The law in this case, like an indulgent parent,
still keeps the rod, though the child is seldom cor-
rected. Were those pardoned offences to rise into
enormity, were they likely to obstruct the happiness
of society, or endanger the state, it is then that jus-
tice would resume her terrors, and punish those
faults she had so often overlooked with indulgence.
It is to this ductility of the laws that an English-
man owes the freedom he enjoys superior to others
in a more popular government : every step there-
fore the constitution takes towards a democratic
form, every diminution of the legal authority is, in
fact, a diminution of the subject's freedom ; but
every attempt to render the government more popu-
lar, not only impairs natural liberty, but even will
at last dissolve the political constitution.
Every popular government seems calculated to
last only for a time; it grows rigid with age, new
Jaws are multiplying, and the old continue in force;
the subjects are oppressed, and burdened with a
multiplicity of legal injunctions; there are none
from whom to expect redress, and nothing but a
strong convulsion in the state can vindicate them
into former liberty: thus, the people of Rome, a
few great ones excepted, found more real freedom
tinder their emperors, though tyrants, than they
had experienced in the old age of the common-
wealth, in which their laws were become numerous
and painful, in which new laws were every day
enacting, and the old ones executed with rigour.
They even refused to be reinstated in their former
prerogatives, upon an offer made them to this pur-
pose; for they actually found emperors the only
means of softening the rigours of their constitu-
tion.
The constitution of England is at present pos-
sessed of the strength of its native oak, and the
flexibility of the bending tamarisk ; but should the
people at any time, with a mistaken zeal, pant after
an imaginary freedom, and fancy that abridging
monarchy was increasing their privileges, they
would lie very much mistaken, since every jewel
plucked from the crown of majesty would only be
made use of as a bribe to corruption ; it might en-
rich the few who shared it among them, but would
in fact impoverish the public.
As the Roman senators, by slow and impercepti-
ble degrees, became masters of the people, yet still
flattered them with a show of freedom, while them-
selves only were free ; so it is possible for a body
of men, while they stand up for privileges, to grow
into an exuberance of power themselves, and the
public become actually dependent, while some of its
individuals only governed.
If then, my friend, there should in this country
ever be on the throne a king, who, through good-
nature or age, should give up the smallest part of
his prerogative to the people; if there should come
a minister of merit and popularity — but 1 have
room for no more. Adieu.
LETTER LL
To the Same.
As I was yesterday seated at bieakfast over a
pensive dish of tea, my meditations were interrupt-
ed by my old friend and companion, who introduced
a stranger, dressed pretty much like himself. The
gentleman made several apologies for his visit, beg-
ged of me to impute his intrusion to the sincerity
of his respect, and the warmth of his curiosity.
As I am very suspicious of my company when
I find them very civil without any apparent reason,
I answered the stranger's caresses at first with re-
serve ; which my friend perceiving, instantly let me
into my visitant's trade and character, asking Mr.
Fudge, whether he had lately published any thing
new? I now conjectured that my guest was no
other than a bookseller, and his answer confirmed
my suspicions.
" Excuse me, sir," says he, " it is not the season ;
books have their time as well as cucumbers. I
would no more bring out a new work in snnimer
than I would sell pork in the dog-days. Nothing
in my way goes off in summer, except very light
goods indeed. A review, a magazine, or a sessions
paper, may amuse a summer reader ; but all our stock
of value we reserve for a spring and winter trade."
I must confess, sir, says I, a curiosity to know uhat
you call a valuable stock, which can only bear a
winter perusal. " Sir," replied the bookseller, " it
is not my way to cry up my own goods ; but, with-
out exaggeration, I will venture to show with any
of the trade; my books at least have the peculiar
advantage of being always new; and it is my way
to clear off' my old to the trunk-makers every sea-
son. I have ten new title-pages now about me,
which only want books to be added to make them
the finest things in nature. Others may pretend
to direct the vulgar; but that is not my way; I al-
was let the vulgar direct me; wherever popular
clamour arises, 1 always echo the million. For
instance, should the jioople in general say, that
such a man is a rogue, I instantly give orders to set
him down in print a villain; thus every man buys
the book, not to learn new sentiments, but to have
the pleasure of seeing his own reflected." But, sir,
interrupted 1, you speak as if you yourself wrote
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
311
the books you 'published ; may Ihe so bold as to ask
a sight of some of those intendedpublicationswhich
are shortly to surprise the world? " As to that,
sir," replied the talkative bookseller, " I only draw
out the plans myself; and, though I am very cau-
tious of communicating them to any, 3'et, as in the
end I have a favour to ask, )'ou shall see a few of
them. Here, sir, here they are; diamonds of the first
water, I assure you. Imprimis, a translation of
several medical precepts for the use of such physi-
cians as do not understand Latin. Item, the young
clergyman's art of placing patches regularly, with
a dissertation on the diflerent manners of smiling
without distorting the face. Item, the whole art
of love made perfectly easy, by a broker of 'Change
Alley. Item, the proper manner of cutting black-
lead pencils, and making crayons; by the Right Hon.
the Earl of **♦, Item, the muster-master-general,
or the review of reviews — " Sir, cried 1, inter-
rupting him, my curiosity with regard to title-
pages is satisfied ; I should be glad to see some
longer manuscript, a history or un epic poem.
" Bless me," cries the man of industry, " now you
speak of an epic poem, you shall see an excellent
farce. Here it is; dip into it where you will, it
will be found replete with true modern humour.
Strokes, sir ; it is filled with strokes of wit and
satire in every line." Do you call these dashes^
of the pen, strokes, replied I, for I must confess I
can see no other? " And pray, sir," returned he,
" what do you call them? Do you see any thing
good now-a-days, that is not filled with strokes —
and dashes? Sir, a well-placed dash makes half
the wit of our writers of modern humour. 1 bought
a piece last season that had no other merit upon
earth than nine hundred and ninety-five breaks,
seventy-two ha ha's, three good things, and a gar-
ter. And yet it played ofl', and bounced, and
cracked, and made more sport than a fire-work."
J fancy, then, sir, you were a considerable gainer?
" It must be owned the piece did pay; but upon
the whole, I can not much boast of last winter's
success: I gained by two murders; but then 1 lost
by an ill-timed charity sermon. 1 was a considera-
ble sufferer by my Direct Road at an Estate, but
the Infernal Guide brought me up again. Ah, sir,
that was a piece touched off by the hand of a mas-
ter; filled with good things from one end to the
other. The author had nothing but the jest in
view; no dull moral lurking beneath, nor ill-natur-
ed satire to sour the reader's good-humour; he
wisely considered, that moral and humour at the
same time were quite overdoing the Inisinoss." To
uhat purpose was the book tlicn published? "Sir,
the book was published in order to Iw sold ; and
no book sold better, except the critii-istns upon it,
which came out soon after; of ail kia<l of writings
ihat goes off best at present; and I generally fasten
a criticism upon every selling book that is published.
" I once had an author who never left the least
opening for the critics ! close was the word, always
very right, and very dull, ever on the safe side of an
argument; yet with all his qualifications incapable
of coming into favour. I soon perceived that his
bent was for criticism ; and, as he was good for no-
thing else, supplied liim with pens and paper, and
planted him at the beginning of every month as a
censor on the works of others. In short, I found him
a treasure; no merit could escape him : but what is
most remarkable of all, he ever wrote best and bit-
ti?rest when drunk." IJut are there not some
works, interrupted I, that from, the very manner
of their composition, must be exempt from criti-
cism; particularly such as profess to disregard
its laws? " There is no work whatsoever but what
he can criticise," replied the bookseller; "even
though you wrote in Chinese he would have a pluck
at you. Suppose you should take it into your head
to publish a book, let it be a volume of Chinese let-
ters, for instance: write how you will, he shall
show the world you could have written better.
Should you, with the most local exactness, stick to
the manners and customs of the country from
whence you come ; should you confine yourself to
the narrow limits of Eastern knowledge, and be
perfectly simple, and perfectly natural, he has then
i the strongest reason to exclaim. He may with a
I sneer send you back to China for readers. He may
observe, that after the first or second letter, the
. iteration of the same simplicity is insupportably te-
dious; but the worst of all is, the public in such a
case will anticipate his censures, and leave you,
with all your uninstructive simplicity, to he mauled
at discretion."
Yes, cried I, but in order to avoid his indig-
nation, and what I should fear more, that of the
public, I would, in such a case, write with all the
knowledge I was master of. As lam not possessed
of much learning, at least I would not suppress
what little I had; nor woxdd I appear more stupid
than nature has made me. " Here then," cries
the bookseller, "we should have you entirely
in our power: unnatural, uneastern ; quite out of
character ; erroneously sensible would be the whole
cry ; sir, we should then hunt you down like a rat."
Head of 7ny father! said I, s^ire there are but two
ways; the door must cither be shut, or it must be
I must be either natural or unnatural.
Be what you will, we shall criticise you," return-
ed the bookseller, "and prove you a dunce in sj)ile
of your teeth. But, sir, it is time that I should
come to business. I have just now in the press a his-
tory of China ; and if you will but put your name to
it as the author, I shall repay the obligation with
gratitude." Vlliat, sir, replied I, put my name to
a work which I have not written! Never, while I
retain a proper respect for the publk and myself
The bluntness of my reply quite abated the arUouX
open.
312
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
of the bookseller's conversation ; and after about
half an hour's disagreeable reserve, he with some
ceremony, took his leave, and withdrew. Adieu.
LETTER LIT.
To the Same.
In aH other countries, my dear Fum Hoam, the
rich are distinguished by their dress. In Persia,
China, and most parts of Europe, those who are
possessed of much gold or silver, put some of it
upon their clothes; but in England, those who
carry much upon their clothes are remarked for
having but little in their pockets. A tawdry out-
side is regarded as a badge of poverty ; and those
who can sit at home, and gloat over their thousands
in silent satisfaction, are generally found to do it in
plain clothes.
This diversity of thinking from the rest of the
■world which prevails here, I was at first at a loss
to account for ; but am since informed, that it was
introduced by an intercourse between them and
their neighbours the French ; who, whenever they
came in order to pay these islanders a visit, were
generally very well dressed, and very poor, daubed
■with lace, but all the gilding on the outside. By
this means, laced clothes have been brought so
much into contempt, that at present even their
mandarines are ashamed of finery.
I must own myself a convert to English sim-
plicity; I am no more for ostentation of wealth
than of learning: the person who in company
should pretend to be wiser than others, I am apt
to regard as illiterate and ill-bred ; the person whose
clothes are extremely fine, I am too apt to consider
as not being possessed of any superiority of fortune,
but resembling those Indians who are found to
wear all the gold they have in the world, in a bob
at the nose.
I was lately introduced into a company of the
best dressed men I have seen since my arrival.
Upon entering the room, I was struck with awe at
the grandeur of the different dresses. That per-
sonage, thought I, in blue and gold, must be some
emperor's son ; that in green and silver, a prince
of the blood : he in embroidered scarlet, a prime
minister; all first-rate noblemen, I suppose, and
well-looking noblemen too. I sat for some time
with that uneasiness which conscious inferiority
produces in the ingenuous mind, all attention to
their discourse. However, I found their conversa-
tion more vulgar than I could have expected from
personages of such distinction : if these, thought I
to myself, be princes, they, are the most stupid
princes I have ever conversed with : yet still I con-
tinued to venerate their dress; for dress has a kind
01 mechanical influence on the niuid.
My friend in black, indeed, did not behave with
the same deference, but contradicted the finest of
them all in the most peremptory tones of contempt.
But I had scarcely time to wonder at the impru-
dence of his conduct, when I found occasion to be
equally surprised at the absurdity of theirs ; for,
upon the entry of a middle-aged man, dressed in a
cap, dirty shirt, and boots, the whole circle seemed
diminished of their former importance, and con-
tended who should be first to pay their obeisance
to the stranger. They somewhat resembled a
circle of Kalmucs offering incense to a bear.
Eager to know the cause of so much seeming
contradiction, I whispered my friend out of the
room, and found that the august company consist-
ed of no other than a dancing-master, two fiddlers,
and a third-rate actor, all assembled in order to
make a set at country-dances ; and the middle-ageil
gentleman whom I saw enter was a 'squire from
the country, and desirous of learning the new man-
ner of footing, and smoothing up the rudiments of
his rural minuet.
I was no longer surprised at the authority which
my friend assumed among them, nay, was even
displeased (pardon my Eastern education) that he
had not kicked ever}' creature of them down stairs.
"What," said I, "shall a set of such paltry fellows
dress themselves up like sons of kings, and claim
even the transitory respect of half an hour ! There
should be some law to restrain so manifest a breach
of privilege ; they should go from house to house,
as in China, with the instruments of their pro-
fession strung round their necks ; by this means
we might be able to distinguish and treat them in a
style of becoming contempt." Hold, my friend,
replied my companion, were your reformation to
take place, as dancing-masters and fiddlers now
mimic gentlemen in appearance, we should then
find our fine gentlemen conforming to theirs. A
beau might be introduced to a lady of fashion, with
a fiddle-case hanging at his neck by a red riband ;
and instead of a cane, might carry a fiddle-stick.
Though to be as dull as a first-rate dancing-master,
might be used with proverbial justice; yet, dull as
he is, many a fine gentleman sets him up as the
proper standard of politeness ; copies not only the
pert vivacity of his air, but the flat insipidity of his
conversation. In short, if you make a law against
dancing-masters imitating the fine gentleman, you
should with as much reason enact, that no fine
gentleman shall imitate the dancing-master.
After I had left my friend, I made towards home,
reflecting as I went upon the difficulty of distin-
guishing men by their appearance. Invited, how-
ever, by the freshness of the evening, I did not re-
turn directly, but went to ruminate on what had
passed in a public garden belonging to the city
Here, as I sat upon one of the benches, and fell
the pleasing sympathy which nature in bloom in-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
313
spires, a disconsolate figure, who sat on the other
end of the seat, seemed no way to enjoy the sereni-
ty of the season.
His dress was miserable beyond description : a
tlireadbare coat of the rudest materials; a shirt,
though clean, yet extremely coarse; hair that
seemed to have been long unconscious of the comb ;
and all the rest of his equipage impressed with the
marks of genuine poverty.
As he continued to sigh, and testify every symp-
tom of despair, 1 was naturally led, from a motive
of humanity, to offer comfort and assistance. You
know my heart; and that all who are miserable
may claim a place there. The pensive stranger
at first declined my conversation ; but at last, per-
ceiving a peculiarity in my accent and manner of
thinking, he began to unfi)ld himself by degrees.
I now found that he was not so very miserable
as he at first appeared ; upon my offering him a
small piece of money, he refused my favour, yet
without appearing displeased at my intended gener-
osity. It is true, he sometimes interrupted the
conversation with a sigh, and talked pathetically of
neglected merit ; yet still I could perceive a serenity
in his countenance, that, upon a closer inspection,
bespoke inward content.
Upon a pause in the conversation, I was going
to take my leave, when he begged I would favour
him with my company home to supper. I was
surprised at such a demand from a person of his
appearance, but willing to indulge curiosity, I ac-
cepted his invitation ; and, though I felt some re-
pugnance at being seen with one who appeared so
very wretched, went along with seeming alacritj'.
Still as he approached nearer home, his good hu-
mour proportionably seemed to increase. At last
he stopped, not at the gate of a hovel, but of a mag-
nificent palace! When I cast my eyes upon all the
sumptuous elegance which every where presented
upon entering, and then when I looked at my seem-
ing miserable conductor, I could scarcely think that
all this finery belonged to him ; yet in fact it did.
Numerous servants ran through the apartments
■with silent assiduity ; several ladies of beauty, and
magnificently dressed, came to welcome his return ;
a most elegant supper was provided : in short, I
found the person whom a little before I had sin-
cerely pitied, to be in reality a most refined epicure,
— one who courted contempt abroad, in order to
feel with keener gust the pleasure of pre-eminence
at home. Adieu.
LETTER LIIL
From ihe Same.
Flow ofter> have we admired the eloquence of
Europe ! that strength of thinking, that delicacy of
imagination, even beyond the efforts of the Chinese
themselves. How were we enraptured with those
bold figures which sent every sentiment with force
to the heart. How have we spent whole days to-
gether, in learning those arts by which European
writers got within the passions, and led the reader
as if by enchantment.
But though we have learned most of the rhetori-
cal figures of the last age, yet there seems to be one
or two of great use here, which have not yet travel-
led to China. The figures I mean are called
Bawdry and Pertrxss: none are more fashionable;
none so sure of admirers ; they are of such a na-
ture, that the merest blockhead, by a proper use of
them, shall have the reputation of a wit ; they lie
level to the meanest capacities, and address those
passions which all have, or would be ashamed to
disown. ■ .
It has been observed, and I believe with some truth,
that it is very difficult for a dunce to obtain the re-
putation of a wit ; yet, by the assistance of the
figure Bawdry, this may be easily effected, and a
bawdy blockhead often j)asses for a fellow of smart
parts and pretensions. Every object in nature
helps the jokes forward, without scarcely any elTort
of the imagination. If a lady stands, something
very good may be said upon that; if she happens
to fall, with the help of a little fashionable prurion-
cy, there are forty sly things ready on the occa-
sion. But a prurient jest has always been found
to give most pleasure to a few very old gentlemen,
who, being in some measure dead to other sensa-
tions, feel the force of the allusion with double
violence on the organs of risibility.
An author who writes in this manner is general-
ly sure therefore of having the very old and the
impotent among his admirers; for these he may
properly be said to write, and Irom these he ought
t^) expect his reward ; his works being often a very
proper succedaneum to cantharides, or an asafoeti-
da pill. His pen should be considered in the same
light as the squirt of an apothecary, both being
directed to the same generous end.
But though this manner of writing be perfectly
ada]ited to the taste of gentlemen an<l ladies of
fashion here, yet still it deserves greater praise in
being equally suited to the most vulgar apjirehcn-
sions. The very ladies and gentlemen of Benin
or Calfraria are in this respect tolerably polite, and
might relish a prurient joke of this kind with criti-
cal ])ropriety ; probably too whh higher gust, as
they wear neither l>reeches nor petticoats to inter-
cept the ajjplication.
It is certain 1 never could have thought the la-
dies here, biassed as they are by education, capable
at once of bravely throwing off' their prejudices,
and not only applauding lK>oksin which this figure
makes the only merit, but even adojUing it in their
own conversation. Yet so it is: the pretty iiuio*
314
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
cents now carry those books openly in their hands,
which formerly were hid under the cushion : they
now lisp their double meanings with so much grace,
and talk over the raptures they bestow with such
little reserve, that I am sometimes reminded of a
custom among the entertainers in China, who think
it a piece of necessary breeding to whet the appe-
tites of their guests, by letting them smell dinner
in the kitchen, before it is served up to table.
The veneration we have for many things, en-
tirely proceeds from their being carefully concealed.
Were the idolatrous Tartar permitted to lift the
veil which keeps his idol from view, it might be a
certain method to cure his future superstition : with
what a noble spirit of freedom, therefore, must that
writer be possessed, who bravely paints things as
they are, who lifts the veil of modesty, who dis-
plays the most hidden recesses of the temple, and
shows the erring people that the object of their vows
is either, perhaps, a mouse or a monkey !
However, though this figure be at present so
much in fashion ; though the professors of it are so
much caressed by the great, those perfect judges
of literary excellence; yet it is confessed to be only
a revival of what was once fashionable here before.
There was a time, when by this very manner of
Writing, the gentle Tom Durfey, as I read in En-
glish authors, acquired his great reputation, and
became the favourite of a king.
The works of tliis original genius, though they
never travelled abroad to China, and scarcely have
reached posterity at home, were once found upon
every fashionable toilet, and made the subject of
polite, I mean very polite conversation. " Has your
grace seen Mr. Durfey's last new thing, the Oylet
Hole? A most facetious ■piece I — Sure, my lord,
all the world must have seen it ; Durfey is cer-
tainly the most comical creature alive. It is im-
possible to read his things and live. Was theve
ever any thing so natural and pretty, as when the
'Squire and Bridget meet in the cellar? And
then the difficulties they both find in broaching
the beer-barrel are so arch and so ingenious : We
have certainly nothing of this kind in the lan-
guage." In this manner they spoke then, and in
this manner they speak now ; for though the suc-
cessor of Durfey does not excel him in wit, the
world must confess he outdoes him in obscenity.
There are several very dull fellows, who, by a
few mechanical helps, sometimes learn to become
extremely brilliant and pleasing, with a little dex-
terity in the management of thte eyebrows, fingers,
and nose. By imitating a cat ; a sow and pigs ; by
a loud laugh, and a slap on the shoulder, the most
ignorant are furnished out for conversation. But
tlie writer finds it impossible to throw his winks,
his shrugs, or his attitudes, upon paper; he may
borrow some assistance, indeed, by printing his face
at the title-page ; but without wit, to pass for a man
of ingenuity, no other mechanical help but down-
right obscenity will suffice. By speaking of some
peculiar sensations, we are always sure of exciting
laughter, for the jest does not lie in the writer, but
in the subject.
But Bawdry is often helped on by another figure,
called Pertness; and few indeed are found to excel
in one that are not possessed of the other.
As in common conversation, the best way to
make the audience laugh is by first laughing your-
self; so in writing, the properest manner is to show
an attempt at humour, which will pass upon most
for humour in reaUty. To effect this, readers must
be treated with the most perfect familiarity : in one
page the author is to make them a low bow, and
in the next to pull them by the nose; he must talk
in riddles, and then send them to bed in order to
dream for the solution. He must speak of himself,
and his chapters, and his manner, and what he
would be at, and his own importance, and his mo-
ther's importance, with the most unpitying prolixi-
ty; and now and then testifying his contemj)t for
all but himself, smiling without a jest, and without
wit professing vivacity. Adieu.
LETTER LIV.
From the Same.
Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay
company, and take every opportunity of thus dis-
missing the mind from duty. From this motive,
I am often found in the centre of a crowd ; and
wherever pleasure is to be sold, am always a pur-
chaser. In those places, without being remarked
by any, I join in whatever goes forward ; work my
passions into a similitude of frivolous earnestness,
shout as they shout, and condemn as they happen
to disapprove. A mind thus sunk for a while be-
low its natural standard, is qualified for stronger
flights, as those first retire who would spring for-
ward with greater vigour.
Attracted by the serenity of the evening, my
friend and I lately went to gaze upon the company
in one of the public walks near the city. Here we
sauntered together for some time, either praising
the beauty of such as were handsome, or the
dresses of such as had nothing else to recommend
them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for
some time, when stopping on a sudden, my friend
caught me by the elbow, and led me out of the
public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of
his pace, and by his frequently looking behind, that
he was attempting to ayoid somebody who followed:
we now turned to the right, then to the left ; as we
went forward he still went faster, but in vain ; the
person whom he attempted to escape hunted us
through every doubling, and gained upon us each
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
^i#
moment ; so that at last we fairly stood still, re-
solving to face what we could not avoid.
Our jHirsuer soon came up, and joined us with
all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. " My
dear Drybone," cries he, shaking my friend's hand,
" where have you been hiding this half a century 1
Positively I had fancied you were gone to cultivate
matrimony and your estate in the country." Dur-
ing the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the
appearance of our new companion : his hat was
pinched up with peculiar smartness ; his looks were
pale, thin, and sharp ; round his neck he wore a
Oroad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle stud-
ded with glass; his coat was trimmed with tarnished
twist ; he wore by his side a sword with a black
hilt : and his stockings of silk, though newly washed,
were grown yellow by long service. I was so much
engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I at-
tended only to the latter pa:rt of my friend's reply,
in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste
of his clothes, and the bloom in his countenance :
" Pshaw, pshaw. Will," cried the figure, " no more
of that if you love me : you know I hate flattery, on
my soul I do ; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with
the great will improve one's appearance, and a
course of venison will fatten ; and yet, faith, I de-
spise the great as much as you do : but there are a
great many damn'd honest fellows among them;
and we must not quarrel with one half, because
the other wants weeding. If they were all such as
my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured
creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should my-
self be among the number of their admirers. I was
yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's.
My lord was there. Ned, says he to me, Ned,
says he, I'll hold gold to silver I can tell where you
were poaching last night. Poaching, my lord, says
I ; faith you have missed already ; for I staid at
home, and let the girls poach for me. That's my
way ; I take a fine woman, as some animals do
their prey — stand still, and, swoop, they fall into
my mouth."
" Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow," cried my
companion, with looks of infinite pity; "I hope
your fortune is as much improved as your under-
standing in such com])any7" "Improved," re-
plied the other; "you shall know, — but let it go
no farther, — a great secret — five hundred a-year to
begin with. — My lord's word of honour for it —
his lordship took me down in his own chariot yes-
terday, and we had a tcte-a-tote dinner in the coun-
try, where we talked of nothing else." "1 fancy
you forget, sir," cried I, " you told us but this mo-
ment of your dining yesterday in town." " Did I
say soT' replied he, coolly; "to be sure, if I saiil
so, it was so — dined in town ; egad, now I do re-
member, I did dine in town; but I dined in the
country too; for you must know, my boys, I cat
two dinners. By the by, I am grown as nice as
the devdl in my eating. I'll tell you a pleasant af-
fair about that : we were a select party of us to
dine at Lady Grogram's, ar. affected piece, but let
it go no farther; a secret: well, there happened to
be no asafoetida in the sauce to a turkey, upon -
which, says I, I'll hold a thousand guineas, and say
done first, that — but dear Drybone, you are an hon-
est creature, lend me half-a-crown for a minute or
two, or so, just till but hearkce, ask me for it
the next time we meet, or it may be twenty to one
but 1 forget to pay you."
When he left us, our conversation naturally
turned upon so extraordinary a character. His
very dress, cries my friend, is not less extraordinary
than his conduct. If you meet him this day you
find him in rags, if the next, in embroidery. With
those persons of distinction of whom he talks so
familiarly, he has scarcely a coffee-house acquaint-
ance. However, both for the interests of society,
and perhaps for his own, Heaven has made hini
poor, and while all the world perceive his wants,
he fancies them concealed from every eye. An
agreeable companion, because he understands flat-
tery ; and all nmst be pleased with the first part of
his conversation, though all are sure of its endin*
with a demand on their purse. While his youth
countenances the levity of his conduct, he may
thus earn a precarious subsistence, but when age
comes on, the gravity of which is incompatible
with buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken
by all; condemned in the decline of life to hang
ujjon some rich family whom he once despised,
there to undergo all the ingenuity of studied con-
tempt, to be employed only as a spy upon the ser-
vants, or a bugbear to fright the children into obe-
dience. Adieu. - ' •
CHAPTER LV.
To tho .Same.
I AM apt to fancy I have contracted a new ac-
quaintance whom it will be no easy matter to shake
off. My little beau yesterday overlook me again
in one of the public walks, and slapping me on the
shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most per-
fect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual,
except that he had more powder in his hair, wore
a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his
hat under his arm.
As 1 knew him to be a harmless amusing little
thing, I could not return his smiles with any de-
irree of severity; so we walked forward on terms
of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes dis-
cussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular
conversation.
The oddities that marked his character, how
ever, soon k-gan to api>car j he bowed to several
316
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
well-circssed persons, who, by their manner of re-
turning the coinpliniont, appeared perfect strangers.
At intervals he drew out a pocket book, seeming
to take memorandums before all the company, with
much importance and assiduity. In this manner
he led me through the length of the whole walk,
fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself
laughed at not less than him by every spectator.
When we had got to the end of our procession,
"Blast me," cries he, with an air of vivacity, " I
never saw the park so thin in my life before ! there's
no company at all to-day; not a .single face to be
Been." " No company !" interrupted 1, peevishly;
" no company where there is such a crowd? why
man, there's too much. What are the thousands
that have been laughing at us but company?''
"Lord, my dear," returned he, with the utmost
good humour, "you seem immensely chagrined;
but blast me, when the world laughs at me, I
laugh at the world, and so we are even. My Lord
Trip,. Bill Squa.sh the Creolian, and I, sometimes
make a party at being ridiculous ; and so we say
and do a thousand things for the joke's sake. But
I see you are grave, and if you are for a fine grave
sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and
my wife today; I must insist on't: I'll introduce
you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifica-
tions as any in nature; she was bred, but that's
between ourselves, under the inspection of the
Countess of All-night. A charming body of voice •
but no more of that, she will give us a song. You
shall see my little girl too, Carolina Wilhehnina
Amelia Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature! I design
her for my Lord Drumstick's eldest son ; but that's
in friendship, let it go no farther : she's but six
years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on
the guitar immensely already. I intend she shall
be as perfect as possible in every accomplishment.
In the first place, I'll make her a scholar; I'll teach
her Greek myself, and learn that language pur-
posely to instruct her ; but let that be a secret."
Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he
took me by the arm, and hauled me along. We
passed through many dark alleys and winding
ways ; for, from some motives to me unknown, he
seemed to have a particular aversion to every fre-
quented street ; at last, however, we got to the door
of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town,
where he informed me he chose to reside for the
benefit of the air.
We entered the lower door, which ever seemed
to lie most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend
an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mount-
ed to show me the way, he demanded, whether I
delighted in prospects; to which answering in the
affirmative, " Then," says he, " I shall show you
one of the most charming in the world out of my
we
wmjow ;
shall see the ships sailing, and the
Whol** country for twenty miles round, tip top,
quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten
thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I some-
times pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my
prospects at home, that my friends may visit me
the oftencr."
By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs
would permit us to ascend, till we came to what
he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor
down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a
voice from within demanded who's there? My con-
ductor answered that it was him. But ♦.his. not
satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the
demand: to which he answered louder than oefore;
and now the door was opened by an old woman
with cautious reluctance.
When we were got in,, he welcomed me to his
house with great ceremony, and turning to the old
woman, asked where was her lady? " Good troth,"
replied she, in a pecuhar dialect, " she's washing
your twa shirts at the next door, because they have
taken an oath against lending out the tub any
longer." "My two shirts," cried he, in a tone
that faltered with confusion, " what does the idiot
mean?" " I ken what I mean weel enough," replied
the other; "she's washing your twa slurts at the
next door, because — " " Fire and fury, no more
of thy stupid explanations," cri^d he ; " go and in-
form her we have got company. Were that Scotch
hag to be for ever in my family, she would never
learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous
accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of
breeding or high life ; and yet it is very surprising
too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend of
mine from the Highlands, one of the politest men
in the world ; but that's a secret."
We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs's arrival,
during which interval I had a full opportunity of
surveying the chamber and all its furniture : which
consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms,
that he assured me were his wife's embroidery; a
square table that had been once japanned; a cradle
in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the other ; a
broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a
head, were stuck over the chimney ; and round the
walls several paltry unframed pictures, which, he
observed, were all his own drawing. " What do
you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in
the manner of Grisoni? there's the true keeping m
it ; it is my own face, and though there happens to
be no likeness, a countess offered me a hundred for
its fellow : I refused her, for, hang it, that would be
mechanical, you know."
The wife at last made her appearance, at once a
slattern and a coquette; much emaciated, but still
carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty
apologies for being seen in such odious dishabille,
tiut hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all
night at the gardens with the countess, who was
excessively fond of the hoDis. "And indeed, my
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
317
diar," added she, turning to her husband, "his
lordship drank your health in a bumper." — "Poor
Jack," cries he, " a dear good-natured creature, I
know he loves me : but I hope, my dear, you have
given orders for dinner ; you need make no great
preparations neither, there are but three of us ;
something elegant and Uttlewilldo; a turbot, an
ortolan, a " " Or what do you think, my
dear," interrupted the wife, "of a nice pretty bit
of ox -cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of
my own sauce']" — " The very thing," replies he,
" it will eat best with some smart bottled beer : but
be sure to let us have the sauce his grace was so fond
of. I hate your immense loads of meat, that is
country all over ; extremely disgusting to those who
are in the least acquainted with high life."
By this time my curiosity began to abate, and
my appetite to increase : the company of fools may
at first make us smile, but at last never fails of
rendering us melancholy ; I therefore pretended to
recollect a prior engagement, and, after having
shown my respect to the house, according to the
fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a
piece of money at the door, I took my leave ; Mrs.
Tibbs assuring me, that dinner, if I stayed, would
be ready at least in less than two hours.
LETTER LVL
From Fum Hoam to Altangi, tlie discontented Wanderer.
The distant sounds of music, that catch new
sweetness as they vibrate through the long-drawn
valley, are not more pleasing to the ear than the
tidings of a far distant friend.
I have just received two hundred of thy letters
by the Russian caravan, descriptive of the manners
of Europe. You have left it to geographers to de-
termine the size of their mountains, and extent of
their lakes, seeming only employed in discovering
the genius, the government, and disposition of the
people.
In those letters I perceive a journal of the opera-
tions of your mind upon whatever occurs, rather
than a detail of your travels from one building to
another; of your taking a draught of this ruin, or
that obelisk ; of paying so many tomans for this
commodity, or laying up a proper store for the
passage of some new wilderness.
From your account of Russia, I learn that this
nation is again relaxing into pristine barbarity ;
that its great emperor wanted a life of a hundred
years more, to bring about his vast design. A
savage people may be resembled to their own
forests ; a few years are sufl'icient to clear away the
obstructions to agriculture ; but it requires many,
ere the ground acquires a proper degree of fertili-
ty: the Russians, attached to their ancient preju-
dices, again renew their hatred to strangers, and
indulge every former brutal excess. So true it is,
that the revolutions of wisdom are slow and diffi-
cult; the revolutions of folly or ambition precipi-
tate and easy. We are not to be astonished, says
Confucius,* that the wise walk more slowly in their
road to virtue, than fools in their passage to vice;
since passion drags us along, while wisdom only
points out the way.
The German empire, that remnant of the ma-
jesty of ancient Rome, a])pears, from your account,
on the eve of dissolution. The members of its vast
body want every tie of government to unite them,
and seem feebly held together only by their res])ect
for ancient institutions. The very name of coun-
try and countrymen, which in other nations makes
one of the strongest bonds of government, has been
here for some time laid aside; each of its inhabi-
tants seeming more proud of being called from the
petty state which gives him birth, than by the
more well-known title of German.
This government may be regarded in the light
of a severe master and a feeble opponent. The
states which are now subject to the laws of the
empire are only watching a proper occasion to fling
off the yoke, and those which are become too pow-
erful to be compelled to obedience now begin to
think of dictating in their turn. The struggles
in this state are, therefore, not in order to preserve,
but to destroy the ancient constitution : if one side
succeeds, the government must become despotic,
if the other, several states will subsist without even
nominal subordination; but in either case, the
Germanic constitution will be no more.
Sweden, on the contrary, though now seemingly
a strenuous assertorof its Ubcrties, is probably only
hastening on to despotism. Their senators, while
they pretend to vindicate the freedom of the peo-
ple, are only establishing their own independence.
The deluded people will, however, at last perceive
the miseries of an aristocratical government ; they
will perceive that the administration of a society
of men is ever more painful than that of one only.
They will fly from this most oppressive of all
forms, where one single member is capable of con-
trolling the whole, to Udie refuge under the throne,
which will ever be attentive to their complaints.
No people long endure an aristocratical govern-
ment when they can ap[ily elsewhere for redress.
The lower orders of peojile may be enslaved for a
time by a number of tyrants, but, ujxm the Gn>t op-
portunity, they will ever take a refuge in despot
ism or democracy.
As the Swedes arc making concealed ajiproach
es to despotism, the French, on the other hand,
• Though ihis fine maxim be not found in the Uitin edition
of llic IMorals of Confucius, yet we find it asci ibcd l<> hun 07
Le Comte. Etat present de la Chine, Vol. I. p. 3U.
313
GOLDSMITH'S "WORKS.
arc imperceptibly vindicating themselves into free-
dom. When I consider that those parliaments
(the members of which are all created by the court,
the presidents of which can act only by immediate
direction) presume even to mention privileges and
freedom, who, till of late, received directions from
the throne with implicit humility ; when this is
considered, I can not help fancying that the genius
of freedom has entered that kingdom in disguise.
If they have but three weak monarchs more suc-
cessively on the throne, the mask will be laid aside,
and the country will certainly once more be free.
When I compare the figure which the Dutch
make in Europe with that they assume in Asia, 1
am struck with surprise. In Asia, I find them the
great lords of all the Indian seas : in Europe the
timid inhabitants of a paltry state. No longer the
sons of freedom, but of avarice ; no longer assertors
of their rights by courage, but by negotiations;
fawning on those who insult them, and crouching
under the rod of every neighbouring power. With-
out a friend to save them in distress, and without
virtue to save themselves; their government is
poor, and their private wealth will serve but to
invite some neighbouring invader.
I long with impatience for your letters from
England, Denmark, Holland, and Italy ; yet why
wish for relations which only describe new calami-
ties, which show that ambition and avarice are
equally terrible in every region ! Adieu.
LETTER LVII.
From Lien Chi Altangi, toFum Hoani, First President of the
Ceremonial Academy at Peliiii, in China.
I HAVE frequently admired the manner of criti-
cising in China, where the learned are assembled
in a body to judge of every new publication; to
examine the merits of the work, without knowing
the circumstances of the author ; and then to
usher it into the world with proper marks of respect
or reprobation.
In England there are no such tribunals erected ;
but if a man thinks proper to be a judge of genius,
few will be at the pains to contradict his preten-
Bions. If any choose to be critics, it is but saying
they are critics ; and from that time forward, they
become invested vpith full power and authority over
every caitiff who aims at their instruction or en-
tertainment.
As almost every member of society has, by this
means, a vote in literary transactions, it is no way
suri'rising to find the rich leading the way here, as
m other common concerns of life; to see them
cither bribing the numerous herd of voters by their
interest, or browbeating them by their authority.
A great man says at his table, that such a book
is no bad thing. Immediately the praise is car-
ried off by five flatterers to be dispersed at twelve
different coffee-houses, from whence it circulates,
still improving as it proceeds, through forty-five
houses, where cheaper liquors are sold ; from thence
it is carried away by the honest tradesman to his
own fire-side, where the applause is eagerly caught
up by his wife and children, who have been long
taught to regard his judgment as the standard of
perfection. Thus, when we have traced a wide
extended literary reputation up to its original
source, we shall find it derived from some great
man, who has, perhaps, received all his education
and English from a tutor of Berne, or a dancing
master of Picardy.
The English are a people of good sense; and I
am the more surprised to find them swayed in
their opinions by men who often, from their
very education, are incompetent judges. Men
who, being always bred in affluence, see the world
only on one side, are surely improper judges ot
human nature ; they may indeed describe a cere-
mony, a pageant, or a ball ; but how can they pre-
tend to dive into the secrets of the human heart,
who have been nursed up only in forms, and daily
behold nothing but the -same insipid adulation
smiling upon every face. Ffew of them have been
bred in that best of schools, the school of adversi-
ty; and, by what I can learn, fewer still have been
bred in any school at all.
From such a description, one would think, that
a droning duke, or a dowager duchess, was not
possessed of more just pretensions to taste than
persons of less quaUty; and yet whatever the one
or the other may write or praise, shall pass for
perfection, without further examinatipn. A no-
bleman has but to take a pen, ink, and paper,
write away through three large volumes, and then
sign his name to the title page ; though the whole
might have been before more disgusting than his
own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives
value to the deed ; title being alone equivalent to
taste, imagination, and genius.
As soon as a piece therefore is published, the
first questions are. Who is the author? Does he
keep a coach ? Where hes his estate 1 What
sort of a table does he keep? If he happens to be
poor and unqualified for such a scrutiny, he and
his works sink into irremediable obscurity ; and too
late he finds, that having fed upon turtle is a more
ready way to fame than having digested Tully.
The poor devil against whom fashion has set
its face, vainly alleges, that he has been bred in
every part of Europe where knowledge was to be
sold ; that he has grown pale in the study of na-
ture and himself; his works may please upon the
perusal, but his pretensions to fame are entirely
disregarded ; he is treated hke a fiddler, whose mu-
i sic, though hked, is not much praised, because he
I
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
319
lives by it ; while a gentleman performer, though
the most wretched scraper alive, throws the audi-
ence into raptures. The fiddler indeed may, in
such a case console himself by thinking, that while
the other goes olFwith all the praise, he runs away
with all the money; but here the parallel drops;
tor while the nobleman triumphs in unmerited ap-
plause, the author by profession steals ofl' with —
nothing.
The poor, therefore, here, who draw their pens
auxiliary to the laws of their country, must think
themselves very happy if they find, not fame but
forgiveness : and yet they are hardly treated ; for
OS every country grows more polite, the press be-
comes more useful; and writers become more neces-
sary, as readers are supposed to increase. In a
polished society, that man, though in rags, who has
the power of enforcing virtue from the press, is of
more real use than forty stupid brahmins, or
bonzes, or guebres, though they preached ever so
often, ever so loud, or ever so long. That man,
though in rags, who is capable of deceiving even
indolence into wisdom, and who professes amuse-
ment while he aims at reformation, is more useful
in refined society than twenty cardinals, with all
their scarlet, and tricked out in all the fopperies of
scholastic finery. - ■ .
LETTER LVIII.
To the Same.
As the man in black takes every opportunity of
introducing me to such company as may serve to
indulge my speculative temper, or gratify my curi-
osity, I was by his influence lately invited to a
visitation dinner. To understand this term you
must know, that it was formerly the custom here
for the principal priests to go about the country
once a-year, and examine upon the spot, whether
those of subordinate orders did their duty, or were
qualified for the task ; whether their temples were
kept in proper repair, or the laity pleased with their
administration.
Though a visitation of this nature was very use-
ful, yet it was found to be extremely troublesome,
and for many reasons utterly inconvenient; for as
the principal priests were obliged to attend at court,
in order to solicit preferment, it was impossible
they could at the same time attend in the country,
which was quite out of the road to promotion : if
We add to this the gout, which has been time im-
memorial a clerical disorder here, together with the
bad wine and ill-dressed provisions that must in-
fallibly be served up by the way, it was not strange
that the custom has been long discontinued. At
present, therefore, every head of the church, inst<':ul
of going about to visit his priests, is satisfied if his
priests come in a body once a year to visit him: by
this means the duty of half a-year is dispatched in
a day. When assembled, he asks each in his turn
how they have behaved, and are liked; upon which,
those who have neglected their duty, or are dis-
agreeable to their congregation, no doubt accuse
themselves, and tell him all their faults; for which
he reprimands them most severely.
The thoughts of being introduced into a com-
pany of philosophers and learned men (for as such
I conceived them) gave me no small jileasure. I
expected our entertainment would resemble those
sentimental banquets so finely described by Xeno-
phon and Plato : I was hoping some Socrates
would be brought in from the door, in order to
harangue upon divine love; but as for eating and
drinking, I had prepared myself to be disappointed
in that particular. I was apprised that fisting and
temperance were tenets strongly recommended to
the professors of Christianity, and I had seen the
frugality and mortification of the priests of the
East; so that I expected an entertainment where
we should have much reasoning and little meat.
Upon being introduced, 1 confess I found no
great signs of mortification in the faces or persons
of the company. However, I imputed their ilorid
looks to temperance, and their corpulency to a se-
dentary way of living. I saw several preparations
indeed for dinner, but none for ])hilosopliy. The
company seemed to gaze upon the table with si-
lent expectation : but this I easily excused. Men
of wisdom, thought I, are ever slow of speech ; they
deliver nothing unadvisedly. Silence, says Con-
fucius, is a friend that will never betray. They
are now probably inventing maxims or hard say-
ings for their mutual instruction, when some one
shall think proper to begin.
My curiosity was now wrought up to the highest
pitch; 1 impatiently looked round to see if any
were going to interru[)t the mighty pause ; when at
last one of the comi>any declared, that there was a
sow in his neighbourhood that farrowed iifteen pigs
at a litter. This I thought a very preposterous
beginning; but just as another was going to second
the remark, dinner was served, which interrupted
the conversation for that time.
The appearance of dinner, which consisted of a
variety of dishes, seemeti to diffuse new cheerful-
ness upon every face; so that 1 now expected the
philosophical conversation to begin, as they iiu
proved in good-humour. The principal priest,
however, opened his mouth with only observing,
that the venison had not been kept enough, though
he had given strict orders for having it killed ten
days belore. "I fear," continued he, "it will bo
found to want the true heathy flavour; you wij
find nothing of the original wildness in if." A
priest, who sat next I'iin, having smelt it, and
wiped his nose, "Ah, my good lord," cries he^
320
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
"you are too moJest, it is perfectly fine; everybody
knows that noliody understands keeping venison
with your lordship." — "Ay, and partridges too,"
interrupted another ; " I never find them right any
where else." His lordship was going to reply,
when a third took ofTthe attention of the company,
by recommending the pig as inimitable. "I fancy,
my lord," continues he, "it has been smothered in
its own blood." — " If it has been smothered in its
blood," cficd a facetious member, helping himself,
•' we'll now smother it in egg-sauce." This poig-
nant piece of humour produced a long loud laugh,
which the facetious brother observing, and now
that he was in luck, willing to second his blow,
assured the company he would tell them a good
story about that: "As good a story," cries he,
bursting into a violent fit of laughter himself, "as
ever you heard in your lives. There was a farmer
in my parish who used to sup upon wild ducks
and flummery; — so this farmer" — "Doctor Mar-
rowfat," cries his lordship, interrupting him, "give
me leave to drink your health;" — "so being fond
of wild ducks and flummery," — " Doctor," adds a
gentleman who sat next to him, "let me advise
you to a wing of this turkey;" — "so this farmer
being fond" — "Hob and nob, Doctor, which do
you choose, white or red?" — "So, being fond of
wild ducks and flummery ; " — " Take care of your
band, sir, it may dip in the gravy." The doctor,
now looking round, found not a single eye disposed
to listen ; wherefore, calling for a glass of wine, he
guljied dowji the disappointment and the tale in a
bumper.
The conversation now began to be little more
than a rhapsody of exclamations : as each had
pretty well satisfied his own appetite, he now found
sufficient time to press others. "Excellent! the
very thing! let me recommend the pig. Do but
taste the bacon ! never ate a better thing in my
life : exquisite ! delicious ! " This edifying dis-
course continued through three courses, which last-
ed as many hours, till every one of the company
were unable to swallow or utter any thing more.
It is very natural for men who are abridged in
one excess, to break into some other. The clergy
here, paiticularly tfiose wlio are advanced in years,
think if they are abstemious with regard to women
and wine, they may indulge their other appetites
without censure Thus some are found to rise in
the morning only to a consultation with their cook
about dinner, and when that has been swallowed,
make no other use of their faculties (if they have
any) but to ruminate on the succeeding meal.
A debauch in wine is even more pardonable
than this, since one glass insensibly leads on to
another, and instead of sating, whets the appetite.
The progressive steps to it are cheerful and se-
<lucing; the grave are animated, the melancholy
lelieved, and there is even classic authority to
But in eating, after na-
countenance the excess
ture is once satisfied, every additional morsel brings
stupidity and distempers with it, and as one of
their own poets expresses it,
The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines
To seem but mortcil, even in sound divines.
Let me suppose, after such a meal as this I have
been describing, while all the company are sitting
in lethargic silence round the table, groaning un-
der a load of soup, pig, pork, and bacon ; let me
suppose, I say, some hungry beggar, with looks of
want, peeping through one of the windows, and
thus addressing the assembly: "Prithee, pluck
those napkins from your chins; after nature ia
satisfied, all that you eat extraordinary is my
property, and I claim it as mine. It was given
you in order to relieve me, and not to oppress
yourselves. How can they comfort or instruct
others, who can scarcely feel their own existence,
except from the unsavoury returns of an ill-digest
ed meall But though neither you, nor the cush
ions you sit upon will hear me, yet the world re-
gards the excesses of its teachers with a prying eye,
and notes their conduct with double severity." 1
know no other answer any one of the company
could make to such an expostulation but this:
"Friend, you talk of our losing a character, and
being disliked by the world ; well, and supposing
all this to be true, what then ! who cares for the
world? We'll preach for the world, and the world
shall pay us for preaching, whether we like each
other or not."
LETTER LIX. ,
From Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow.
Yotj will probably be pleased to see my lettei
dated from Terki, a city which lies beyond the
bounds of the Persian empire: here, blessed with
security, with all that is dear, I double my rap
tures by communicating them to you : the mind
sympathising with the freedom of the body, my
whole soul is dilated in gratitude, love, and praise.
Yet, were my own happiness all that inspired my
present joy, my raptures might justly merit the
imputation of self-interest ; but when I think that
the beautiful Zelis is also free, forgive my triumph
when I boast of having rescued from captivity the
most deserving object upon earth.
You remember the reluctance she testified at
being obliged to marry the tyrant she hated. Her
comjiliance at last was only feigned, in order to
gain time to try some future means of escape.
During the interval between her promise and the
intended performance of it, she came undiscovered
one evening to the place where 1 generally retired
CITIZEN OP THE WORLD.
321
after tlie fatigues of the day : her appearance was
like that of an aerial genius when it d.escends to
minister comfort to undeserved liistress ; the mild
lustre of her eye served to banish my timidity; her
accents were sweeter than the echo of some dis-
tant symphony. "Unhappy stranger," said she,
in the Persian language, "you here perceive one
more wretched than thyself! All this solemnity
of preparation, this elegance of dress, and the
number of my attendants, serve but to increase my
miseries : if you have courage to rescue an unhap-
py woman from approaching ruin, and our detest-
ed tyrant, you may depend upon my future grati-
tude." I bowed to the ground, and she left me,
filled with rapture and astonishment. Night
brought me no rest, nor could the ensuing morn-
ing calm the anxieties of my mind. I projected a
thousand methods for her delivery ; but each, when
strictly examined, appeared impracticable : in this
uncertainty the evening again arrived, and I placed
myself on my former station in hopes of a repeated
visit. After some short expectation, the bright
perfection again appeared : 1 bowed, as before, to
the ground; when raising me up, she observed,
that the time was not to be spent in us^ess cere-
mony; she observed that the day following was
appointed for the celebration of her nuptials, and
that somet hing was to be done that very night for
our mutual deliverance. I offered with the utmost
humility to pursue whatever scheme she should di-
rect ; upon which she proposed that instant to scale
the garden- wall, adding, tliat she had prevailed ujton
a female slave, who was now waiting at the ap-
pointed place, to assist her with a ladder.
Pursuant to this information, I led her trembling
to the place appointed; but instead of the slave we
expected to see, Mostadad himself was there await-
incr our arrival : the wretch in whom we had con-
fided, it seems, had betrayed our design to her mas-
ter, and he now saw the most convincing proofs
of her information. He was just going to draw
his sabre, when a principle of avarice rejjressed
his fury; and he resolved, after a severe chastise-
ment, to dispose of me to another master; in the
mean time ordered me to be confined in the strict-
est manner, and the next day to receive a hundred
blows on the soles of my feet.
When the morning came, I was led out in order
to receive the punishment, which, from the severity
with which it is generally inllicted upon slaves, is
worse even than death.
A trumpet was to be the signal for the solemni-
sation of the nuj)tials of Zelis, and for the inflic-
tion of my punishment. Each ceremony, to me
equally dreadful, was just going to begin, when we
were informed that a large body of Circassian Tar-
tars had invaded the town, and were laying all in
ruin. Every person now thought only of saving
himself: I instantlv unloosed the cords with which
21
I was bound, and seizing a scimitar from one of
the slaves, who had not courage to resist me, flew
to the women's aj)artment where Zelis was con-
fined, dressed out for the intended nuptials. I
bade her follow me without delay, and going for-
ward, cut my way through the eunuchs, who made
but a faint resistance. The whole city was now a
scene of conflagration and terror; every person was
willing to save himself, unmindful of others. In
this confusion, seizing upon two of the fleetest
coursers in the stables of Mostadad, we fled north-
ward towards the kingdom of Circassia. As there
were several others flying in the same manner, we
passed without notice, and in three days arrived at
Terki, a city that lies in a valley within the bosom
of the frowning mountains of Caucasus. Here,
free from every ajiprehension of danger, we enjoy
all those satisfactions which are consistent with
virtue : though I find my heart at intervals give
way to unusual passions, yet such is my admira-
tion for my fair companion, that I lose even ten-
derness in distant respect. Though her person
demands particular regard even among the beau-
ties of Circassia, yet is her mind far more lovely.
How very different is a woman who thus has cul-
tivated her understanding, and been refined into
delicacy of sentiment, from the daughters of the
East, whose education is only formed to improve
the person, and make them more tempting objects
of prostitution. Adieu.
LETTER LX.
From the Same.
When suflicicntly refreshed after the fatigues
of our [)recipitato flight, my curiosity, which had
been restrained by the appearance of immediate
danger, now began to revive : I longed to know
by what distressful accident my fair fugitive be-
came a captive, and could not avoid testifying a
surprise how so much beauty could be involved in
the calamities from whence she had been so lately
rescued.
•Talk not of personal charms, cried she, with
emotion, since to them I owe every misfortune.
Look round on the numberless beauties of the
coimtry where we are, and see how nature luis
poured its charms upon every face; and yet by
this profusion, Heaven would seem to show hovr
little it regards such a blessing, since the gill is
lavished upon a nation of prostitutes.
1 perceive you desire to know my story, and
vour curiosity is not so great as my impalience to
crratify it : I find a pleasure in telling past misfor-
tunes to any, but when my deliverer is pleased
with the relation, my pleasure is prompted by
duty.
322
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
" I was born in a country far to the West, where
the men are braver, and tlic women more fair than
those of Circassia; where the valour of the hero
is guided by wisdom, and where delicacy of senti-
ment ])oints the sliafts of female beauty. I was
the oidy daiigliter of an officer in the army, the
child of his age, and as he used fondly to express
it, the only chain that bound him to the world,
or made his life pleasing. His station procured
him an acquaintance with men of greater rank
and fortune than himself, and his regard for me
induced him to bring me into every f imily where
he was acquainted. Thus 1 was early taught all
the elegancies and fashionable foibles of such as the
world calls polite, and, though without fortune my-
self, was tauglit to despise those who lived as if
they were poor.
" My intercourse with the great, and my aflec-
tation of grandeur, procured me many lovers; but
want of fortune deterred them all from any other
views than those of passing the present moment
agreeably, or of meditating my future ruin. In
every company I found myself addressed in a
warmer strain of passion than other ladies who
were superior ia point of rank and beauty ; and
this I imputed to an excess of respect, which in
reality proceeded from very different motives.
" Among the number of such as paid me their
addresses, was a gentleman, a friend of my father,
rather in the decline of life, with nothing remarka-
ble cither in his ))erson or address to recommend
him. His age, which was about forty, his fortune,
which was moderate, alid barely sufficient to sup-
port him, served to throw me off rcy guard, so
that 1 considered him as the only sincere admirer
I had.
" Designing lovers, in the decline of life, are ever
most dangerous. Skilled in all the weaknesses of
tde sex, they seize each favourable opportunity;
and, by having less passion than youthful admirers,
have less real respect, and therefore less timidity.
This insidious wretch used a thousand arts to
succeed in his base designs, all which I saw, but
imputed to different views, because I thought it
absurd to believe the real motives.
"As he continued to frequent my father's, the
friendship between them became every day greater;
and at last, from the intimacy with which he was
received, 1 wastaught to look upon him as a guard-
ian and a friend. Though I never loved, yet I es-
teemed him ; and this was enough to make me
wish for a union, for which he seemed desirous,
but to which he feigned several delays ; while in the
mean time, from a false report of our being married,
every other admirer forsook me.
" I was at last however awakened from the de-
lu.sion, by an account of his being just married to
another young lady with a considerable fortune.
I'his was no great mortiliuuiion to me, as I had
always regarded him merely from prudential mo-
tives; but it hati a very different effect upon my
father, who, rash and passionate by nature, and,
besides, stimulated by a mistaken notion of mili-
tary honour, upbraided his friend in such terms,
that a challenge was soon given and acce})ted.
It was about midnight when I was awakened by
a message from my father, who desired to see me
that moment. I rose with some surprise, and fol*
lowing the messenger, attended only by another
servant, came to a field not far from the house,
where 1 foimd him, the assertor of my honour, my
only friend and supporter, the tutor and compan-
ion of my youth, lying on one side covered over
with blood, and just expiring! — no tears streamed
down my cheeks, nor sigh escaped from my breast,
at an object of such terror. I sat down, and sup-
porting his aged head in my lap, gazed upon the
ghastly visage with an agony more poignant even
than despairing madness. The servants were
gone for more assistance. In this gloomy stillness
of the night no sounds were heard but his agoniz-
ing respirations ; no object was presented but his
wounds, which still continued to stream. With
silent anguish I hung over his dear face, and with
my hands strove to stop the blood as it flowed from
his wounds: he seemed at first insensible, but at
last, turning his dying eyes uyion me, ' My dear,
dear child,' cried he; 'dear, though you have for-
gotten your own honour and stained mine, I will
yet forgive you ; by abandoning virtue, you have
undone me and yourself, yet take my forgiveness
with the same compassion I wish Heaven may
pity me.' He expired. All my succeeding happi-
ness tied with him. Reflecting that I was the
cause of his death whom only I loved; upon earth;
accused of betraying the honour of his family with
his latest breath ; conscious of my own innocence,
yet without even a possibility of vindicating it ;
without fortune or friends to relieve or pity me;
abandoned. to infamy and the wide censuring
world, I called out upon the dead body that lay
stretched before me, and in the eigony of my heart
asked, why he could have left me thus ? ' Why,
my dear, my only papa, why could you ruin me
thus and yourself, forever? O pity and return,
since there is none but you to comfort me !'
" 1 soon found that I had real cause for sorrow ;
that I was to expect no compassion from my own
sex, nor assistance from the other ; and that repu-
tation was much more useful in our commerce with
mankind than really to deserve it. Wherever I
came, I perceived myself received either with con-
tempt or detestation ; or, whenever I was civilly
treated, it was from the most base and ungenerous
motives.
" I'hus driven from the society of the virtuous,
I was at last, in order to dispel the anxieties of in-
supportable stjlitude, obliged to take up with the
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
323
company of those whose chnracters were blasted 'tune still attended me; our ship was taken bv a
like my own; but who perhaps deserved their in-JBarbary corsJir; the whole crew, and I anions the
fainy. Amon>T this number was a lady of the first number, being made slaves. It carries too much
distinction, whose character the public thought the air of romance to inform youofmydistres.es
proper to brand even with greater infamy than or obstinancy in this miserable state ; i't is enough
mine. A similitude of distress soon united us ; I
knew that general reproach had made her misera-
ble; and I had learned to regard misery as an ex-
cuse for guilt. Though this lady had not virtue
enough to avoid reproach, yet she had too much
delicate sensibihty not to feel it. She therefore
proposed our leaving the country where we were
born, and going to live in Italy, where our charac-
ters and misfortunes would be unlinown. With
this I eagerly complied, and we soon found our-
selves in one of the most charming retreats in the
most beautiful province of that enchanting country.
" Had my companion chosen this as a retreat
for injured virtue, a harbour where wo might look
with tranquillity on the distant angry world, I
should have been happy; but very different was
her design ; she had pitched upon this situation
only to enjoy those pleasures in private which she
had not sufficient effrontery to satisfy in a more
open manner. A nearer acquaintance soon showed
me the vicious part of her character; her mind, as
well as her body, seemed formed only for pleasure ;
she was sentimental only as it served to protract
the immediate enjoyment. Formed for society
alone, she spoke infinitely better than she wrote,
and wrote infinitely better than she lived. A per-
son devoted to pleasure often leads the most misera-
ble life imaginable; such was her case: she consi-
dered the natural moments of languor as insup-
portable; passed all her hours between rapture and
anxiety; ever in an extreme of agony or of bliss.
She felt a pain as severe for want of appetite, as
the starving wretch who wants a meal. In those
intervals she usually kej)t her bed, and rose only
when in expectation of some new enjoyment. The
luxuriant air of the countrj', the romantic situation
of her palace, and the genius of a people whose only
happiness lies in sensual refinement, all contri-
buted to banish the remembrance of her native
country.
" But though such a life gave her pleasure, it had
a very different effect upnu me; I grew every day
more pensive, and my melancholy was regarded as
an insult upon her good humour. I now perceived
myself entirely unfit for all society; discarded froio
the good, and detesting the infamous, 1 seemed in
a state of war with every rank of people ; that vir-
tue, which should have been my protection in the
world, was here my crime : in short, detesting life,
I was determined to become a recluse, and to ler.ve
a world where 1 found no pleasure that could allure
me to stay. Thus determined, I emliarked in order
to observe, that I have been bought by several mas-
ters, each of whom perceiving my reluctance, rather
than use violence, sold me to another, till it was my
happiness to be at last rescued by you."
Thus ended her relation, which 1 have abridged,
but as soon as we are arrived at Moscow, for which
y</e intend to set out shortly, you shall be informed
of all more particularly. In the meantime the
greatest addition to my happiness will be to hear
of yours. Adieu.
LETTER LXL
■ ' From Lien Chi AJtangi to Hingpo.
The news of your freedom lifts the load of for
mer anxiety from my mind ; I can now tliink of my
son without reget, applaud his resignation under
calamities, and his conduct in extricating himself
from them.
You arc iioicfrce, just let loose from the bond-
age of a hard master: this is the crisis of your
fate ; and as you now manage fortune, succeeding
life will be marked with happiness or misery. A
few years' perseverance in prudence, which at your
age is but another name for virtue, will insure com-
fort, pleasure, tranquillity, esteem; too eager an
enjoyment of every good that now offers, will re-
verse the medal, ai:d present you with poverty,
anxiety, remorse, contem]>t.
As it has been observed, that none are better
qualified to give others advice, than those who have
taken the least of it themselves ; so in this respect
I find myself perfectly authorized to ofler mine,
even though I should wave my paternal authority
upon this occasion.
The most usual way among younj; men who
have no resolution of their own, is first to ask one
friend's advice and follow it for some time; then to
ask advice of another, and turn to that ; so of a
third, still unsteady, always changing. However,
be assured, that every change of this nature is for
the worse : jieople may tell you of your being unfit
for some peculiar occupations in life; but heed them
not ; whatever employment you follow with perse-
verance and assiduity, will be found fit for you; il
will be your support in youth, and comfort in age.
In learning the useful part of every profession, very
moderate abilities will suffice; even if the mind bo
a little balanced with stupidity, it may in (his case
be useful. Great abilities have always In-rn los-a
to go by sea to Rome, where I intended to take the .serviceable to the possessors than moderate one^.
veil: but even in so short a passage my hard for- Life has been compared to a race, but tlin a'lusiou
3%24
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
8tiII improvps by observing, that the most swift are
ever tlie least manageable. •
To know one profession only, is enough for one
man to know; ami this (whatever the professors
may tell you to the contrary) is soon learned. Be
contented therefore with one good employ nient ;
for if you understand two at a time, people will
give you business in neither.
A conjuror and a tailor once happened to con-
verse together. " Alas," cries the tailor, " what
an unhappy poor cr"ature am I ; if people should
ever take it in their heads to live without clothes, 1
am undone , I have no other trade to have recourse
to." "Indeed, friend, I pity you sincerely," re-
plies the conjuror; "i)ut, thank Heaven, things
are not quite so bad with me ; for if one trick should
fail, I liave a hundred tricks more for them yet.
However, if at any time you are reduced to beg-
gary, apply to nie, and I will relieve you." A fa-
mine overspread the land ; the tailor made a shift
to live, because his customers could not be without
clothes; but the poor conjuror with all his hundred
tricks, could find none tiiat had money to throw
away : it was in vain that he promised to eat fire,
or to vomit pins ; no single creature would relieve
him, till he was at last obliged to beg from the very
tailor whose calling he had formerly despised.
There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune
than pride and resentment. If you must resent
injuries at all, at least suppress your indignation
until you become rich, and then show away; the
resentment of a jioor man is like the efforts of a
harmless insect to sting ; it may get him crushed,
but can not defend him. Who values that anger
which is consumed only in empty menaces ?
Once upon a time a goose fed its young by a
pond-side ; and a goose in such circumstances is
always extremely proud, and excessively punctili-
ous. If any other animal, without the least design
to offend, happened to pass that way, the goose was
immediately at him. The pond, she said, was
hers, and she would maintain a right in it, and
supi)ort her honour, while she had a bill to hiss, or
a wing to flutter. In this manner she drove away
ducks, pigs, and chickens ; nay, even the insidious
cat was seen to scamper. A lounging mastiff, how-
ever, happened to pass by, and thought it no harm
if he should lap a little of the water, as he was
thirsty. The guardian goose flew at him like a
fury, peeked at him with lior beak, and flapped him
with her feathers. The dog grew angry, had twen-
ty times a good mind to give her a sly snap ; but
jiuppressing his indignation, because his master
■was nigh, "A pox take lliee," cries he. "for a fool!
sure those who have neither strength nor weapons
to fight, at least should be civil : that fluttering and
nissing of thine may one day get thine head snap-
ped off, but it can neither injure thine enemies, nor
ever protect thee." So saying, he went forward
to the pond, quenched his thirst, in spite of th«
goose, and followed his master.
Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is,
that while they are willing to take offence from
none, thej' are also equally desirous of giving none
offence. From hence they endeavour to please all,
comply with every request, attempt to suit them-
selves to every company, have no will of their own,
but, like wax, catch every contiguous impression.
By thus attempting to give universal satisfaction,
they at last find themselves miserably disappointed :
to bring the generality of admirers on our side, it is
sufficient to attempt pleasing a very few.
A painter of eminence was once resolved to fin-
ish a piece which should please the whole world.
When, therefore, he had drawn a picture, in which
his utmost skill _was exhauste<1, it was exposed in
the public market-place, with directions at the bot-
tom for every spectator to mark with a brush, which
lay by, every limb and feature which seemed erro-
neous. The spectators came, and in general ap-
plauded ; but each, willing to show his talent at
criticism, marked whatever he thought proper. At
evening, when the painter came, he was mortified
to find the whole picture one universal blot ; not a
single stroke that was not stigmatized with marks"
of disapprobation : not satisfied with this trial, the
next day he was resolved to try them in a different
manner, and exposing his picture as before, desired
that every spectator would mark those beauties he
approved or admired. The people complied ; and
the artist returning, found his picture replete with
the marks of beauty; every stroke that had been
yesterday condemned, now received the character
of ajjprobation. "Well," cries the painter, "I
now find that the best way to please one half of the
world, is not to mind what the other half says ;
since what are faults in the eyes of these, shall bo
by those regarded as beauties." Adieu.
LETTER LXII.
From the S?ame.
A CHARACTER, such as you have represented
that of your fair companion, which continues vir-
tuous, though loaded with infamy, is truly great
Many regard virtue because it is attended with ap.
plause ; your favourite only for the internal pleasura
it confers. I have often wished that ladies like
her were proposed as models for female imitation,
and not such as have acquired fame by qualities
repugnant to the natural softness of the sex.
Women famed for their valour, their skill m
liolitics, or their learning, leave the duties of their
own sex, in order to invade the privileges of ours.
1 can no inore pardon a fair one for endeavouring
to wield the club ef Hercules, than 1 could him for
attempting to twirl her distaff.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
335
The modest virgin, the prudent wife, or the
careful matron, are much more serviceable in life
than petticoated philosophers, hlustcrinir heroines,
or virago queens. She who makes her husband
and her children happy, who reclaims the ofie from
vice, and trains up the other to virtue, is a much
greater character than ladies described in romance,
whose whole occupation is to murder mankind
with shafts from their quiver or their eyes.
Women, it has been observed, are not naturally
formed for great cares themselves, but to soften
ours. Their tenderness is the proper reward lor
the dangers we undergo for their preservation ; and
the case and cheerfulness of tlieir conversation, our
desirable retreat from the fatigues of intense appli-
cation. They are confined within the narrow
limits of domestic assiduity : and wlien they stray
beyond them, they move beyond their sphere, and
consequently without grace.
Fame therefore has been very unjustly dispensed
among the female sex. Those who least deserved
to be remembered meet our admiration and ap-
plause ; while many, who have been an honour to
humanity, are passed over in silence. Perhaps no
age has produced a stronger instance of misplaced
•fame than the present; the Semiramis and the
Thalestris of antiquity are talked of, while a modern
character, infinitely greater than either, is un-
noticed and unknown.
Catharina Alexowna, born near Derpat, a little
city in Livonia, was heir to no other inheritance
than the virtues and frugality of her parents. Her
father being dead, she lived with her aged mother
in their cottage covered with straw ; and both,
though very poor, were very contented. Here, re-
tired from the gaze of the world, by the labour of
her hands she supported her parent, who was now
incapable of supporting herself. While Catharina
spun, the old woman would sit by and read some
book of devotion ; thus, when the fatigues of the
day were over, both would sit down contentedly
by their fire-side, and enjoy the frugal meal with
vacant festivity.
Though her face and person were models of
perfection, yet her whole attention seemed bestow-
ed upon her mind ; her mother taught her to read,
and an old Lutheran minister instructed her in the
maxmis and duties of religion. Nature had furnish-
ed her not only with a ready but a solid turn of
thought, not only with a strong but a riglit under-
standing. Such truly female accoinplislunents
procu/ed her several solicitations of marriage from
the peasants of the country ; but their oilers were
refused ; for she loved her mother too tenderly to
think of a separation.
Catharina was fifteen when her mother died;
ehe now therefore left her entlnge, and went to live
with the Lutlieran muiistir, by whom she had
hecn instructed from her childhood. In his house
she resided in quality of governess to his children ;
at once reconciling in her character unerring pru-
dence with sur])rising vivacity.
The old man, who regarded her as one of his
own children, had her instructed in dancing and
music by the masters who attended the rest of his
family; thus she continued to improve till he died,
by which accident she was once more reduced to
pristine jwverty. The country of Livonia was at
this time wasted by war, and lay in a most miser-
able state of desolation. Those calamities are evex
most heavy upon the poor; wherefore Catharina,
'.hough possessed of so many accomplishments, ex-
perienced all the miseries of hopeless indigence.
Provisions becoming every day more scarce, and
her private stock being entirely exhausted, she re-
solved at last to travel to Marienburgh, a city of
greater plenty.
With her scanty wardrobe packed up in a wal-
let, she set out on her journey on foot: she was to
walk through a region miserable by nature, but
rendered still more hideous by the Swedes and
Russians, who, as each happened to become mas-
ters, plundered it at discretion : but hunger had
taught her to despise the dangers and fatigues of
the way.
One evening upon her journey, as she had enter-
ed a cottage iiy the way-side, to take up her lodging
for the night, she was insulted by two Swedish
soldiers, who insisted upon qualifying her, as they
termed it, to follow the camp. They might probably
have carried their insults into violence, had not a
subaltern oflicer, accidentally passing by, come in
to her assistance; upon his appearing, the soldiers
immediately desisted ; but her thankfulness was
hardly greater than her surprise, when she instant-
ly recollected in her deliverer, the son of the Lu-
theran minister, her former instructor, benefactor,
and friend.
This was a happy interview for Catharina: the
little stock of moniy she had brought from home
was by this time quite exhausted; her clothes were
gone, piece by jnece, in order to satisfy those who
li;id entertained her in their houses : her generous
countryman, therefore, parted with what he could
spare, to buy her clothes, furnished her with a
horse, and gave her letters of reconunendation to
Mr. Gluek, a faithful friend of his father's, and
superintendant at Marienburgh. Our beautiful
stranger had only to appear to be well received ;
she was immediately admitted into the superin-
tendant's family, as governess to his two daughters,
and though yet but seventeen, showed herself ca
pable of instructing her sex, not only in virtue,
but ])olitcness. Such was her good setise, and
beauty, that her master himself in a short time
oilered her his hand, which to his great surprii*
she thought i)roper to refuse. Actuati-d by a
principle of gratitude, she was resolved to marry
336
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
her deliverer only, even though he had lost an arm,
and was otherwise disfigured by wounds in the
service.
In order therefore to prevent further solicitations
from others, as soon as the officer came to town
upon duty, she offered him her person, which he
accepted with transport, and their nuptials were
solemnized as usual. But all the lines of her for-
tune wfere to be striking: the very day on which
they were married, the Russians laid siege to
Marienburgh. The unhappy soldier had now no
time to enjoy the well-earned pleasures of matri-
mony; he was called off", before consummation, to an
attack, from which he was never after seen to return.
In the mean time the siege went on with fury,
aggravated on one side by obstinacy, on the other
by revenge. This war between the two northern
powers at that time was truly barbarous ; the in-
nocent peasant, and the harmless virgin, often
shared the fate of the soldier in arms. Marien-
burgh was taken by assault ; and such was the fury
of the assailants, that not only the garrison, but
almost all the inhabitants, men, women, and child-
ren, were put to the sword : at length, when the
carnage was pretty well over, Catharina was found
hid in an oven.
She had been hitherto poor, but still was free ;
she was now to conform to her hard fate, and learn
what it was to be a slave : in this situation, how-
ever, she behaved with piety and humility ; and
though misfortunes had abated her vivacity, yet
she was cheerful. The fame of her merit and re-
signation reached even Prince Menzikoff, the
Russian general ; he desired to see her, was struck
with her beauty, bought her from the soldier her
master, and placed her under the direction of his
own sister. Here she was treated with all the re-
spect which her merit deserved, while her beauty
every day improved with her good fortune.
She had not been long in this situation, when
Peter the Great paying the prince a visit, Cathari-
na happened to come in with some dry fruits,
which she served round with peculiar modesty.
The mighty monarch saw, and was struck with
her beauty. He returned the next day, called for
the beautiful slave, asked her several questions,
and found her understanding even more perfect
than her person.
He had been forced when young to marry from
motives of interest; he was now resolved to marry
pursuant to his own inclinations. He immediate-
ly impiired the history of the fair Livonian, who
was not yet eighteen. He traced her through the
vale of obscurity, through all the vicissitudes of her
fortune, and found her truly great in them all. The
meanness of her birth was no obstruction io his
design : their nuptials were solemnized in puvate ,
the Prince assuring his courtiers, tha; urtuc alone
was the propcrest ladder to a throne.
We now see Catharina, from the low mud-waii-
ed cottage, empress of the greatest kingdom upon
earth. The poor solitary wanderer is now sur-
rounded by thousands, who find happiness in her
smile, ' She, who formerly wanted a meal, is now
capable of dilfusing plenty upon whole nations.
To her fortune -she owed a part of this pre-emi-
nence, but to her virtues more.
She ever after retained those great qualities
which first placed her on a throne; and, while the
extraordinary prince, her husband, laboured for
the reformation of his male subjects, she studied
in her turn the improvement of her own sex. Sho
altered their dresses, introduced mixed assemblies,
instituted an order of female knighthood; and at
length, when she had greatly filled all the stations
of empress, friend, wife, and mother, bravely died
without regret, regretted by all. Adieu.
LETTER LXIIL
From Lien Clii AUangi, to Fum Hoam, First Presitknt of tho
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China.
In every letterT expect accounts of some new
revolutions in China, some strange occurrence in*
the state, or disaster among my private acquaint-
ance. I open every packet with tremulous expec-
tation, and am agreeably disappointed when I find
my friends and my country continuing in felicity.
I wander, but they are at rest; they suffer few
changes but what pass in my own restless imagina-
tion: it is only the rapidity of my own hiotion
gives an imaginary swiftness te objects which are
in some measure immoveable.
Yet believe me, my friend, that even China itself
is imperceptibly degenerating from her ancient
greatness : her laws are now more venal, and her
merchants are more deceitful than formerly ; the
very arts and sciences have run to decay. Observe
the carvings on our ancient bridges, figures that
add grace even to nature : there is not an artist now
in all the empire that can imitate their beauty. Our
njanufactures in porcelain, too, are inferior to what
we once were famous for ; and even Europe now
begins to excel us. There was a time when China
was the receptacle fur strangers; when all were
welcome who either came to improve the state, or
admire its greatness; now the empire is shut up
from every foreign improvement, and the very in-
habitants discourage each other from prosecuting
their own internal advantages.
Whence this degeneracy in a state so little sub-
ject to external revolutions? how happens it that
I China, which is now more powerful than ever,
: which is less subject to foreign invasions, and even
assisted in some discoveries by her connexions with
Europe ; whence comes it, I say, that the empire 19
, thus declining so fast into barbarity'}
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
327
This decay is surely from nature, and not the
lesult of voluntary degeneracy. In a period of
two or three thousand years she seems at proper
intervals to produce great minds, with an etibrt
resembling that which introduces the vicissitudes
of seasons. They rise up at once, continue for
an age, enlighten the world, fall like ripened
corn, and mankind again gradually relapse into
pristine barbarity. We little ones look around,
are amazed at the decline, seek after the causes
of this invisible decay, attribute to want of en-
couragement what really proceeds from want of
power, are astonished to find every art and every
science in the decline, not considering that autumn
is over, and fatigued nature again begins to repose
for some succeeding eflort.
Some periods have been remarkable for the pro-
duction of men of extraordinary stature ; others
for producing some particular animals in great
abundance; some for excessive plenty ; and others
again for seemingly causeless famine. Nature,
which shows herself so very different in her visible
productions, must surely diiiVr also from herself in
the production of minds, and while she astonishes
one age with the strength and stature of a Mito or
a Maximin, may bless another with the wisdom of
a Plato, or the goodness of an Antonine.
Let us not then attribute to accident the falling
ofT of every nation, but to the natural revolution of
things. Often in the darkest ages there has ap-
peared some one man of surprising abilities, who,
with all his understanding, failed to bring his bar-
barous age into refinement : all mankind seemed
to sleep, till nature gave the general call, and then
the whole world seemed at once roused at the
voice; science triumphed in every country, and
the brightness of a single genius seemed lost in a
galaxy of contiguous glory.
Thus the enlightened periods in every age have
been universal. At the time when China first be-
gan to emerge from barbarity, the Western world
was equally rising into refinement; when we had
our Yau, they had their Sesostris. In succeeding
ages, Confucius and Pythagoras seem born nearly
together, and a train of philosophers then sprung
up as well in Greece as in China. The period of
renewed barbarity began to have a universal spread
much about the same time, and continued for several
centuries, till in the year of the Christian era 1100,
the Emperor Yonglo arose to revive the l(\irning
of the East; while about the same time, the Me-
dicean family laboured in Italy to raise infant genius
from the cradle: thus we see politeness s[)rcadiiig
over every part of the world in one age, and bar-
barity succeeding in another; atone period a blaze
of hght dillusingitselfover the whole world, and at
ftiiotlierall mankind wrapped up in the profoundest
ignorance.
Such has been the situation of things in times
past; and such proliably it will ever be. China, I
have observed, has e\idently begun to degenerate
from its former politeness; and were the learning
of the Europeans at present candidly considered,
the decline would perhaps appear to have already
taken place. We should find among the natives
of the West, the study of morality displaced for
mathematical disquisition, or meta[)hysical subtle-
ties ; we should find learning begin to separate from
the useful duties and concerns of life, while none
ventured to aspire after that character, but they
who know much more than is truly amusing or
useful. We should find every great attempt sup-
pressed by prudence, and the rapturous sublimity
in writing cooled by a cautious fear of offence. We
should find few of those daring spirits, who bravely
ventured to be wrong, and who arc willing to hazard
much for the sake of great acquisitions. Providence
has indulged the world with a period of almost folir
hundred years' refinement; does it not now by de-
grees sink us into our former ignorance, leavino- us
only the love of wisdom, while it deprives us of its
advantages'? Adieu.
LETTER LXIV.
From the Same.
The princes of Europe have found out a man-
ner of rewarding their subjects who have behaved
well, by presenting them with about two yards of
blue riband, which is worn about the shoulder.
They who are honoured with this mark of dis-
tinction are called knights, and the king himself is
always the head of the order. This is a very fru-
gal method of recompensing the most important
services : and it is very fortunate for kings that
their subjects are satisfied with such trifling re-
wards. Should a nobleman happen to lose his
leg in a battle, the king presents him with two
yards of riband, and he is paid for the loss of his
limb. Shotild an ambassador spend all his pater-
nal fortune in supporting the honour of his coun-
try abroad, the king presents him with two yards
of riband, which is to be considered as an equiv.i
lent to his estate. In short, while a Eurojican
kin" has a vard of blue or green riband left ho
need lie under no apprehensions of wanting states
men, generals, and soldiers.
I can not suliiciently admire those kingdoms in
which men with large patrimonial estates are wil-
linn- thus to undergo real hardships for empty fa-
vours. A person, already possessed of a compc
tent fortune, who undertakes to enter the career of
ambition, feels many real inconveniences from his
station, while it procures liim no real happiness
that he was not possessed of before. He could eat,
drink, and sleep, before he became a courtier, a»
528
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
well, perhaps better, than when invested with his
authority. He aiulJ connnand flatterers in a pri-
vate station, as well as in his public cai)acity, and
indulge at home every favourite inclination, uncen-
sured and unseen by tlie people.
What real good then docs an addition to a for-
tune already sufiicient procure 7 Not any. Could
the great man, by having his fortune increased,
increase also his appetites, then precedence might
be attended with real amusement.
Was he, by having his one thousand made
two, thus enabled to enjoy two wives, or eat two
dinners; then, indeed, he might be excused for un-
dergoing some pain, in order to «xtend the sphere
of his enjoyments. But, on the contrary, he finds
iiis desire for pleasure often lessen, as he takes
pains to be able to improve it ; and his capacity of
enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to
increase.
Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with
envy, I generally consider ihcim with some share
of compassion. 1 look upon them as a set of good-
natured, misguided jieople, who are indebted to us
and nut to themselves, lor all the happiness they
enjoy. For our pleasure, and not their own, they
sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery ; for our
pleasure the lackeyed train, the slow pai'ading pa-
geant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves in
review : a single coat, or a single footman, answers
all the purposes of the most indolent relinement as
well ; and those who have twenty may be said to
keep one for their own pleasure, and the other
nineteen merely for ours. So true is the observa-
tion of Confucius, that we take greater pains to
persuade others thai we are happy, than endea-
xouring to think so ourselves.
But though this desire of being seen, of being
made the subject of discourse, and of supporting
the dignities of an an exalted station, be trouble-
some enough to the amliitious ; yet it is well for
society that there are men thus willing to exchange
ease and safety for danger and a riband. We lose
nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind to
endeavour to deprive a child of it.s rattle. If a duke
or a duchess are willing to carry a long train for
our entertainment, so much the worse for them-
selves; if they choose -o exhibit in public, with a
hundred lackeys and mamelukesin their equipage,
for our entertainment, still so much the worse for
themselves : it is the spectators alone who give and
receive the pleasure ; they only are the sweating
figures that svycU the pageant.
. A mandarine, who took nmch pride in appear-
ing with a number of jewels on every part of his
robe, was once accosted by an old sly Bonze, who,
following him through several streets, and bowing
often to the ground, thanked him for his jewels.
"What does the man mean?" cried the manda-
rine: '-Friend, I never gave thee any of my jew-
els." " No." replied the other; "but you have let
me look at them, and that is all the use you can
make of them yourself; so there is no difference
between us, except that you have ttie trouble of
watching them, and that is an employment I don't
much desire." Adieu,
LETTER LXV.
From the Same.
Though not very fond of seeing a pageant niy-
self, yet I am generally pleased with being in the
crowd which sees it : it is amusing to observe the
efiect which such a spectacle has upon the variety
of faces; the pleasure it excites in some, the envy
in others, and the wishes it raises in all. With
this design, I latelj' went to see the entry of a
foreign ambassador, resolved to make one in the
mob, to shout as they shouted, to fix with earnest-
ness upon the same frivolous objects, and partici-
pate for a while in the pleasures and the wishes
of the vulgar.
Struggling here for some time, in order to be
first to see the cavalcade as it passed, some one of
the crowd unluckily happened to tread upon my
shoe; and tore it in such a manner, that I was ut-
terly unqualified to march forward with the main
body, and obliged to fall back in the rear. Thus
rendered incapable of being a spectator of the show
myself, I was at least willing to observe the spec-
tators, and limped behind like one of the invalids
who follow the march of an army.
In this plight, as 1 was considering the eager-
ness that appeared on every face ; howsome bustled
to get foremost, and others contented themselves
with taking a transient peep when they could :
how some praised the four black servants that were
stuck behind one of the equipages, and some the
ribands that decorated the horses' necks in another;
my attention was called off to an object more e:]f-
traordinary than any I had yet seen ; a poor cobbler
sat in his stall by the way side, and continued to
work while the crowd passed by, without testifying
the smallest share of curiosity. 1 own his want o\
attention excited mine : and as I stood in need of
his assistance, 1 thought it best to employ a philo-
sophic cobbler on this occasion. Perceiving my
liusiness, therefore, he desired me to enter and sit
(I >wn, took my shoe in his lap, and began to mend
it with his usual indifference and tacifirnity.
"How, my friend," said I to him, "can you
continue to work, while all those fine things are
passing by your door?" "Very fine they are,
master," returned the cobbler, " for those that like
them, to be sure; but what are all those fine things
to me? You don't know what it is tc be a colv
bler, and so much ttie better for yourself. Your
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
329
bread is baked, you may go and see sights the
whole day, and eat a warm supper when you come
home at night ; but for me, if I should run hunt-
ing after all these fine folk, what should 1 get by
my journey but an appetite, and, God help me!
I have too much of that at home already, without
stirring out for it. Your people, who may eat four
meals a-day, and a supper at night, are but a bad
example to such a one as I. No, master, as God
has called me into this world in order to mend old
shoes, I have no business with fine folk, and they
no business with me." I here interrupted him
■with a smile. " See this last, master," continues
he, "and this hammer; this last and hammer are
the two best friends 1 have in this world ; nobody
else will be my friend, because I want a friend.
The great folks you saw ])ass by just now have
five hundred friends, because they have no occasion
for them : now, while I stick to my good friends
here, I am very contented ; but when I ever so
little run after sights and fine things, 1 berfin to
hato my work, I grow sad, and have no heart to
mend shoes any longer."
This discourse only served to raise my curiosity
to know more of a man whom nature had thus
formed into a philosopher. I therefore insensibly
led him into a history of his adventures : " I have
lived," said he, "a wandering sort of a life now
five-and-fifty years, here to-day, and gone to-mor-
row; for it was my misfortune, when I was young,
to be fond of changing." " You have been a tra-
veller, then, I presume," interrupted I. " I can not
boast much of travelling," continued he, "for I
have never left the parish in which I was born but
three times in my Ufe, that I can remember ; but
then there is not a street in the whole neighbour-
hood that I have not lived in, at some time or
another. When I began to settle and to take
to my business in one street, some unforeseen mis-
fortune, or a desire of trying my luck elsewhere,
has removed me, perhaps a whole mile away from
my former customers, while some more lucky cob-
bler would come into my place, and make a hand-
some fortune among friends of my making: there
was one who actually died in a stall that 1 had left,
worth seven pounds seven shillings, all in hard
gold, which he had quilted into the waistband of
his breeches."
I could not but smile at these migrations of a
man by the fire-side, and continued to ask if he had
ever been married. "Ay, that I have, master,"
replied he, "for sixteen long years; and a weary
life I had of it, Heaven knows. My wife took it
mto her head, that th< only way to thrive in this
world was to save money, so, though ourcomings-
in was but about three shillings a-week, all that ever
she could lay her hands upon she used to hide away
from me, though we were obliged to starve the
whoje week after for it.
" The first three years we used to quarrel about
this every day, and I always got the better ; but
she had a hard spirit, and still continued to hide as
usual: so that 1 was at last tiredof quarrelling and
getting the better, and she scraped and scrai)ed at
pleasure, till I was almost starved to death. Her
conduct drove me at last in despair to the ale-house ;
here I used to sit with people who hated home like
myself, drank while I had money left, and run in
score when any body would trust me; till at last
the landlady, coming one day with a long bill when
I was from home, and putting it into my wife's
liands, the length of it effectually broke her heart.
[ searched the whole stall after she was dead for
money, but she had hidden it so efli^ctually, that
with all my pains I could never find a farthing."
By this time my shoe was mended, and satisfy-
ing the poor artist for his trouble, and rewarding
him besides for his information, I took my leave,
and returned home to lengthen out the amusement
his conversation afi'orded, by communicating it to
my friend. Adieu.
LETTER LXVL
From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow.
Gexerosity properly applied will supply every
other external advantage in life, but the love of
those we converse with : it will procure esteem, and
a conduct resembling real aflection ; but actual
love is the spontaneous production of the mind ; no
generosity can purchase, no rewards increase, nor
no liberality continue it : the very person who is
obliged, has it not in his power to force his lin-
gering affections upon the object he should love,
and voluntarily mix passion with gratitude.
Imparted fortune, and well-placed lilicrality, may
procure the benefactor good-will, may load the per-
son obliged with the sense of the duty he lies nndcr
to retaliate; this is gratitude: and sim[)le gratitude,
untinctured with love, is all the return an ingenu-
ous mind can bestow for former benefits.
But gratitude and love are almost o[)posite affec-
tions; love is often an involuntary passion, j)laced
upon our companions without our consent, and
frequently conferred without our previous esteem.
We love some men, we know not why; our ten-
derness is naturally excited in all their concerns;
we ex(Uise their faults with the same indulgence,
anil apjirove their virtues with the same applnuso
with which we consider our own. While we en
tertainthe passion, it pleases us, wc cherish it with
delight, and give it U|) with reluctance; and lovo
for love is all the reward we ex])ect or desire.
Gratitude, on the contrary, is never conferred,
but where there have been previous endeavours to
excite it; we consider it as a debt, and our spiriU
330
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
wear a load till we have discharged the obligation.
Every acknowledgment of gratitude is a circum-
stance of humiliation ; and some are found to sub-
mit to frequent mortifications of this, kind, pro-
claiming what obligations they owe, merely be-
cause they think it in some measure cancels the
debt.
Thus love is the most easy and agreeable, and
gratitude the most humiliating aflection of the
mind : we never reflect on the man we love, with-
out exulting in our choice, while he who has bound
us to him by benejils alone, rises to our idea as a
person to whom wc have in- some measure forfeited
our freedom. Love and gratitude are seldom there-
fore found in the same breast without impairing
each other; we may tender the one or the other
singly to those we converse with, but can not com-
mand both together. By attempting to increase,
we diminish them; the mind becomes bankrupt
under too large obligati(ms ; all additional benefits
lessen every hope of future return, and bar up
every avenue that leads to tenderness.
In all our connexions with society, therefore, it
is not only generous, but prudent, to appear insen-
sible of the value of those favours we bestow, and
endeavour to make the obligation seem as slight as
possible. Love must be taken by stratagem, and
not by open force : we should seem ignorant that
we oblige, and leave the mind at full liberty to give
or reftise its affections; for constraint may indeed
leave the receiver still grateful, but it will certainly
produce disgust.
If to procure gratitude be our only aim, there is
no great art in making the acquisition ; a benefit
conferred demands a just acknowledgment, and we
have a right to insist upon our due.
But it were much more prudent to forego our
right on such an occasion, and exchange it, if we
can, for love. "We receive but little advantage from
repeated protestations of gratitude, but they cost
him very much from vi'hom we exact them in re-
turn: exacting a grateful acknowledgment, is de-
mandiiig a debt by which the creditor is not ad-
vantaged, and the debtor pays with reluctance.
As Mencius the philosopher was travelling in
pursuit of wisdom, night overtook hiin at the foot
of a gloomy mountain remote from the habitations
of men. Here, as he was straying, while rain and
thunder conspired to make solitude still more hide-
ous, he perceived a hermit's cell, and approaching,
asked for shelter : " F2nter," cries the hermit, in a
severe tone, " men deserve not to be obliged, but it
would be imitating their ingratitude to treat them
as they deserve. Come in : examples of vice may
sometunes strengthen us in the ways of virtue."
After a frugal meal, which consisted of roots and
lea, Mencius could not repress his curiosity to
know why the hermit had retired from mankind,
ihc actions of whom taught the truest lessons of
wisdom. " Mention not the name of man," cries
the hermit with indignation ; " here let me Jive re-
tired from a base ungrateful world ; here among
the beasts of the forest I shall find no flatterers:
the lion is a generous enemy, and the dog a faithful
friend ; but man, base man, can poison the bowl,
and smile while he presents it!" — " You have been
used ill by mankind," interrupted the philosopher
shrewdly. "Yes," returned the hermit, "on man-
kind I have exhausted my whole fortune, and this
staff, and that cup, and those roots, are all that I
have in return." — " Did you bestow your fortune,
or did you only lend if?" returned Mencius. " I
bestowed it undoubtedly," replied the other, "for
where were the merit of being amoney-lenderl" —
" Did they ever own that they received \t2" still
adds the philosopher. "A thousand times," cries
the hermit; " they every day loaded me with pro-
fessions of gratitude for obligations received, and
solicitations for future favours." — "If, then," says
Meifrius smiling, "you did not lend your fortune
in order to have it returned, it is unjust to accuse
them of ingratitude; they owned themselves obliged,
you expected no more, and they certainly earned
each favour by frequently acknowledging the obli-
gation." The hermit was struck with the reply,
and surveying his guest with emotion, — " 1 have
heard of the great Mencius, and you certainly are
the man : 1 am now fourscore years old, but still a
child in wisdom ; take me back to the school of man,
and educate me as one of the most ignorant and
the youngest of your disciples!"
Indeed, my son, it is better to have friend^ in' our
passage through life than grateful dependants ; and
as love is a more willing, so it is a more lasting
tribute than extorted obligation. As \vk are uneasy
when greatly obliged, gratitude once refused can
never after be recovered : the mind that is base
enough to disallow the just return, instead of feel-
ing any uneasiness upon recollection, triumphs in
its new-acquired freedom, and in some measure is
pleased with conscious baseness.
Very different is the situation of disagreeing
friends; their separation produces mutual uneasi-
ness : like that divided being in fabulous creation,
their sympathetic souls once more desire their for-
mer union ; the joys of both are imperfect ; theii
gayest moments tinctured with uneasiness ; each
seeks for the smallest concessions to clear the way
to a wished-for explanation ; the most trifling ac-
knowledgment, the slightest accident, serves to ef-
fect a mutual reconciliation.
But instead of pursuing the thought, permit me
to soften the severity of advice, by a European
story, which will fully illustrate my meaning.
A fiddler and his wife, who had rubbed through
life, hs most couples usually do, sometimes good
friends, at others not quite so well, one day hap-
pened to have a dispute, which was conducted with
CITIZEN OP THE WORLD.
331
becominsT spirit on both sides. The wife was sure
she was right, and the husband was resolved to
have his own way. What was to be done in such
a case? the quarrel grew worse by explanations,
and at last the fury of both rose to such a pitch,
that they made a vow never to sleep together in
the same bed for the future. This was the most
rash vow that could be imagined, for they still were
friends at bottom, and, besides, they had but one
bed in the house : however, resolved they were to
go through with it, and at night the fiddle-case was
laid in bed between them, in order to make a
separation. In this manner they continued for
three weeks; every night the fiddle-case being
placed as a barrier to divide them.
By this time, however, each heartily repented of
their vow, their resentment was at an end, and
their love began to return ; they wished the fiddle-
case away, but both had too much spirit to begin.
One night, however, as they were both lying awake
with the detested fiddle-case between them, the
husband happened to sneeze, to which the wife, as
is usual in such cases, bid God bless him : " Ay
but," returns the husband, "woman, do you say
that from your heart? " " Indeed I do, my poor
Nicholas," cries his wife ; "I say it with all my
heart." " If so, then," says the husband, " we had
as good remove the fiddle-case."
LETTER LXVn.
From the Same.
BooK!3, my son, while they teach us to respect
the interests of others, often make us unmindful of
our own ; while they instruct the youthful reader
to grasp at social happiness, he grows miserable in
detail, and, attentive to universal harmony, often
forgets that he himself has a part to sustain in the
concert. I dislilie therefore the philosopher who
describes the inconveniencics of life in such pleas
ing colours that the pu[iil grows enamoured of dis-j wants but litr:e, nor that little long
attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats
every creature as a friend or foe; expects from those
he loves unerring integrity, and consigns his ene-
mies to the reproach of wanting every virtue. On
this principle he proceeds ; and here begin his dis-
appointments. Upon a closer inspection of human
nature he perceives, that he should have moderated
his friendship, awd softened his severity ; for he
often finds the excellencies of one part of mankind
clouded with vice, and the faults of the other
brightened with virtue ; he finds no character so
sanctified that has not its failings, none so infamous
but has somewhat to attract our esteem : he beholds
impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters.
He now, therefore, but too late, perceives that
his regards should have been more cool, and his
hatred less violent; that the truly wise seldom
court romantic friendships with the good, and
avoid, if possible, therestntment even of the wick-
ed : every moment gives him fresh instances that
the bonds of friendship arc broken if drawn too
closely, and that those whom he has treated with
disrespect more than retaliate the injury ; at length,
therefore, he is obliged to confess, that he has de-
clared war upon the vicious half of mankind, with-
out being able to form an alliance among the vir-
tuous to espouse his quarrel.
Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now
too far advanced to recedf ; and though ))overty be
the just consequence of the many enemies his con-
duct has created, yet lie is resolved to meet it with-
out shrirdving. Philosophers have described poverty
in most charming colours, and even his vanity is
touched in thinking, that he shall show n.'t, world,
in himself, one moreexami)!eof [)atience, fortituile,
and resignation. "Come, then, O Poverty ! for
what is there in thee dreadful to the Wisk? Tem-
perance, Health, and Frugality walk in thy train ;
Cheerfulness and Liberty are ever thy companion:*.
Shall any be asiiamod of thee, of whom Ciricin
natus was not ashamed? The running brook, the
herbs of the field, can amply satisfy nature ; man
* Come, then,
tress, longs to trv the charms of poverty, meets it
without dreaf., nor fears its inconveiiieucies till he
severely feels them.
A youth who had thus spent his life among
books, new tb the world, and unacquainted with
man but by philosophic information, may be con-
sidered as a being vvhose mind is filled with tiie
vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly unqualified for a
journey through life, yet confident of his own skill
in the" direction, he sets out with confidence,
blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last
undone.
He first has learne<l from books, and then lays
It down as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous
or vicior.s in excess ; and he has been long taught
to detest vice, and love virtue : warm, therefore, in
O Poverty ! while kings stand by, and gaze with
admiration at live true philosopher's resignation."
The goddess .•ii)pears; for Poverty ever comes
at the call ; but, alas ! he finds her by no means the
charming figure books and his warm imagination
had ])ainted. As when an Eastern bride, whom
her fricmls and relations had long described as a
model of perfection, pays her first visit, the longing
bridetrroorn lifts the veil to see a face he had nevet
• Ourauiiior has repeated ihia ihougtu, nearly in the san*
words, in his Hermit:
Then, pilgrim, lurn, thy cares forego;
Ah carin-hi)rn cares are wrtmg:
Miin wanis hm lilile here below,
^or wants ihat little lun;.
332
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
seen before; but instead of a countenance blazing
with beauty like the sun, he beholds deformity
shooting icicles to his heart ; such a|)i)cars Poverty
to her new entertainer; all the fabric of enthusiasm
is at once demolished, and a thousand miseries rise
up on its ruins, while Contomjit, with pointing
finger, is foremost in the hideous procession.
The poor man now finds, tl^at he can get no
kings to look at him while he is eating ; he finds,
that in proportion as he grows poor, the world
turns its back upon him, and gives him leave to
act the philosopher in all the majesty of solitude.
It might be agreeable enough to play the philoso-
pher while we are conscious that mankind are
spectators ; but what signifies wearing the mask of
sturdy contentment, and mounting the stage of
restraint, when not one creature will assist at the
exhibition! Thus is he forsaken of men, while
his fortitude wants the satisfaction even of self-ap-
plause ; for cither he does not feel his present
calamities, and that is natural insensibility, or he
disguises his feelings, and that is dissimulation.
Spleen now begins to take up the man : not dis-
tinguishing in his resentments, he regards all man-
kind with detestation, and, commencing man-hater,
seeks solitude to be at liberty to rail.
It has been said, that he who retires to solitude
is either a beast or an angel. The censure is too
severe, and the praise unmerited; the discontented
being, who retires from society, is generally some
good-natured man, who has begun life without ex-
perience, and knew not how to gain it in his in-
tercourse with mankind. Adieu.
LETTER LXVIII.
From Lien Chi Allangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the
Ceremonial Academy at Peliin, in China.
I FOnMp;RLY acquainted thee, most grave Fum,
with the excellence of the English in the art of
healing. The Chinese boast their skill in pulses,
the Siamese their botanical knowledge, but the
English advertising physicians alone, of being the
great restorers of health, the dispensers of youth,
and the insurers of longevity. I can never enough
admire the sagacity of this country for the en-
couragement 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 from every foreign climate to herself.
Here every great exotic strikes root as soon as im-
Jiorted, and ft els 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
oourishment. ' ■
In other countries, the physician pretends to
cure disorders in the lump; the same doctor who
combats the gout in the toe, shall pretend to pre-
scribe for a pain in the head, and he who at one
time cures a consumption, shall at another give
drugs for a dropsy. How absurd and ridiculous!
this is being a mere jack-of-all-trades. Is the ani-
mal 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?
The English are sensible of the force of this
reasoning ; they have, therefore, one doctor for the
eyes, another for the toes ; they have their sciatica
doctors, and inoculating doctors; they have one
doctor who is modestly content with securing them
from bug-bites, 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 cures, and places of abode. Few patients
can escape falling into their hands, unless blasted
by lightning, or struck dead with some sudden dis-
order. It may sometimes happen, that a stranger
who does not understand English, or a country-
man who can not 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 perfectly acquainted with the
names and the medicines of every great man, or
great woman of them all. /
But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anec-
dotes of the great, however minute or trifling, I
must present you, inadequate as my abilities are to
the subject, with some account of those personages
who lead in this honourable profession.
The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard
Rock, 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 friz-
zed upon each cheek, sometimes he carries a cane,
hut a hat never. It is indeed very remarkable, that
this extraordinary personage should never wear a
hat, but so it is, he never wears a hat. He is
usually drawn at the top of his own bills, sitting in
his arm chair, holding a little bottle between his
finger and thumb, and surrounded with rotten
teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and galli]iots. No
man can promise fairer nor better than he ; for, as
he observes, "Be your disorder never so far gone,
be under no uneasiness, make yourself quite easy;
I can cure you."
The next in fame, though by some reckoned cf
equal pretensions, is Doctor Timothy Franks, F.
O. G. H., living in a i)lace called the Old Bailey.
As Rock is remarkably squab, his great rival
Franks is as remarkably tall. He was born in the
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD
333
year of the Christian era, 16f)2, and is, while I now
write, exactly sixty-eigiit years, three months and
four days old. Age, however, has no way impair-
ed his usual health and vivacity : I am told, he
generally walks with his breast open. This gen-
tleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is particularly
remarkable for a becoming assurance, which carries
him gently through life; for, except Dr. Rock, none
are more blessed with the advantages of face than
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 Hoam, by the head of our grandfather, they
are now at variance like mere men, mere common
mortals. Tho champion Rock advises the world
to beware of bog-trotting quacks, while Franks re-
torts the wit and the sarcasm (for they have both a
world of wit) by fixing on his rival the odious ap-
pellation of Dumplin Dick. He calls the serious
Doctor Rock, Dumplin Dick! Head of Confucius,
what profanation! Dumplin Dick! What a pity,
ye powers, that the learned, who were born mutu-
ally 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 : men of science should leave controversy to
the little world below them ; and then we might
see Rock and Franks walking together hand in
hand, smiling onward to immortality.
Next to these is Doctor Walker, preparator of
his own medicines. This gentleman is remarkable
for an aversion to quacks ; frequently cautioning
the public to be careful into what hands they com-
mit their safety: by which he would insinuate,
that if they did not employ him alone, they must
be undone. His public sjurit is equal to his suc-
cess. Not for himself, but his country, is the
gallipot prepared, and the drops sealed up with
proper directions, for any part of the town or coun-
try. All this is for his country's good ; so that he
is now grown old in the practice of physic and vir-
tue; and, to use his own 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 ag;iinst them
uU. 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, stu-
dent in astrology, and memlter of the learned socie-
ties. I adhere to and venerate the doctrines of old
Wang-shu-ho. In the very teeth of opi)osition I
will maintain, " That the heart is the son of the
liver, which has the kidneys for its mother, and the
stomach for its wife."" I have, therefore, drawn
up a disputation challenge, which is to be sent
speedily, to this efTtct:
"I, Lien Chi Altangi, 3D. "N. B.. jffij. native
of Honan in China, to Richard Rock, F. U. N.
native of Garbage-alley, in AVa|)ping, defiance
Though, sir, I am perfectly sensible of your im-
portance, though no stranger to your studies in the
path of nature, yet there may be many things in
the art of ])hysic with wlvich you are yet unac-
quainted. 1 know full well a doctor thou art, great
Rock, and so am I. Wherefore, I challenge, and
do hereby invite you to a trial of learning upon hard
problems, and knotty physical points. In this de-
bate 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 deco-
rum, with proper gravity, and as befits men of
erudition and science among each other. But be-
fore we meet face to face, 1 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 which you have often solicited the
public; answer me, I say, at once, without having
recourse to your physical dictionary, which of those
three disorders, incident to the human body, is the
most fatal, the syncope, ■parenthesis, or apoplexy?
I beg your ripply may be as public as this my de-
mand. t 1 am, as hereafter may be, your adjuirer,
or rival. Adieu.
LETTER LXIX.
From (he Same.
iNDi'r.r.nN'T Nature seems to have exempffil this
island from many of those ei)idemic evils which are
so fatal in other jiarts of the world. A want of
rain but for a few days beyond the expected season
in China spreads famine, desolation, and tefl-or,
over the whole country; the winds that blow from
the brown bosom of the western desert are impreg-
nated with death in every gale ; but in this fortu-
nate land of Britain, the inhabitant courts health
in every breeze, and the husbandman ever sows in
joyful expectation.
Rut thoui'h the nation he exempt from rrnl c\\U,
think not, my friend, thnt it is more happy on this
account than others. 'J'lu y are afflicted, it is true,
with neither famine or pestilence, but then there is
a disorder peculiar to the country, whicli orry
season makes strange ravages among thrrn ; it
• See Dii Ilaldc, Vol. 11. fol. p. 185.
tTlie il;iv afirr this wns publisheil the mlilor Tfcrh-ri' \n
answer, in wliidi ilic Doctor seems to Ijc of o|)iiiniii, il .ii U«
(ivoplcxu is nuei I'aUi.
334
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
spreads with prHtilrnti:il 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 wluch the
people are not visited by this cruel calamity in one
shape or another, seemingly dillerent though ever
the ^ame: one year it issues from a baker's shop in
the shape of a six-penny loaf; the next, it takes the
appearance of a comet with a fiery tail; 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 hajipiness, saunter about with looks of despond-
ence, ask after the calamities of the day, and re-
ceive 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 alid 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 discon-
tinued 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 influence. The people sally from their houses
with that circumspection which is prudent in such
as expect a mad dog at every turning. The phy-
sician publishes his prescription, the beadle pre-
pares his halter, and a few of unusual bravery arm
themselves with boots and bufl" gloves, in order to
foce the enemy if he should otFer to attack them.
In short, the whole people stand bravely upon their
defence, and seem, by their present spirit, to show
a resolution of not being tamely bit by mad dogs
any longer.
Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad
or so, somewhat resembles the ancient European
custom of trying witches. The old woman sus-
pected was tied hand and foot, and thrown into the
water. If she swam, then she was instantly car-
ried off to be burnt for a witch ; if she sunk, then
indeed she was acipiiHcd of the charge, bnt drown-
ed in the experiment. In the same manner a
crowd gathers round a dog suspected of madness,
and they begin by teasing the devoted animal on
every side; if he attempts to stand upon the de-
fensive 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, _/t>r mad
doses alieays run straightforward before them.
It is pleasant enourrh for a neutral being like me,
who nas 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, that had gone through a neighbouring village,
that was thought to be mad by several that had
seen him. The next account comes, that a mas-
tifl' 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 aflccling history of a little boy bit in the
leg, and gone down to be dipped in the salt water.
When the people have sufficiently shuddered at
that, they are next congealed with a frightful ac-
count 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
lapdog ; and how the poor father first perceived the
infection, by calling for a draught of water, where
he saw the lapdog swimming in the cup.
When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every
morning comes loaded with some new disaster : as,
in stories of ghosts, each loves to hear the account,
though it only serves to make him uneasy, so here
each listens with eagerness, and adds to the tidings
new circumstances of peculiar horror. A lady, for
instance, in the country, of very weak nerves, has
been frighted by the barking of a dog ; and this,
alas ! too frequently happens. This story soon is
improved and spreads, that a mad dog had frighted
a lady of distinction. These circumstances begin
to grow terrible before they have reached the neigh-
bouring village, and there the report is, that a lady
of quality was bit by a mad mastifl'. The Account
every moment gathers new strength, and grows
more dismal as it approaches the ca]jiitol ; and by
the time it has arrived in town, the lady is describ-
ed with wild eyes, foaming mouth, running mad
upon all tours, barking like a dog, biting her ser-
vants, and at last smothered between two heds by
the advice of her doctors; while the mad mastifTis
in the mean time ranging the whole country over,
slavering at the mouth, and seeking whom he may
devour.
My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little
credulous, waked me some mornings ago before
the usual hour, with horror and astonishment in
her looks ; she desired me, if I had any regard for
my safety, to keep within; for a few days ago so
dismal an accident had happened, as to put all the
world upon their guard. A mad dog, down in the
country, she assured me, had bit a farmer, who,
soon becoming mad, ran into his own yard, and bii
a fine brindled cow; the cow quickly became as
mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and
raising herself u]>, walked about on her hind legs,
sometimes barking like a dog, and sometimes at-
tempting to talk like the farmer. Upon examin-.
ing the grounds of this story, 1 found my landlady
had it from one neighbour, who had it from another
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
335
neighbour, who heard it from very good au-
thority.
Were most stories of this nature thoroughly ex-
auiiined, it would be found that numbers of such as
have been said to sufi'er were no way injured; and
that of those who have been actually bitten, not
one in a hundred was bit by a mad tlog. ^ich ac-
counts, in general, therefore, only serve to make
the people miserable by false terrors, and some-
times fright the patient into actual phrenzy, by
creating those very symptoms they pretended to
deplore.
But even allowing three orfourto iViq 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 insidi-
ous thief is often detected ; the healthful chase re-
pairs many a worn constitution ; and the poor man
finds in his dog a willing assistant, eager to lessen
his toil, and content with the smallest retribution.
"A dog," says one of the English poets, "is an
honest creature, and I am a friend to dogs." Of
all the beasts that graze the lawn or hunt the for-
est, a dog is the only animal that, leaving his fel-
lows, attempts to cultivate the friendsliip of man ;
to man he looks in all his necessities with a speak-
ing eye for assistance ; exerts for him all the little
service in his power with cheerfulness and plea-
sure : for him bears famine and fatigue with pa-
tience and resignation; no injuries can abate his
fidelity; no distress induce him to forsake his
benefactor; studious to please, and fearing to
offend, he is still an humble, steadfast depen-
dant; and in him alone fawning is not flattery.
How unkind then to torture this faithful creature,
who has left the forest to claim the protection of
man ! how ungrateful a return to the trusty ani-
mal for all his services ! Adieu.
LETTER LXX.
From Lien Chi Altangi to Ilingpo, by the way of Moscow.
The Europeans are themselves blind, who de
ecribe 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
plodding mechanic, who stays at home and minds
his business.
I am amazed how men can call her blind, when,
by the coni[)any she keeps, she seems so very dis-
cerning. AVherever you sec a gaming-table, be
very sure Fortune is not there; wherever you see
a house with the doors open, be very sure Fortune
is not there; when yon see a man whose yiocket-
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 accom-
panying 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 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 info 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
farthing to farthing. Perhaps you despise the
petty sum ; and yet tb »y who wani a farthing, and
have no friend that will lend them it, think farth-
ings very good things. ^V}lang, the foolish miller,
wlien 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, de-
spising small sums, and grasping at all, lost even
what he had.
IVliang, the miller, was naturally avaricious;
nobody loved money better than he, or more re-
spected those that had it. When ])eoj)le would
talk of a rich man in company, U'Aan^ would say,
I know him very well ; he and I have been long
acquainted ; he and 1 are intimate ; he stood for a
child of mine : but if ever a poor man was men-
tioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man ;
he might be very well for aught he knew: but ho
was not fond of many acquaintances, and loved to
choose his company.
Wliang, 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 were small they were wrtain; while his mill
stood and went, he was sure of eating, and his fru-
gality was such, that he every day laid some mo-
ney by, which he would at inter\als count and
contemplate with nmch satisfaction. Yet still his
acquisitions were not equal to his desires; he only
found himself above want, whereas he desired lo
be possessed of affluence.
One day as he was indulging these wislies, he
was informed, that a niighbour of his had found a
pan of money underground, iiaving dreamed of it
three ni"hls running Ix-fore. These tidings were
daggers to the heart of poor Whang. " Here am
I " savs he, " toiling and moiling from morning lij
night for a few paltry farthings, while nrighlxmi
Hunks only goes quietly to l)ed, and dreams him-
336
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
self into thousamls before morning. O that I
could dream like him! with what pleasure would 1
dig round the pan ; how slily would I carry it
home ; not even my wife should see me ; and then,
O the pleasure 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-
peated 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 foundation of his mill, there was concealed a
monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, buried 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 sufferings, and conceal-
ed 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 this also
were answereil ; he still dreamed of the same pan
of money, in the very same place.
Now, therefore, it was past a doubt ; so getting
up early the third morning, he repairs alone, with
a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and began to
undermine that part of the wall which the vision
oirected. The first omen of success that he met
was a broken mug; digging still deeper, he turns
up a house tile, quite new and entire. At last,
afler 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 rap-
tures to himself, " here it is ! under this stone there
is room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed ! 1
must e'en go home to my wife, and tell her the
whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it
up." Away therefore he goes, and acquaints his
wife with every circumstance of their good fortune.
Her raptures on this occasion easily may be ima-
gined; she flew round his neck, and embraced him
in an agony of joy ; but those transports, however,
did not delay their eagerness to know the exact
sum; returning, therefore, speedily together to the
place where Whang had been digging, there they
found — not indeed the expected treasure, but tlie
mill, their only support, undermined and fallen.
Adieu,
LETTER LXXI.
From Lien Chi Altan^i, to Fum Hoam, First President of
the Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China.
1 he people of London are as fond of walking as
our friends at Pekin of riding ; one oi the princi-
pal entertainments of the citizens here in summer,
is to repair about nightfall to a garden not far from
town, where they walk about, show their best
clothes and best faces, and listen to a concert pro-
vided 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 tliat 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 su-
perlative finery, his stockings rolled, a black velvet
waistcoat vvhich 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 pro-
fessed admirer, dressed out in green damagk, with
three gold rings on every linger ; and Mr. Tibbs,
the second-rate beau I have formerly described, to
gether with his lady, in flimsy silk, dirty gauze in
stead 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 with the bodings of Mr.
Tibbs, who assured us he did not expect to see a
single creature for the evening above the degree of
a cheesemonger : that this was the last night of
the gardens, and that consequently we should be
pestered with the nobility and gentry from Thames-
street and Crooked^ lane, with several other pro-
phetic ejaculations, probably inspired by the un-
easiness 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 ex-
pected pleasure; the lights every where glimmering
through the scarcely moving trees, the full-bodied
concert bursting on the stillness of the night, the
natural concert of the birds, in the more retired part
of the grove, vieing 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 vision-
ary happiness of the Arabian lawgiver, and lifted
me into an ecstasy of admiration. " Head of Con-
fucius!" cried I to my friend, "this is fine! this
unites rural beauty with courtly magnificence! if
we except the virgins of immortality, that hang on
every tree, and may be plucked at every desire, I
do not see how this falls shorioi Mahomet's Para-
dise!" "As for virgins," cries my fftend, "it is
true they arc a fruit that do not much abound ni
our gardens here; but if ladies, as plenty as apples
in autumn, and as complying as any houri of tlnin
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
3y,
oil, 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 advan-
tage. Mrs. Tibbs was for keeping the genteel walk
of the garden, where, she observed, there was al-
ways the very best company; the widow, on the
contrary, who came but once a season, was for se-
curing 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 cha-
racters, it threatened to grow more bitter at every
reply. Mrs. Tiljbs wondered how people could
pretend to know the polite world, who had received
all their rudiments of breeding behind a counter ;
to which the other replied, that though some peojile
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 sa}' for them-
selves, 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 im-
petuosity of his wife's disposition, proposed to end
the dispute, by adjourning to a box, and try if there
was any thing to be had for supper that was sup-
portable. 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
eee and be seen, one, as they expressed it, in the
very focus of public vieve; 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 appearance, 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 some-
what obscurely, and supi)lied with the usual enter-
tainment of the place. The widow found the sup-
per excellent, but Mrs. Tibbs thought every thing
detestable. "Come, come, my dear," cries the
husband, by way of consolation, " to be sure we
can't find such dresssing here as we have at Lord
Crump's, or Lady Crimp's; but for Vauxhall dress-
ing it is pretty good : it is not their victuals indeed
1 find fault with, but their wine; their wine," cries
he, drinking off a glass, " indeed, is most abomina-
ble."
By this last contradiction, the widow was fairly
conquered in point of politeness. She jn'reeivcd
now that she had no pretensions in the world to
iaste, her very senses were vulgar, since she had
praised detestable custard, and smacked at wretehiHl
♦vine; she was therefore content to yield the vic-
22
tor}', and for the rest of the night to listen and im-
prove. 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 j>raised the painting of the box in which
we were sitting, hut 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 the 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, entreated her to fa-
vour the company with a song; but to this she gave
a positive 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 judg-
ment, what signifies singing? besides, as there is
no accompaniment, it would be but spoiling music."
All these excuses, however, were overruled by the
rest of the company, who, though one-would think
they already had music enough, joined in the en-
treaty. 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 affectation, as I could perceive gave
but little satisfaction to any except her husband.
He sat with rapture in his eye, and beat time with
his hand on the table.
You must observe, my friend, that it is the cus-
tom 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 contirnies, they are to remain
in a state of universal petrifaction. In this morti-
fying situation we had continued for some time,
listening to the song, and looking with tninquillity,
when the master of the box came to infonn us, that
the water-works were going to begin. At this in-
formation I could instantly perceive the widow
bounce from her scat; but correetiiig herself, .she
sat down again, repressed by motives of gixul-
breeding. Mrs. Tibbs, who had seen the water
works a hundred times, resolving not to be intcr-
ruiited, 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 entertnin-
ment ; in it I could plaiidy 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 thrm ;
but then she could not bounce out in the very mid-
dle of a song, for that would be forfeiting all pre-
tensions to high life, or high-lived company, ever
afier. Mrs. Tibbs therefore keja on singing, and
we continued to li<it>in, till at last, when the HO»«jr
_Jj
was just concluded, the waiter came to inform us
that the water-works were over.
"The water-woriis over!" cried the widow;
"the water-works over already ! that's impossible !
they can't be over so soon !" — " It is not my busi-
ness," replied the fellow, "to contradict your lady-
ship; 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 disap-
pointed 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. an<l Mrs. Tibbs
assured the company, that the polite hours were
going to begin, and that the ladies would instan-
taneously be entertained with the horns. Adieu.
LETTER LXXII.
For the Same.
Not far from this city lives a poor tinker, who
has educated seven sons, all at this very time in
arms, and fighting for their country ; and what re-
ward do you think has the tinker from the state
for such important services? None in the world :
his sons, when the war is over, may probably be
whipped from parish to parish as vagabonds, and
the old man, when past labour, may die a prisoner
in some house of correction.
Such a worthy subject in China would be held
in universal reverence ; his services would be re-
warded, if not with dignities, at least with an ex-
emption from labour ; he would take the left hand
at feasts, and mandarines themselves would be
proud to show their submission. The English
laws punish vice; the Chinese laws do more, they
reward virtue !
Considering the little encouragement given to
matrimony here, I am not surprised at the dis-
couragement given to propagation. Would you
believe it, my dear Fum Hoam, there are laws
made wliich even forbid the people's marrying each
other? By the head of Confucius, I jest not ; there
are such laws in being here ; and yet their law-
givers have neither been instructed among the Hot-
tentots, nor imbibed their principles of equity from
the natives of Anamaboo.
There are laws which ordain, that no man shall
marry a woman against her own consent. This,
though contrary to what we are taught in A.«ia,
and though in some measure a clog upon matri-
mony, I have no great objection to. There are
laws which ordain, that no woman shall marry
against her father and mother's consent, unless
arrived at an age of maturity ; by which is under-
stood, those years when women with us are gene-
rally past child-bearing. This must be a clog upon
matrimony, as it is more difficult for the lover to
please three than one, and much more difficult to
please old people than young ones. T\ie laws or-
dain, that the consenting couple shall take a long
time to consider before they marry : this is a very
great clog, because people love to have all rash ac-
tions done in a hurry. It is ordained, that all
marriages shall be proclaimed before celebration :
this is a severe clog, as many are ashamed to have
their marriage made public, from motives of vicious
modesty, and many afraid from views of temporal
interest. It is ordained, that there is nothing sacred
in the ceremony, but that it may be dissolved, to
all intents and purposes, by the authority of any
civil magistrate. And yet, opposite to this, it is
ordained, that the priest shall be paid a large sum
of money for granting his sacred permission.
Thus you see, my friend, that matrimony here
is hedged round with so many obstructions, that
those who are willing to break through or surmount
them, must be contented if at last they find it a
bed of thorns. The laws are not to blame, for
they have deterred the people from engagnig as
much as they could. It is, indeed, become a very
serious aflTair in England, and none but serious
people are gejierally found willing to engage. The
young, the gay, and the beautiful, who have mo-
tives of passion only to induce them, are seldom
found to embark, as those inducements are taken
away; and none but the old, the ugly, and the
mercenary, are seen to unite, who, if they have
any posterity at all, will probably be an ill-favoured
race like themselves. '
What gave rise to those laws might have been
some such accidents as these: — It sometimes hap-
pened that a miser, who had spent all his youth in
scraping up money to give his daughter such a
fortune as might get her a mandarine husband,
found his expectations disappointed at last, by her
running away with his footman ; this must have
been a sad^hock to the poor disconsolate parent,
to see his poor daughter in a one-horse chaise,
when he had designed her for a coach and six.
What a stroke from Providence ! to see his dear
money go to enrich a beggar ; all nature cried out
at the profanation !
It sometimes happened also, that a lady, who had
inherited all the titles, and all the nervous com-
plaints of nobility, thought fit to impair her dignity
and mend her constitution, by marrying a farmer :
this must have been a sad shock to her inconsolable
relations, to see so fine a flower snatched from a
flourishing family, and planted in a dunghill; this
was an absolute inversion of the first principles of
things.
In order, therefore, to prevent the great from be-
ing thus contaminated by vulgar alliances, the ob-
i stacks to matrimcmy have been so contrived, that
I the rich only can marry amongst the rich, and the
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
sng
poor, who would leave celiliacy, must be content to
increase their poverty with a wife. Thus have
their laws fairly inverted the inducements to matri-
mistress herself upon reasonable terms; but to court
her father, her mother, and a long train of cousins,
aunts?, and relations, and then stand the butt of
mony. Nature tells us, that beauty is the proper a whole country church; I would as soon turn tail
allurement of those who are rich, and money of and make love to her grandmother.
those who are poor ; but things here are so con
trived, that the rich are invited to marry, by that
fortune which they do not want, and the poor have
no inducement, but that beauty wliich they do
not feel.
An equal diffusion of riches through any coun-
try ever constitutes its happiness. Great wealth
in the possession of one stagnates, and extreme
poverty with another keeps him in unambitious
indigence ; but the moderately rich are generally
active : not too far removed from poverty to fear its
calamities, nor too near extreme wealth to slacken
the nerve of labour, they remain still between both
in a state of continual fluctuation. How impolitic,
therefore, are those laws which promote the accu-
mulation of wealth among the rich ; more impolitic
still, in attempting to increase the depression on
poverty.
Bacon, the English philosopher, compares money
to manure — "If gathered in heaps," says he, "it
does no good ; on the contrary, it becomes offensive.
But being spread, though never so thinly, over the
surface of the earth, it enriches the whole country."
Thus the wealth a nation possesses must expati-
ate, or it is of no benefit to the public ; it becomes
rather a grievance, where matrimonial laws thus
confine it to a few.
I can conceive no other reason for thus loading
matrimony with so many prohibitions, unless it be
that the country was thought already too populous,
and this was found to be the most effectual means
of thinning it. If this was the motive, I cannot
but congratulate the wise projectors on the success
of their scheme. "Hail, O ye dim-sighted politi-
cians, ye wceders of men ! 'Tis j^ours to clip the
wing of industry, and convert Hymen to a broker.
'Tis yours to behold small objects with a micro-
scopic eye, but to be blind to those which require
an extent of vision. 'Tis yours, O ye discerners
of mankind! to lay the line between society, and
weaken that force by dividing, which should bind
with united vigour. 'Tis yours, to introduce na-
tional real distress, in order to avoid the imaffinary
distresses of a few. Your actions can be justified
by a hundred reasons like truth; they can be op-
posed by but a few reasons, and those reasons are
true." Farewell.
LETTER LXXIII.
From Lien Chi Altangi to Ilingpo, by the way of Moscow.
AoE, that If ssensthe enjoyment of life, increases
But this restraint upon matrimonial community, ' our desire of living. Those dangers which, in the
even considered in a physical light, is injurious, vigour of youth, we had learned to despise, assume
As those who rear up animals, take all possible' new terrors as we prow old. Our caution increasing
pains to cross the strain, in order to imiirove the, as our years increase, fear becomes at last (lie [ire-
breed; so, in those countries where marriage is^ vailing [lassion of the mind; and the small remain-
most free, the inhabitants are found every age to derof life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off
improve in stiiture and in beauty ; on the contrary, our end, or provide for a continued existence.
where it is confined to a cast, a tribe, or a horde,
as among the Gaurs, the Jews, or the Tartars,
Strange contradiction in our nature, and to
which even the wise are liable ! If I should judge
each division soon assumes a family likeness, and of that part of life which lies before mc, by that
every tribe degenerates into peculiar deformity, which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous.
Hence it may be easily inferred, that if the man- Experience tells me, that my past enjoyments have
darines here are resolved only to marry among each , brought no real felicity ; and sensation assures me,
other, they will soon produce a posterity with man- that those I have felt are stronger than those
darine faces; and wc shall seethe licir of some | which are yet to come. Yet experience and sen-
oonourable family scarcely equal to the abortion of sation in vain persuade ; hope, more powerful than
a country farmer.
These are a few of the obstacles to marriage
here, and it is certain they have, in some measure,
answered the end, for celibacy is both frequent and
fashionable. Old bachelors appear abroad without
a mask, and old maids, my dear Fum Hoani, have
been absolutely known to ogle. To confess in
friendship, if I were an Englishman, I fancy I
should be an old bachelor myself; I should never
either, dresses out the distant prospect in fancied
bcautv; some happiness in long perspective still
beckons me to pursue ; and, like a losing gatnestor,
everv new disaiipointment increases my ardour to
continue the game.
Whence, my friend, this increased love of life,
which crrows upon us with our years? whence
comes it, that wc thus make greater efforts to pr«N
serve our existence, nt a perio<I when it Nvomes
find couracre to run through ail the adventures pre- ' scarcely worth the keeping? Is it that n..t<ire, rI-
Kcribed bv^the law I could submit to court my tentive to the preservation of mankind, inrre.-,««
our wishes to live* while she lessens our enjoy-
ments ; and, as she robs the senses of every plea-
sure, equips imagination in the spoil 7 Life would
be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded with
infirmities, feared death no more than when in the
vigour of manhood ; the numberless calamities of
decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviv-
ing every pleasure, would at once induce him, with
his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery ;
but happily the contempt of death forsakes him, at
a time when it could be only prejudicial; and life
acquires an imaginary value, in proportion as its
real value is no more.
Our attachment to every object around us in-
creases, in general, from the length of our acquaint-
ance with it. " 1 would not choose," says a French
philosopher, " to see an old post pulled up, with
which I had been long acquainted." A mind long
habituated to a certain set of objects, insensibly
becomes fond of seeing them; visits them from
habit, and parts from them with reluctance ; from
hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind
of possession. They love the world and all that
it produces ; they love life and all its advantages ;
not because it gives them pleasure, but because they
have known it long.
Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of
China, commanded that all who were unjustly de-
tained in prison, during the preceding reigns,
should be set free. Among the number who came
to thank their deliverer on this occasion, there ap-
peared a majestic old man, who, falling at the em-
peror's feet, addressed him as follows: "Great
father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five
years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the
age of twenty-two. I was imprisoned, though a
stranger to crime, or without being even confront-
ed by ray accusers. I have now lived in solitude
and darkness for more than fifty years, and am
grown familiar with distress. As yet, dazzled with
the splendour of that sun to which you have re-
stored me, I have been wandering the streets to
find some friend that would assist, or relieve, or re-
member me ; but my friends, my family, and rela-
tions, are all dead, and I am forgotten. Permit me,
then, O Chinvang, to wear out the wretched re-
mains of life in my former prison: the walls of my
dungeon are to me more pleasing than the most
splendid palace ; I have not long to live, and shall
be unhappy except I spend the rest of my days
where my youth was passed — in that prison from
which you were pleased to release me."
The old man's passion for confinement is simi-
lar to that we all have for life. We are habituated
.'o the prison, we look round with discontent, are
displeased with the abode, and yet the length of
tail captivity only increases our fondness for the
cell. The trees we have planted, the houses we
have built, or the posterity we have begotten, all
serve to bind us closer to earth, and embitter our
parting. Life sues the young like a new acquaint-
ance ; the companion, as yet unexhausted, is at
once instructive and amusing ; its company pleases;
yet, for all this, it is but little regarded. To us
who are declined in years, hfe appears like an old
friend ; its jests have been anticipated in former
conversation; it has no new story to make us
smile; no new improvement with which to sur-
prise ; yet still we love it : destitute of every enjoy-
ment, still we love it ; husband the wasting trea-
sure with increased frugality, and feel all the poig-
nancy of anguish in the fatal separation.
Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sin-
cere, brave, an Englishman. He had a complete
fortune of his own, and the love of the king his
master, which was equivalent to riches. Life open-
ed all her treasure before him, and promised a long
succession of future happiness. He came, tasted
of the entertainment, hut was disgusted even in '
the beginning. He professed an aversion to liv-
ing ; was tired of walking round the same circle ;
had tried every enjoyment, and found them all grow
weaker at every repetition. " If life be in youth so
displeasing," cried he to himself, " what will it ap-
pear when age comes on? if it be at present indif-
ferent, sure it will then be execrable." This though/
embittered every reflection ; till at last, with all th»
serenity of perverted reason, he ended the debate
with a pistol ! Had this self-deluded man been
apprised, that existence grows more desirable to us
the longer we exist, he would have then faced old
age without shrinking, he would have boldlj' dared
to live, and served that society by his future assi-
duity, which he basely injured by Ms desertion.
Adieu.
LETTER LXXIV.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of lh«
Ceremonial Academy at Pekiii, in China.
In reading the newspapers here, I have reckon-
ed up not less than twenty-five great men, seven-
teen very great men, and nine very extraordinary
men, in less than the compass of half a-year.
" These," say the gazettes, "are the men that pos-
terity are to gaze at with admiration; these the
names that fame will be employed in holding up
for the astonishment of succeeding ages." Let me
see — forty-six great men in half a-year, amount
just to ninety-two in a year. I wonder how pos-
terity will be able to remember them all, or whether
the peo^jle, in future times will have any other bu-
siness to mind, but that of getting the catalogue by
heart.
Does the mayor of a corporation make a speech!
he is instantly set down for a great man. Does a
pedant digest his common-place book into a folio ?
he quickly becomes great. Does a poet string up
trite sentiments in rhyme? he also becomes the
great man of the hour. How diminutive soever
the object of admiration, each is follovs'cd by a
crowd of still more diminutive admirers. The
shout begins in his train, onward he marches to-
wards immortality, looks back at the pursuingcrowd
with self satisfaction; catching all the oddities, the
whimsies, the absurdities, and the littleness of con-
scious greatness, by the way.
I was yesterday invited by a gentleman to din-
ner, who promised tliat our entertainment should
consist of a haunch of venison, a turtle, and a
great man. I came according to appointment.
The venison was fine, the turtle good, but the great
man insupportable. The moment I ventured to
speak, I was at once contradicted with a snap. I
attempted, by a second and a third assault, to re-
trieve my lost reputation, but was still beat back
with confusion. I was resolved to attack him once
more from intrenchment, and turned the conver-
sation upon the government of China : but even
here he asserted, snapped, and contradicted as be-
fore. " Heavens," thought I, " this man pretends
to know China even better than myself!" I look-
ed round to see who was on my side ; but every
eye was fixed in admiration on the great man : I
therefore at last thought 'proper to sit silent, and
act the pretty gentleman during the ensuing con-
versation.
When a man has once secured a circle of ad-
mirers, he may be as ridiculous here as he thinks
proper ; and it all passes for elevation of sentiment,
or learned absence. If he transgresses the com-
mon forms of breeding, mistakes even a tea-pot for
a tobacco-box, it is said that his thoughts are fixed
on more important objects ; to speak and to act like
the rest of mankind, is to be no greater than they.
There is something of oddity in the very idea of
greatness ; for we are seldom astonished at a thing
very much resembling ourselves.
When the Tartars make a Lama, their first
care is to place him in a dark corner of the tem-
ple : here he is to sit half concealed from view, to
regulate the motion of his hands, lips, and eyes ;
but, above all, he is enjoined gravity and silence.
This, however, is but the prelude to his apotheo-
sis : a set of emissaries are despatched among the
people, to cry up his piety, gravity, and love of
raw flesh ; the people take them at their word, ap-
proach the Lama, now become an idol, with the
niost humble prostration; he receives their address-
es without motion, commences a god, and is ever
after fed by his priests with the spoon of immor-
tality. The same receipt in this country serves to
make a great man. The idol only keeps close,
sends out his little emissaries to be hearty in his
praise; and straight, whether statesman or author,
he is set down in the list of fame, continuing to
be praised while it is fashionable to praise, or
while he prudently keeps his minuteness conceal-
ed from the public.
I have visited many countries, and have been in
cities without number, yi^t never did I enter a town
which could not produce ten or twelve of those
little great men ; all fancying themselves known
to the rest of the world, and complimenting each
other upon their extensive reputation. It is amus-
ing enough when two of those domestic prodigies
of learning mount the stage of ceremony, and give
and take praise from each other. I have been pre-
sent when a German doctor, for having pronounced
a panegyric upon a certain monk, was thought the
most ingenious man in the world : till the monk
soon after divided this reputation by returning the
compliment; by which means they both marched
off with universal applause.
The same degree of undeserved adulation that
attends our great man while living often also fol-
lows him to the tomb. It frequently happens that
one of his little admirers sits down big with the im-
portant subject, and is delivered of the history of
his life and writings. This may properly be called
the revolutions of a life between the fire-side and
the easy-chair.
In this we learn, the year in which he was
born, at what an early age he gave symptoms of
uncommon genius and application, together with
some of his smart sayings, collected by his aunt and
mother, while yet but a boy. The next lx)ok in-
troduces him to the university, where we are in-
formed of his amazing progress in learning, his
excellent skill in darning stockings, and his new
invention for papering books to save the covers.
He next makes his appearance in the republic of
letters, and publishes his folio. Now the colossus
is reared, his works are eagerly bought up by all
the purchasers of scarce books. The learned so-
cieties invite him to become a member; he dis-
[lutcs against some foreigner with a long Latin
name, conquers in the controversy, is compliment-
ed by several authors of gravity and importance, is
excessively fond of egg-sauce with his pig, becomes
president of a literary club, and dies in the meri-
dian of his glory. Hnppy they who thus have
some little faithful attendant, who never forsakeu
them but prepares to wrangle and to praise against
every opposer ; at once ready to increase their pride
while living, and their character when dead. For
you and Cmy friend, who have no humble ad
mirer thus to attend us, we, who neither are, not
ever will l>e, great men, and who do not much
care whether wc are great men or no, at least let
us strive to lie honest men, and to have commoB
sense. Adieu.
LETTER LXXV.
From the Same.
There are numbers in this city who Uve by
writing new books : and yet there are thousands of
volumes in every large library unread and forgot-
ten. This, upon my arrival, was one of those
contradictions which I was unable to account for.
" Is it possible," said I, "that there should be any
demand for new books, before those already pub-
lished are road 7 Can there be so many employed
in producing a commodity with which the mar-
ket is already over-stocked : and with goods also
better than any of modern manufacture 7"
"What at first view appeared an inconsistence, is
a proof at once of this people's wisdom and refine-
ment. Even allowing the works of their ances-
tors to be better written than theirs, yet those of
the moderns acquire a real value by being marked
with the impression of the times. Antiquity has
been in the possession of others ; the present is our
own : let us first therefore learn to know what be-
longs to ourselves, and then, if we have leisure,
cast our reflections back to the reign of Shonou,
who governed twenty thousand years before the
creation of the moon.
The volumes of antiquity, like medais, may very
well serve to amuse the curious ; but the works of
the moderns, like the current coin of a kingdom,
are much better for immediate use : the former are
often prized above their intrinsic value, and kept
with care ; the latter seldom pass for more than
they are worth, and are often subject to the merci-
less hands of sweating critics and clipping compi-
lers : the works of antiquity were ever praised,
those of the moderns read: the treasures of our
ancestors have our esteem, and we boast the pas-
eion: those of contemporary genius engage our
heart, although we blush to own it. The visits we
pay the former resemble those we pay the great,
the ceremony is troublesome, and yet such as we
would not choose to forego ; our acquaintance with
modern books is like sitting with a friend, our
pride is not flattered in the interview, but it gives
more internal satisfaction.
In proportion as society refines, new books must
ever become more necessary. Savage rusticity is
reclaimed by oral admonition alone : but the elegant
excesses of refinement are best corrected by the
still voice of studious inquiry. In a polite age, al-
j:iost every person becomes a reader, and receives
more instruction from the press than the pulpit.
The preaching Bonze may instruct the illiterate
peasant ; but nothing less than the insinuating ad-
dress of a fine writer can win its way to a heart al-
ready relaxed in all the eflcminacy of refinement.
Books are nee°ssary to correct the vices of the po-
lite; but those vices are ever changing, and the
antidote should be changed accordingly — should
still be new.
Instead, therefore, of thinking the number of
new publications here too great, I could wish it still
greater, as they are the most useful instruments of
reformation. Every country must be instructed
either by writers or preachers^; but as the number
of readers increases, the number of hearers is pro-
portionably diminished, the writer becomes more
useful, and the preaching Bonze less necessary.
Instead, therefore, of complaining that writers
are overpaid, when their works procure them a bare
subsistence, I should imagine it the duty of a state,
not only to encourage their numbers, but their in-
dustry. A Bonze is rewarded with immense riches
for instructing only a few, even of the most igno-
rant of the people ; and sure the poor scholar should
not beg his bread, who is capable of instructing a
million.
Of all rewards, I grant, the most pleasing to a
man of real merit, is fame ; but a polite age, of all
times, is that in which scarcely any share of merit
can acquire it. What numbers of fine writers in
the latter empire of Rome, when refinement was
carried to the highest pitch, have missed that fame
and immortality which they had fondly arrogated
to themselves! How many Greek authors who wrote
at that period when Constantinople was the refined
mistress of the empire, now rest, either not print-
ed, or not read, in the libraries of Europe! Those
who came first, while either state as yet was bar-
barous, carried all the reputation away. Authors,
as the age refined, became more numerous, and
their numbers destroyed their fame. It is but
natural, therefore, for the writer, whdn conscious
that his works will not procure him fame hereafter,
to endeavour to make them turn out to his tem-
poral interest here.
Whatever be the motives which induce men to
write, whether avarice or fame, the country be-
comes most wise and happy, in which they most
serve for instructors. The countries where sacer-
dotal instruction alone is permitted, remain in ig-
norance, superstition, and hopeless slavery. In En-
gland, where there are as many new books published
as in all the rest of Europe together, a spirit of free-
dom and reason reigns among the people; they
have been often known to act like fools; they are
generally found to think like men.
The only danger that attends a multiplicity of
publications is, that some of them may be calculated
to injure rather than benefit society. But where
writers are numerous, they also serve as a check
upon each other; and perhaps, a literary inquisi-
tion is the most terrible punishment that can be
conceived to a literary transgressor.
But to do the English justice, there are but fjw
offenders of this kind ; their publications in genevaJ
aim at mending either the heart, or improving *\\«
commonweal. The dullest writer talks of virtue
and liberty, and benevolence, with esteem ; (ills his
true story, filled with good and wholesome advice;
warns against slavery, bribery, or the bite of a mad
. dog ; and dresses up his little useful magazine of
knowledge and entertainment, at least with a good
intention. The dunces of France, on the other
hand, who have less encouragement, are more vi-
cious. Tender hearts, languishing eyes, Leonora
in love at thirteen, ecstatic transports, stolen blisses,
are the frivolous subjects of their frivolous memoirs.
In England, if an obscene blockhead thus breaks
in on the community, he sets his whole fraternity
in a roar ; nor can he escape, even though he should
fly to nobility for shelter.
Thus even dunces, my friend, may make them-
selves useful. But there are others, whom nature
has blessed with talents above the rest of mankind;
men capable of thinking with precision, and im-
pressing their thought with rapidity; beings who
diffuse those regards upon mankind, which others
contract and settle upon themselves. These deserve
every honour from that community of which they
are more peculiarly the children; to such I would
give 7ny heart, since to them 1 am mdebted for its
humanity! Adieu.
LETTER LXXVL
From Hingpo to Lien Chi Altangi, by the way of Moscow.
I STILL remain at Terki, where I have received
that money which was remitted here in order to re-
lease me from captivity. My fair companion still im-
proves in my esteem ; the more I know her mind,
her beauty becomes more poignant; she appears
charming, even among the daughters of Circassia.
Yet were I to examine her beauty with the art
of a statuary, I should find numbers here that far
surpass her; nature has not granted her all the
boasted Circassian regularity of feature, and yet
she greatly exceeds the fairest of the country in the
art of seizing the affections. " Whence," have I
often said to myself, " this resistless magic that at-
tends even moderate charms? though 1 regard the
beauties of the country with admiration, every in-
terview weakens the impression, but the form of
Zelis grows upon my imagination ; I never behold
her without an increase of tenderness and respect.
Whence this injustice of the mind, in preferring
imperfect beauty to that which nature seems to liav
finished with care. Whence the infatuation, that
he whom a comet could not amaze, shovdd be as-
tonished at a meteor?" When reason was thus
fatigued to find an answer, my imngination pursu-
ed the subject, and this was the result.
I fancied myself placed between two landscapes,
this called the Region of Beauty, and that the Val-
ley of the Graces : the one adorned with all that
luxuriant nature could bestow; the fruits of va-
rious climates adorned the trees, the gro\e resound-
ed with music, the gale breathed perfume, every
charm that could arise from symmetry and exact
distribution were here consjiicuous, the whole of-
fering a prospect of pleasure without end. The
Valley of the Graces, on the other hand, seemed by
no means so inviting ; the streams and the groves
appeared just as they usually do in frequented
countries: no magnificent parterres, no concert in
the grove, the rivulet was edged with weeds, and
the rook joined its voice to that of the niifhtin^ale
All was simplicity and nature.
The most striking objects ever first allure the
traveller. 1 entered the Region of Beauty with
increased curiosity, and promised myself endless
satisfaction in being introduced to the presiding
goddess. I perceived several strangers, who entered
with the same design; and what surprised me not
a little, was to see several others hastening to leave
this abode of seeming felicity.
After some fatigue, I had at last the honour of be-
ing introduced to the goddess who represented
Beauty in person. She was seated on a throne, at
the foot of which stood several strangers, lately in-
troduced like me, all regarding her form in ecstasy.
" Ah, what eyes ! what lij)s ! how dear her com-
plexion ! how perfect her shape !" At these excla-
mations, Beauty, with downcast eyes, would en-
deavour to counterfeit modesty, but soon again
looking round as if to confirm every spectator in
his favourable sentiments; sometimes she would
attempt to allure us by smiles ; and at intervals
would bridle back, in order to inspire us with
respect as well as tenderness.
This ceremony lasted for some time, and had so
much employed our eyes, tiiat we had forgot all
this while that the goddess was silent. We soon,
however, began to perceive the defect. " What!"
said we, among each other, " are we to have.nothing
but languishing airs, soft looks, and inclinations
of the head; will the goddess only deign to satisfy
our eyes?" Upon this one of the company step[>ed
uj) to present her with some fruils he had gathered
by the way. She received the present most sweetly
smiling, and with one of the whitest hands in the
world, but still not a word csc^iped her lips.
I now found that my companions grew weary
of their homage ; they went off one by one, and r< -
solving not to be left l>chind, 1 offered to go in my
turn, when, just at the door of the temple, I whs
called back by a female, whose name was rrid-,
and who seemed displeased at the behaviour of tlic
company. " Where are you hastening ?" wid she
to me with an angry air ; " the Goildes.s of Beauty
is here." — " I have been to visit her, niad.iin," n'-
plied I, "and find her more beautiful even than
report had made her." — " And whv then will Vv/U
3^
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
leave her?" adJed the female. " I have seen her
lung enough," returned I, " I have got all her fea-
tures by heart. Her eyes are still the same. Her
nose is a very fine one, but it is still just such a nose
now as it was half an hour ago: could she throw a
little more mind into her face, perhaps I should be
lor wishing to have more of her company." —
What signifies," replied my female, "whether
she has a mind or not; has she any occasion for a
mind, so formed as she is by nature? If she had a
common face, indeed, there might be some reason
for thinking to improve it ; but when features are
already perfect, every alteration would but impair
them. A fine face is already at the point of per-
fection, and a fine lady should endeavour to keep
it so: the impression it would receive from thought
would but disturb its whole economy."
To this speech I gave no reply, but made the
best of my way to the Valley of the Graces. Here
T found all those who before had been my com-
panions in the Region of Beauty, now upon the
same errand.
As we entered the valley, the prospect insensibly
jeemcd to improve ; we found every thing so na-
tural, so domestic, and pleasing, that our minds,
which before were congealed in admiration, now
relaxed into gaiety and good-humour. We had
designed to pay our respects to the presiding god-
dess, but she was no where to be found. One of
our companions asserted, that her temple lay to the
right ; another, to the left ; a third insisted that it
was straight before us ; and a fourth, that we had
left it behind. In short, we found every thing fa-
miliar and charming, but could not determine
where to seek for the Grace in person.
In this agreeable incertitude we passed several
hours, and though very desirous of finding the god-
dess, by no means impatient of the delay. Every
part of the valley presented some minute beauty,
which, without offering itself, at once stole upon
the soul, and captivated us with the charms of our
retreat. Still, however, we continued to search,
and might still have continued, had we not been
interrupted by a voice, which, though we could not
see from whence it came, addressed us in this man-
ner: "If you would find the Goddess of Grace,
seek her not under one form, for she assumes a
thousand. Ever changing under the eye of inspec-
tion, her variety, rather than her figure, is pleasing.
In contemplating her beauty, the eye glides over
every perfection with giddy delight, and, capable
of fixing no where, is charmed with the whole.*
She is now Contemplation with solemn look, again
Compassion with humid ej-e; she now sparkles
vkith joy, soon every feature speaks distress ; her
looKs at times invite our approach, at others repress
».ur presumption : the goddess can not be properly
called beautiful under any one of these forms, but
by combining them all she becomes irresistibly
pleasing." Adieu.
* Vultus nimiuin lubricuB aspici.— /for.
LETTER LXXVIL
From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of the
Ceremonial Academy at Pelcin, in China.
The shops of London are as well furnished as
those of Pekin. Those of London have a picture
hung at their door, informing the passengers what
they have to sell, as those at Pekim have a board,
to assure the buyer that they have no intention to
cheat him.
I went this morning to buy silk for a nightcap :
immediately upon entering the mercer's shop, the
master and his two men, with wigs plastered with
powder, appeared to ask my commands. They
were certainly the civilest people alive : if I but
looked, they flew to the place where I cast my eye ;
every motion of mine sent them running round the
whole shop for my satisfaction. I informed them
that I wanted what was good, and they showed me
not less than forty pieces, and each was better than
the former, the prettiest pattern in nature, and the
fittest in the world for nightcaps. " My very good
friend," said I to the mercer, " you must not pre-
tend to instruct me in silks ; I know these in par-
ticular to be no better than your mere flimsy Bun
gees." — "That may be," cried the mercer, who
I afterwards found had never contradicted^ man
in his life ; " I can not pretend to say but they may ;
but, I can assure you, my Lady Trail has had a
sack from this piece this very morning." — " But,
friend," said I, " though my lady has chosen a sack
from it, I see no necessity that I should wear it for
a nightcap." — " That may be," returned he again,
" yet what becomes a pretty lady, will at any time
look well on a handsome gentleman." This short
compliment was thrown in so very seasonably upon
my ugly face, that, even though I dishked the silk,
I desired him to cut off the pattern of a nightcap.
While this business was consigned to his jour-
neyman, the master himself took down some pieces
of silk still finer than any I had yet seen, and
spreading them before me, "There," cries he,
" there's beauty; my Lord Snakeskin has bespoke
the fellow to this for the birthnight this very morn-
ing ; it would look charmingly in waistcoats." —
' But I don't want a waistcoat," replied I. '• Not
want a waistcoat !" returned the mercer, "then I
would advise you to buy one ; when waistcoats are
wanted you may depend upon it they will come dear.
Always buy before you want, and you are sure
to be well used, as they say in Cheapside." There
was so much justice in his advice, that I could not
refuse taking it; besides, the silk, which was really
I '
a good one, increased the temptation ; so I gave or-
ders for that too.
As I was waiting to have my bargains measured
and cut, which, I know not how, they executed but
slowly, during the interval the mercer entertained
me with the modern manner of some of the nobility
receiving company in their morning-gowns; "Per-
haps, sir," adds he, "you have a mind to see what
kind of silk is universally worn." Without wait-
ing for my reply, he spreads a piece before me,
which might be reckoned beautiful even in China.
"If the noDility," continues he, "were to know 1
sold this to any under a Right Honourable, I
sriould certainly lose their custom; you see, my
lord, it is at once rich, tasty, and quite the thing."
-"I am no lord," interrupted I. — " I beg pardon,"
cried he ; "but be pleased to remember, when you
nitend buying a morning-gown, that you had an
offer from me of something worth money. Con-
science, sir, conscience, is my way of dealing ; you
may buy a morning-gown now, or you may stay
till they become dearer and less fashionable; but it
is not my business to advise." In short, most
reverend Fum, he persuaded me to buy a morning-
gown also, and would probably have persuaded me
to have bought half the goods in his shop, if I had
stayed long enough, or was furnished with suf-
ficient money.
Upon returning home, I could not help reflect-
ing, with some astonishment, how this very man,
with such a confined education and capacity, was
yet capable of turning me as he thought projjer,
and moulding me to his inclinations! I knew he
was only answering his own purposes, even while
he attempted to appear solicitous about mine; yet,
by a voluntary infatuation, a sort of passion, com-
pounded of vanity and good nature, I walked into
the snare with my eyes open, and put myself to
future pain in order to give him immediate pleasure.
The wisdom of the ignorant somewhat resembles
the instinct of animals ; it is diffused in but a very
narrow sphere, but within that circle it acts with
vigour, uniformity, and success. Adieu.
LETTER LXXVIII.
From the Same.
From my former accounts, you may be apt to
fancy the English the most ridiculous people under
the sun. They are indeed ridiculous; yet every
other nation in Europe is equally so; each laughs
at each, and the Asiatic at all.
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
tir?t national peculiarity a traveller meets upon en-
tering that kingdom, is an odd sort of staring vi-
vacity in every eye, not excepting even the child-
ren ; the people, it seems, have got it nito their
heads, that they have more wit than otUers, and so
stare in order to look smart.
I know not how it haj)pens, 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; so 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 tlnnk them-
selves never old ; a gentle miss shall prepare for
now conquests at sixty, shall hobble a rigadoon
when she can scarcely walk out without a crutch;
she shall affect the girl, play her fan and her eyes,
and talk of sentiments, bleeding hearts, and ex-
piring for love, when actually 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 chief-
ly proud of; and to confess sincerely, their beggars
are the very politest beggars I ever knew : in other
places, a traveller is addressed with a piteous whiue,
or a sturdy solemnity, but a 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 breeding I must
not forget. An Englishman would not speak his
native language in a company of foreigners, where
he was sure that none understood him ; a travelling
Hottentot himself would be silent if acquainted
only with the language of his country: but a
Frenchman shall talk to you whether you under-
stand his language or not ; never troubling his 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
liimself, for want of a more satisfactory reply.
But tlu'ir civility to f >roigners is not half so great
as their admiration of themselves. Every thing
that belongs to them and their nation is great,
magnificent beyond ex])resj;ion, quite romantic!
every garden is a paradise, every hovel a palace,
and every woman an angel. They shut their eyes
close, throw their mouths wide oi)cn, and cry out
in a rapture, "SacrC! what Ix-auty ! — O Cull
what taiste! — mort de ma vie! what grandeur!
was ever any people like ourselves? we are llie n.t-
tion of men, and all the rest no better than two-
legged barbarians."
I fancy the French would make the best cooks
in the world if they had but meat: as it is, they
can dress vou out five different dishes from a nettle-
pot, seven from a dock-leaf, and twice as many froir.
a frorr's haunches; these cat prettily enough whe<
one is a little used to them, are easy of i!i;:r>ti.>n,
and seldom overload the stomach with crudilii-*
They seldom dine under seven hot dishes: it i»
true, indeed, with all this magnificence, they sel-
dom spread a cloth before the guests ; but in that I
can not be angry with tliem, since those who have
got no linen on their backs may very well be ex-
cused 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,
dressed up in grim head-clothes, 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
Virgin, you are sometimes presented with a cruci-
fix, at other times with a wooden Saviour, fitted
out in complete garniture, with sponge, spear,
nails, pincers, hammer, bees' wax, and vinegar-
bottle. Some of those images, 1 have been told,
came down from heaven ; if so, in heaven they have
but bungling workmen.
In passing through their towns, you frequently
see the men sitting at the doors knitting stockings,
while the care of cultivating the ground and pruning
the vines falls to the women. This is, perhaps,
the reason why the fair sex are granted some pe-
culiar 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 descrip-
tion pert and dull enough ; perhaps it is so, yet, in
gejieral, it is the manner in which the French
usually describe foreigners ; and it is but jxist to
fm-ce a part of that ridicule back upon them which
they attempt to lavish on others. Adieu.
LETTER LXXIX.
From 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, begin their campaign when all the others
quit the field ; and, at a time when the Europeans
cease to destroy each other in reality, they are en-
tertained with mock battles upon tlie stage.
The dancing master once more shakes his quiver-
ing feet; the carpenter prepares 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, from the theatrical letter-
carrier in yellow clothes, to Alexander the Great
'^hat 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 solenm
occasion; one has the finest pipe, the other the
finest manner ; one courtesies to the ground, thi'
other salutes the audience with a smile ; one cornea
on with modesty which asks, the other with bold
ness which extorts, aj)plause ; 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 town as yet perseveres in its neu-
trality ; a cause of such moment demands the most
mature deliberation ; they continue to exhibit, and
it is very possible this 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 as-
sistance. If they produce a pair of diamond buckles
at one house, we 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 playhouses, what with trumpets, hallooing
behind the stage, and bawling upon it, I am quite
dizzy before the performance is over. If I enter the
house with any sentiments in my head, I am sure
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 anraniazed
that none are apprenticed to the trade. The au-
thor, when well acquainted with the value of
thunder and lightning ; when versed in all the mys-
tery of scene-shifting and trap-doors; when skilled
in the proper periods to introduce a wire-walker or
a waterfall ; when instructed in every actor's pe-
culiar talent, and capable of adapting his speeches
to the supposed excellence ; when thus instructed,
he knows all that can give a modern audience
pleasure. One player shines in an exclamation,
another in a groan, 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 vi-
vacity; that piece, therefore, will succeed best,
where each has a proper opportunity of shining ;
the actor's business is not so much to adapt him-
self 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 acquaintance with theatri-
cal ahs and olis ; a certain number of these, inter-
spersed with ^ocZs.' tortures I racks! and damna-
tion! shall distort every actor almost into convul-
sions, and draw tears from every spectator ; a proper
use of these wiU infallibly fill the whole house with
applause. But, above all, a whining scene must
must strike most forcibly. I would advise, from
my present knowledge of the audience, the two fa-
vourite 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 outspread arms: 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
ialamities have drawn a proper quantity of tears
I'rom the sympathetic spectators, they may go ofl'
in dumb solemnity at different doors, c'asping their
hands, or slapping their pocket holes ; tiiis, which
Inay lie called a tragic pantomime, will answer
every purpose of moving the passions as well as
words could have done, and it must save those ex-
penses which go to reward an author.
All modern plays that would keep the audience
alive, must be conceived in this manner ; and, in-
deed, many a modern play is made up on no other
plan. This is the merit that lifts up the heart, like
opium, into a rapture of insensibility, and can dis-
miss the mind from all the fatigue of thinking : this
is the eloquence that shines in many a long-forgot-
ten scene, which has been reckoned excessively
fine upon acting; this is the lightning that flashes
no less in the hyperbolical tyrant " who breakfasts
on the wind," than in httle Nerval, " as harm-
less as the babe unborn." Adieu.
LETTER LXXX.
From the Same.
I HAVE always regarded the spirit of mercy
which appears in the Chinese laws with admira-
tion. 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 parents in their decline.
Similar to this, there is a spirit of mercy breathes
through the laws of England, which some errone-
ously endeavour to suppress ; the laws, however,
seem unwilling to punish the offender, or to fur-
nish l.ie officers of justice with every means of act-
ing with severity. Those who arrest debtors are
denied the use of arms ; the nightly watch is fier-
mitted to repress the disorders of the drunken
citizens only with clubs ; Justice in such a case
seems to hide her terrors, and permits some offend-
ers to escape, rather than load any with a punish-
ment disproporlioned to the crime.
Thus it is the glory of an Englishman, that he
is not only governed by laws, but that 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 least able to resist oj*-
pression, the poor.
It is very possible thus for a people to become
slaves to laws of their own enacting, as the Athe-
nians were to those of Draco. " It might first
happen," says the historian, "that men with pe-
culiar talents for villany attempted to evade the
ordinances already est!il)lished : their practices,
tlierefore, 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
ordinances ; still, however, he kept his jiropcr dis-
tance, and whenever one crime was judged penal
by the state, he left committing it, in order to j)rac-
tise some unforbidden species of villany. Thus
the criminal against whom the thrcateiiinffs 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
jjerson in the state, unknowingly, at different times
offended, and was every moment subject to a ma-
licious prosecution." In fact, penal laws, instead
of preventing crimes, are generally enacted after
the commission ; instead of repressing the growtli
of ingenious villany, oidy multiply deceit, by put-
ting it upon new shifts and expedients of prac-
tising with impunity.
Such laws, therefore, resemble the guards which
are sometimes imposed upon tributary princes, ap-
parently 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. When a law, enacted to
make theft punishable with death, happens to l>e
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 commu-
nity sufl'ers with the innocent victim: if, tjiereforc,
in order to secure the cllects of one man, I should
make a law which may take away the life of ano-
ther, in such a case, to attain a smaller good, I am
(Tuilty of a greater evil ; to secure siKiety in the
possession of a bauble, I render a real and valuable
possession jireoarious. And indeed the exi^-ri
ence of every age may serve to vindicate the asser-
tion ; no law could be more just than that calleJ
Icsce majcstalis, when Rome was governal by em-
perors. It was but reasonable, that every conspi-
racy against the administration should be detectvo
aivJ punished ; yet what terrible slughters succeed-
ed in consequence of its enactment : proscriptions,
stranglings, poisonings, in ahnost every family of
distinction ; yet ail done in a legal way, every
criminal had his trial, and lost his life by a majori-
ty of witnesses.
And such will ever be the case, where punish-
ments are numerous, and where a weak, vicious,
but, above all, where a mercenary magistrate is con-
cerned 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 sati-
ating 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 unblem-
ished character, or he will lean on the side of cruel-
ty : and when once the work of injustice is begun,
it is impossible to tell how far it will proceed. It
IS said of the hyscna, that, naturally, it is no way
ravenous, but when once it has tasted human flesh,
It becomes the most voracious animal of the forest,
and continues to persecute mankind ever after. A
corrupt magistrate may be considered as a human
hyaena ; he begins, perhaps, by a private snaj>, 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.
Not into such hands should the administration
cf justice be intrusted, but to those who know how
to reward as well as to punish. It was a fine say-
ing of Nangfu the emperor, who, being told that
his enemies had raised an insurrection in one of
the distant provinces, — " Come, then, my friends,"
said he, "follow me, and I promise you that we
shall quickly destroy them." He marched forward,
and the rebels submitted upon his approach. All
now thought that he would take the most signal
revenge, but were surprised to see the captives
treated with mildness and humanity. "How!"
cries his first minister, "is this the manner in
which you fulfil your promise? your royal vv^ord
was given that your enemies should be destroyed,
and behold you have pardoned all, and even ca-
ressed some !" — " I promised," replied the empe-
ror, with a generous air, " to destroy my enemies ;
I have fulfilled my word, for see they are enemies
no longer, — I have mnAe friends of them."
This, could it always succeed, were the true
method of destroying the enemies 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 hit her sword rather to terrify than revenge.
Adie^j.
LETTER LXXXI.
From the Same.
I nATE as yet given you but a short and imper>
feet 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
knowledge of the sex, in a country where they are
universally allowed to be riddles, and I but a stran
ger?"
To confess a truth, I «vas 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 new. 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 fluc-
tuation, from the mandarine's wife, who rattles
through the streets in her chariot, to the humble
seamstress, who clatters over the pavement in iron-
shod pattens.
What chiefly distinguishes the sex at present is
the train. As a lady's quality or fashion was
once determined here by the circumference of her
hoop, both are now measured by the length of her
tail. Women of moderate fortunes 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 trun-
dled along in a wheelbarrow.
Sun of China, what contradictions do we find in
this strange world ! not only the people of diflfer-
ent countries think in opposition to each other; but
the inhabitants of a single island are often found
inconsistent with themselves. Would you believe
it 7 this very people, my Fum, who are so fond of
seeing their women with long tails, at the same
time dock their horses to the very rump !
But you may easily guess that I am no ways
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 calculated 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 economy are thus found
to patch up their tails eight or ten times in a sea-
son. This unnecessary consmnption may intD-
duce poverty here, but then we shall be the richer
for it in China.
The man in black, who is a professed enemy to
this manner of ornamenting the 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 indigna-
tion is leveled at those who dress in this manner,
without a proper fortune to support it. He assures
me, that he has known some who 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 carry a train like her betters, never walks
from home without the uneasy apprehensions of
wearing 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 we sometimes see tied to the tail of a
rat."
Nay, he ventures to affirm, that a train may
often bring a lady into the most critical circum-
stances: "for should a rude fellow," says he,
"offer to come up to ravish a kiss, and the lady at-
tempt 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 malie no scruple to laugh at the
Bmallness of a Chinese slipper, but I fancy our
wives at China would have a more real cause of
laughter, could they but see the immoderate length
of a European train. Head of Confucius! to
view a human being crippling herself with a great
unwieldy tail for our diversion ! Backward she
can not go, forward she must move but slowly ; and
if ever she attempts to turn round, it must be in a
circle not smaller than that described by the wheel-
ing crocodile, when it would face an assailant.
And yet to think that all this confers importance
and majesty ! to think that a lady acquires addi-
tional respect from fifteen yards of trailing taflfeta !
I can not contain ; ha ! ha ! ha ! this is certainly a
remnant of European barbarity ; the female Tar
tar, dressed in sheep-skins, is in far more conve-
nient 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 Pasquariello being en-
gaged to attend on the Countess of Fcrnambroco,
having one of his hands employed in carrying her
muff, and the other her lapdog, he bears her train
majestically along, by sticking it in the waistband
d liis breeches. Adieu.
LETTER LXXXII.
From the Same.
A DISPUTE has for some time divided the phi-
losophers of Europe ; it is debated whether arts
and sciences are more serviceable or prejudicial to
mankind 7 They who n)aintain the cause of lite-
rature, endeavour to prove their usefulness, from
the impossibility of a large number of men subsist-
ing in a small tract of country willujut them; froni
the pleasure which attends the acquisition : and
from the influence of knowledge in promoting
practical morality.
They who maintain the opposite opinion, display
the ha[)pincss and iimocence of those uncuhivated
nations who live without learning ; urge the nu-
merous vices wliich are to be found only in polish-
ed society ; enlarge upon the oppression, the cruelty,
and the blood which must necessarily be shed, in
order to cement civil society ; and insist upon the
happy equality of conditions in a barbarous state,
preferable to the unnatural subordination of a more
refined constitution.
This dispute, which has already 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 ri'Tht also ; 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
populous states, as well as from the inhabitants of
the wilderness, they are both wrong; since that
knowledge which makes the happiness of a refined
European would be a torment to the precarious
tenant of an Asiatic wild.
Let me, to prove this, transport the imagination
for a moment to the midst of a forest in SilK-ria.
There we behold the inhabiumt, jwor indeed, but
equally fond of happiness with the most refined
philosopher of China. The earth lies uncultivated
and uninhabited for miks around him; his Uitle
family and he the sole and undisputed possessors.
In such circumstances, nature and reason will in-
duce him to prefer a hunter's life to that of culti-
vating the earth. He will certainly adhere to that
manner of living which is carried on at the sniuli-
cst expense of labour, and that food which is nioM
agreeable to the apjietite ; he will prefer iridolciit,
though precarious luxury, to a laborious, llioufih
peruiancnt competence ; and a knowledge of liit
=1
350
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
own happiness will determine him to persevere in
native barbarity.
In like mnnner, his happiness will incline him
to bind himself by no law : laws are made in order
to secure 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 under-
going a voluntary obligation without the expect-
ance of any reward. He and his countrymen are
tenants, not rivals, in the same inexhaustible for-
est ; the increased possessions of one by no means
diminishes the expectations arising from equal as-
siduity in another ; there is no need of laws, there-
fore, to repress ambition, where there can be no
mischief attending its most boundless gratification.
Our solitary Siberian will, in like manner, find
the sciences not only entirely useless in directing
his practice, but disgusting even in speculation.
In every contemplation, our curiosity must be first
excited by the appearances of things, before our
reason undergoes 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 climates, and
others from an intimate study of our own. But
there are few objects in comparison which present
themselves to the inhabitant of a barbarous coun-
try: the game he hunts, or the transient cottage
he builds, make up the chief objects of his concern ;
his curiosity, therefore, must be pro])ortionably less ;
and if that is diminished, the reasoning faculty will
be diminished in proportion.
Besides, sensual enjoyment adds wings to curi-
osity. We consider few objects with ardent atten-
tion, but those which have some connexion with
our wishes, our pleasures, or our necessities. A
desire of enjoyment first interests our passions in
the [lursuit, points out the object of investigation,
and reason then comments where sense has led the
way. An increase in the number of our enjoy-
ments, therefore, necessarily produces an increase
of scientific research: but in countries where
almost every enjoyment is wanting, reason there
seems destitute of its great inspirer, and specula-
tion 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 pleasure impels hira
to pursue. When told of the exact admeasure-
ment of a degree U[X)n the equator of Gluito, 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
astonrshmeiit nor pleasure. He is satisfied with
thoroughly understanding the few objects which
contribute to his own felicity ; he knows the pro-
perest places where to lay the snare for the sable,
and discerns the value of furs with more than Eu-
ropean sagacity. More extended knowledge would
only serve to render him unhappy ; it might lend
a ray to show him the misery of his situation, but
could not guide him in his efforts to avoid it. Igno-
rance is the happiness of the poor.
The misery of a being endowed with sentiments
above its capacity of fruition, is most admirably
described in one of the fables of Locman, the In-
dian moralist. " An elephant that had been pe-
culiarly serviceable in fighting the battles of Wist-
now, was ordered by the god to wish for whatever
he thought proper, and the desire should be attend-
ed with immediate gratification. The elephant
thanked his benefactor on bended knees, and de-
sired to be endowed with the reason and faculties
of a man. Wistnow was sorry to hear the foolish
request, and endeavoured to dissuade him from his
misplaced ambition ; but finding it to no purpose,
gave him at last such a portion of wisdom as could
correct even the Zendavesta of Zoroaster. The
reasoning 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 be-
coming, to wear clothes; 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 longed 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 plea-
sure fhat contributed to the felicity of mankind,
served only to render him more miserable, as he
found himself utterly deprived of the power of en-
joyment. In this manner he led a repining, dis-
contented life, detesting himself, and displeased
with his ill-judged ambition ; till at last his bene-
factor, Wistnow, taking compassion on his forlorn
situation, restored him to the ignorance and the
happiness which he was originally formed to en-
joy."
No, my friend, to attempt to introduce the scien-
ces into a nation of wandering barbarians, is only
to render them more miserable than even nature
designed they should be. A Ufe of simplicity is
best fitted to a state cif solitude.
The great lawgiver of Russia attempted to im-
prove the desolate inhabitants of Siberia, by send-
ing among them some of the politest men of Eu-
rope. The consequence has shown, that the coun-
try was as yet unfit to receive them : they languish-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
35i
ed for a time, with a sort of exotic malady ; every
day degenerated from themselves, and at last, in-
stead of rendering the country 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 popu-
lous ; the inhabitant must go through the different
stages of hunter, shepherd, and husbandman ; then,
when property becomes valuable, and consequent-
ly 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 in-
troduced, and demands its continual supply ; then
It is that the sciences become necessary and useful;
the state then can not subsist without them; they
must then be introduce d, at once to teach men to
draw the greatest possible quantity of pleasure
from circumscribed possession, 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 virulence of
its own poison. By asserting that luxury intro-
duces the sciences, we assert a truth; but if, with
those who reject the utility of learning, we assert
that the sciences also introduce luxury, we shall
be at once false, absurd, and ridiculous. Adieu.
LETTER LXXXIII.
From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow.
Yoa are now arrived at an age, my son, when
pleasure dissuades from application ; 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 greater. 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
modern philosopher of China.* " He who has be-
gun 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
extinguished, life is then cheaply supported: thus
a man, being possessed of more than he wants, can
never be subject to great disap[)ointments, and
avoids all those meannesses which indigence some-
times unavoidably produces.
" There is unspeakable pleasure attending the
life of a voluntary student. The first time 1 read
* A translation of this passage may also be seen in Du Halde,
Vol. 11. fill. pp. 47 and 58. This extract will at leiust serve to
show that fondness for Immour which apjicars in the writiiigs
of Uie Chinese.
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 which gives
lustre to another ; a common coarse stone is also
emjloyed for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw
advantage from the insults and contempt I meet
with from a worthless fellow. His brutality ought
to induce me to self-examination, and correct every
blemish that may have given rise to his calumny,
" Yet with all the pleasures and profits which
are generally produced by learning, parents often
find it difl!icult to induce their children to study.
They often seem dragged to what wears the ap-
pearance of application. 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 polite than ordinary, their
pencil then seems as heavy as a millstone, and they
spend ten days in turning two or three periods with
propriety,
" These persons are most at a loss when a ban
quet 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 his expense. As
for him, he oj)ens a pair of large heavy eyes, stares
at all about him, and even offers to join in the
laugh, without ever considering himself as the
burden of all their good-humour.
" But it is of no ini])ortance to read much, except
you be regular in your reading. If it be interruj>ted
for any considerable time, it can never be attended
with firopcr improvement. There are some who
study for one day with intense application, and re-
pose themselves for ten days after. But wisdom
is a coquette, and must be courted 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, ai.d
these are no botterthan instruments of debauchery.
They are dangerous fictions, where love i* the
ruling passion.
"The most indecent strokes there pass fortv.rns
of wit ; intrigue and criminal liberties for gallant'-y
and politeness. Assignations, and even villany,
are put in such strong lights, as maj' inspire even
grown men vvith 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 of passion.
"To slip in bv a back door, or leap a v\-all, ar"
■352
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
accomplishments that, when handsomely set off,
enchant a young heart. It is true, the plot is com-
monly wound up by a marriage concluded with
the consent of parents, and adjusted by every cere-
mony prescribed by law. But as in 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 so-
ciety, virtue is thereby exposed to the most danger-
ous attacks.
"But, say some, the authors of these romances
have nothing in view, but to represent vice punish-
ed, 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 the art with which the author inspires the
love of virtue, can overcome that crowd of thoughts
which sway them to licentiousnessl To be able
toinculcate 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 philoso-
phers.
" Avoid such performances where vice assumes
the face of virtue : seek wisdom and knowledge,
without ever thinking you have found them. A
man is wise, while he continues in the pursuit 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
blind, who never makes a step without first ex-
amining the ground with his staff.
" The world is like a vast sea; mankind like a
vessel sailing on its tempestuous bosom. Our
prudence 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, ob-
scurity 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
obscurity. Such are the revolutions of life."
Adieu.
LETTER LXXXIV.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Iloam, First President of
the Ceremonial Academy at Pelcin, in China.
I FANCY the character of a poet is in every coun-
try the same : fond of enjoying the present, care-
less of the future, his conversation that of a man of
sense, his actions those of a fool ; of fortitude able
to stand unmoved at 'he bursting of an earthquake,
vet of sensibility to be affected by the breaking of
a tea-cup; — such is his character, which, considei
ed in every light, is the very opposite of that which
leads to riches.
The poets of the West are as remarkable for
their indigence as their genius, and yet, among tno
numerous hospitals designed to relieve the poor, I
have heard of but one erected for the benefit of de-
cayed authors. This w as founded by Pope Urban
VIII., and called the retreat of the incurables, in-
timating, 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 a history of
human wretchedness.
Homer is the first poet and beggar of note among
the ancients ; he was blind, and sung his ballads
about the streets ; but it is observed that his mouth
was more frequently filled 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 a gaol.
Among the Italians, Paulo Borghese, almost as
good a poet as Tasso, knew fourteen different
trades, and yet died because he could get employ-
ment in none. Tasso himself, who 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 himself a candle. But Bentivoglio, poor
Bentivoglio! chiefly demands our pity. His come-
dies will last with the Italian language : he dissi-
pated a noble fortune in acts of charity and benevo-
lence ; 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 Camoena
ended his days in an hospital.
If we turn to France, we shall there find even
stronger instances of the ingratitude of the public
Vaugelas, one of the politest writers, and one of the
honestest men of his time, was surnamed the Owl,
from his being obliged to keep within all day, and
venture out only by night, through fear of his credi-
tors. His last will is very remarkable. Aftci
having bequeathed all his worldly substance to the
discharging his debts, he goes on thus : '"'But, as
there still may remain some creditors unpaid, even
after all that I have shall be 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."
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
353
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 a
hatred of all mankind, from the little pity he found
amongst them, he even ventured at last ungrate-
fully to impute his calamities to Providence. In
his last agonies, when the priest entreated him to
rely on the justice of Heaven, and ask mercy from
him- that made him— "If God," replies he, "has
shown me no justice here, what reason have I to ex-
pect any from him hereafter?" But being answer-
ed, that a suspension of justice was no argument
that should induce us to doubt of its reality — " Let
me entreat you," continued his confessor, "by all
that is dear, to be reconciled to God, your father,
your maker, and friend." — " No," replied the ex-
asperated wretch, "you know the manner in which
he left me to live; and (pointing to the straw on
which he was stretched) 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 Dry-
den, are every day mentioned as a national re-
proach : some of them lived in a state of precarious
indigence, and others literally died of hunger.
At present, the few poets of England no longer
depend on the great for subsistence ; they have now
no other patrons but the public, and the public, col-
lectively considered, is a good and a generous mas-
ter. It is, indeed, too frequently mistaken as to
the merits of every candidate for favour ; but, to
make amends, it is never mistaken long. A per-
formance indeed may be forced for a time into re-
putation, 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 satis-
faction.
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 should remain in merited obscurity. He may
now refuse an invitation to dinner, without fearing
to incur his patron's displeasure, or to starve by re-
maining at home. He may now venture to appear
in company with just such clothes as other men
generally wear, and talk even to princes with all the
conscious superiority of wisdom. Though he can
not boast of fortune here, yet he can bravely assert
the dignity of independence. Adieu
23
LETTER LXXXV.
From the Same.
I HAVE interested myself so long in all the con-
cerns of this people, that I am almost become an
Englishman; 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 con-
cern for their contentions. I could wish to see the
disturbances of Europe once more amicably adjust-
ed : 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; I hate fighting even be-
tween women!
I already informed you, that while Europe was
at variance, we were also threatened from the stage
with an irreconcileable opposition, and that our
singing 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 congress, 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 this 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 be to
Heaven, they are not altogether ass's ears. What !
Polly and the Pickpocket to night, Polly and the
Pickpocket to-morrow night, and Polly and the Pick-
pocket again! I want patience. I'll hear no more. My
soul is out of tune ; all jarring discord and confu-
sion. Rest, rest, ye dear three clinking shillingf?
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 petticoats.
But what raises my indignation to the greatest
degree is, that this piping does not only pester me
on the stage, but is my punishment in private con-
versation. What is it to me, whether the^ne pipe
of the one, or the great manner of the other, be
preferable'] what care I if one has a better top, or
the other a nobler bottom 7 how am I concerned if
one sings from the stomach, or the other sings with
a snap ? Yot paltry as these matters are, they make
a subject of debate wherever I go; and this musical
dispute, especially among the fair sex, almost al-
ways ends in a very unmusical altercation.
Sure the spirit of contention is mixed witii tne
354
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
very constitution of the people! divisions among of Chinese ceremonies to no purpose. 1 know the
the inhabitants of other countries arise only from proper share of respect due to every rank in so-
their higher concerns, but subjects the most con- ciety. Stage-players, fire-eaters, singing women,
temptible are made an affair of party here; the dancing dogs, wild beasts, and wire- walkers, as
spirit is carried even into their amusements. The their efforts are exerted for our amusement, ought
very ladies, whose duty should seem to allay the not entirely to be despised. The laws of every
impetuosity of the opposite sex, become themselves country should allow them to jilay their tricks at
party champions, engage in the thickest of the fight, ; least with impunity. They should not be branded
scold at each other, and show their courage, even with the ignominious appellation of vagabonds; at
at the expense of their lovers and their beauty. least they deserve a rank in society equal to the
There are even a numerous set of poets who mystery of barbers or undertakers, and, could my
help to keep up the contention, and write for the influence extend so far, they should be allowed to
stage. Mistake me not, I do not mean pieces to
be acted upon it, but panegyrical verses on the per-
formers, — 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 victori-
ous; or nature may mistake him for herself; or old
Shakspeare 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 lady
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
To you, bright fair, tlie nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heart-felt power of every charm divine.
Who can witlistand their all-commanding shinef
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face !
Site speaks ; 'tis rapture all and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to thisf
As when in Paphian groves the queen of love,
With fond complaint, address'd the listening Jove,
'Twas joy, and endless blisses, all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in.
And felt her charms, without disguise within.
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 the
contrary, 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 lodgings,
on any evening when I am at leisure, provided
they keep a becoming distance, and stand, while
ifiey continue to entertain me, with decent humili-
ty, at the door.
You perceive I have not read the seventeen books
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
will undoubtedly assert, that such a stipend is too
great for so useless an employment. Yet hovr
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 are
amazed. There is cause for amazement. A vaga-
bond with a thousand a-year is indeed a curiosity
in nature ; a wonder far surpassing 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 their contempt, anJ
part of their finery; the law should kindly take
them under the wing of protection, fix them \nU
a corporation, like that of the barbers, and abridg«
their ignominy and their pensions. As to their
abilities in other respects, 1 would leave that en-
tirely to the public, who are certainly in this case
the properest judges, — whether they despise then*
or not.
Yes, my Fum, I would abridge their pensions.
A theatrical warrior, who conducts the battles of
the stage, should be cooped up with the same cau-
tion as a bantam cock that is kept for fighting.
When one of those animals is taken from its na-
tive dunghill, we retrench it both in the quantity
of its food, and the number of its seraglio: players
should in the same manner be fed, not fattened;
they should be permitted to get their bread, but not
eat the people's bread into the bargain; and, in-
stead 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 their admirers less sanguine,
and consequently less ridiculous, in patronizing
them. We should be no longer struck with the
absurdity of seeing the same people, whose valour
makes such a figure abroad, apostrophizing in the
praise of a bouncing blockhead, and wrangling in
the defence of a copper-tailed actress at home.
I shall conclude my letter with the sensible ad-
monition of Mo the philosopher. " You love har-
CITIZEN OP THE WORLD.
355
mony," says he, " and are charmed with 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 silver rays. But is a man to car-
ry this passion so far as to let a company of come-
dians, musicians, and singers, grow rich upon his
exhausted fortune? If so, he resembles one of those
dead bodies, whose brains the embalmer has picked
out through the ears." Adieu,
LETTER LXXXVI.
From the Same.
Of all the places of amusement where gentlemen
and ladies are entertained, 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 swiftest wins the wager.
This is reckoned a very polite and fashionable
amusement here, much more followed by the no-
bility than partridge fighting at Java, or paper
kites in Madagascar; several of the great here, I
am told, understand as much of farriery as their
grooms ; and a horse, with any share of merit, can
never want a patron among the nobility.
We have a description of this entertainment al-
most every day in some of the gazettes, as for in-
stance: "On such a day, the Give and Take
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 nobility 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 hol-
low ; however, it was soon seen that Periwinkle
improved in wind, which at last turned out ac-
cordingly ; Crab was run to a stand-still, Slamer-
kin was knocked up, and Periwinkle was brought
in with universal applause." Thus, you see. Peri-
winkle received universal applause, and, no doubt,
his lordship came in for some share of that praise
which was so liberally bestowed upon Periwinkle.
Sun of China ! how glorious must the senator ap-
pear 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, sta-
dle-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 a horse-race
with becoming reverence, predisposed as I am by a
similar amusement, of which I have lately been a
spectator; for just now I happened to have an op-
portunity of being present at a cart-race.
Whether this contention between three carts of
different parishes was promoted by a subscription
among the nobility, or whether the grand jury, iix
council assembled, had gloriously combined to en-
courage plaustral merit, I can not take upon me to
determine ; but certain it is, the whole was con-
ducted with the utmost regularity and decorum,
and the company, which made a brilliant appear
ance, were universally of opinion, that the sport
was high, the running fine, and the riders influ-
enced by no bribe.
It was run on the road from London to a village
called Brentford, between a turnip-cart, adust-cart,
and a dung-cart ; each of the owners condescend-
ing 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
found themselves all on the wrong side, and it was
Turnip against the field, brass to silver.
Soon, however, the contest became more doubt-
ful ; Turnip indeed kept the way, but it was per-
ceived that Dung had better bottom. The road
re-echoed with the shouts of the spectators — " Dung
against Turnip! Turnip against Dung!" was now
the universal cry; neck and neck; 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 occasion; one was charmed with the unwash-
ed 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 encouragement of some,
and pity of all.
The contention now continued for some time,
without a possibility of determining to whom vic-
tory designed the prize. The winning post ap-
peared 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 re-
fused 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
wayside, and the rider left to wallow in congenial
mud. Dust, in the mean time, soon came up, and
not being far from the post, caine m, 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 have
been favourable to all; each had peculiar merit,
each laboured hard to earn the prize, and each ricV-
ly 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 t(i be
seen even there. There may be some minute dif-
ferences in the dress of the spectators, but none at
356
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
all in their understandings ; the quality of Brent-
ford are as remarkable for politeness and delicacy
as the breeders of Newmarket. The quality of
Brentford drive their own carts, and the honour-
able 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 our 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 value of humanity. Adieu.
LETTER LXXXVII.
From Film Hoam, toLien Chi Altangi.
You tell me the people of Europe are wise; but
where lies their wisdom? You say they are valiant
top; yet I have some reasons to doubt of their
valour. They are engaged in war among each
other, yet apply to the Russians, their neighbours
and ours, for assistance. Cultivating such an al-
liance, argues at once imprudence and timidity.
All subsidies paid for such an aid in strengthening
the Russians, already too powerful, and weakening
the employers, already exhausted by intestine com-
motions.
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 king-
doms and dukedoms, and, from such a division,
consequently feeble. Since the time, however, of
Johan Basilides, it has increased in strength and
extent ; and those untrodden forests, those innumer-
able 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 un-
bounded extent of dominion, and learning the
military art at the expense of others abroad, must
every day grow more powerful ; and it is probable
we shall hear Russia in future times, as formerly,
ca.ied the Officina Gentium.
It was long the wish of Peter, their great mon-
arch, 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, he
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, ornecessity
prompted, they might then be able to deluge the
whole western world with a barbarous inundation.
Believe me, my friend, I can not sufficiently con-
temn the politicians of Europe, who thus majse
this powerful people arbitrators in their quarrel.
The Russians are now at that period between »e-
finement and barbarity, which seems most adapted
to military achievement ; and if once they happen
to get footing in the western parts of Europe, it is
not the feeble effi)rts 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 from their
native deserts, the trackless wild, or snowy moun-
tain.
History, experience, reason, nature, expand the
book of wisdom before the eyes of mankind, but
they will not read. We have seen with terror a
winged phalanx of famished locusts, each singly
contemptible, but from multitude become hideous,
cover, like clouds, the face of day, and threaten the
whole world with ruin. We have 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 have seen myriads of ants issuing togethei
from the southern desert, like a torrent whose
source was inexhaustible, succeeding each other
without end, and renewing their destroyed forces
with unwearied perseverance, bringing desolation
wherever they came, banishing men and animals,
and, when destitute of all subsistence, in heaps in-
fecting the wilderness which they had made !
Like these have been the migrations of men.
When as yet savage, 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 have we seen
whole armies starting wild at once from their forests
and their dens ! Goths, Huns, Vandals, Saracens,
Turks, Tartars, myriads of men, animals in human
form, without country, without name, withoutlaws,
overpowering by numbers all opposition, ravaging
cities, overturning empires, and, after having de-
stroyed whole nations, and spread extensive deso-
lation, how have we seen them sink oppressed by
some new enemy, more barbarous and even more
■unknown than they ! Adieu.
LETTER LXXX VIII
From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of Hid
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China.
As the instruction of the fair sex in this country
is entirely committed to the care of foreigners; a»
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
357
their language-masters, music-masters, hair-friz-
zers, and governesses, are all from abroad, I had
some intentions of opening a female academy my-
self, 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
benefits of the cholic in the stomach, and all the
tliorough-bred insolence of fashion ; maids should
learn the secret of nicely distinguishing every com-
petitor ; they should be able to know the difference
between a pedant and a scholar, a citizen and a
prig, a squire and his horse, a beau and his monkey ;
but chiefly, they should be taught the art of
managing their smiles, from the contemptuous
simper to the long laborious laugh.
But [ have discontinued the project ; for what
would signify teaching ladies the manner of govern-
ing or choosing husbands, when marriage is at
present so much out of fashion, that a lady is very
well off 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 oflers, and are never
likely to receive any for the future.
The only advice, therefore, I could give the fair
sex, as things stand at present, 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 virgin
bloom of sixty-three, or a battered unmarried beau,
who squibs about from place to place, showing his
pigtail wig and his ears. The one appears to my
imagination in the form of a double night-cap, or a
roll of pomatum, 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 desire them not to dis-
card an old lover without very sufficient reasons,
nor treat the new with ill-nature till they know him
false ; let not prudes allege the folseness of the sex,
coquettes the pleasures of long courtship, or parents
the necessary preliminaries 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 un-
frequented by the inhabitants of the continent. In
this seclusion, blessed with all that wild uncultiva-
ted nature could bestow, lived a princess and her
^wo 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, inexperienced as
the young ladies were in the opposite sex, both
early discovered symptoms, the one of prudery, the
other of being a coquette. The eldest was ever
learning maxims of wisdom and discretion from
her mamma, while the youngest employed all her
hours in gazing at her own face in a neighbouring
fountain.
Their usual amusement in this solitude was
fishing : their mother had taught them all the se-
c'.ets of the art; she showed them which were the
most hkely places to throw out the line, what baits
were most proper for the various seasons, and the
best manner to draw up the finny prey, when thej
had hooked it. In this manner they spent their
time, easy and innocent, till one day, the princess
being indisposed, desired them to go and catch her
a sturgeon or a shark for supper, 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 glide down yvith the
stream.
On the opposite shore, farther down, at the
mouth of the river, lived a diver for pearls, a youth
who, by long habit in his trade, was almost grown
amphibious ; 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 fishing with the gild-
ed hook. Seeing therefore the bait, which to hira
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 imagined ; the hook, before unperceived, was
instantly fastened in his jaw, nor could he, with
all his efforts or his floundering, get free.
" Sister," cries the youngest princess, " I have
certainly caught a monstrous fish ; I never perceived
any thing struggle so at the end of my line before ;
come and help me to draw it in." They both now,
therefore, assisted in fishing up the diver on shore ;
but nothing could equal their surprise upon seeing
him. "Bless my eyes," cries the prude, "what
have we got here? this is a very odd fish to be
sure ; I never saw any thing in mj' life look so
queer: what eyes, what terrible claws, what a
monstrous snout ! 1 have read of this monster some-
where before, it certainly must be a TanlangihaX.
eats women ; let us throw it back into the sea where
we found it."
The diver, in the mean time, stood upon th<j
beach at the end of the Hue, with the hook in his
mouth, using every art that he thought could best
excite pity, and particularly looking extremely
tender, which is usual in such circumstances.
35f
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
The coquette, therefore, in some measure influenc-
ed by the innocence of his looks, ventured to con-
tradict her companion. "Upon my word, sister,"
says she, "I see nothing in the animal so very ter-
rible as you are pleased to apprehend ; I think it
may serve well enough for a change. Always
sharks, and sturgeons, and lobsters, and crawfish,
make me quite sick. I fancy a slice of this, 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 !" cries the prude, "would
the girl be poisoned? I tell you it is a Tanlang ;
I have read of it in twenty places. It is every
where described as the most pernicious animal that
ever infested the ocean. I am certain it is the most
insidious ravenous creature in the world ; and is
certain destruction if taken internally." The
youngest sister was now therefore obliged to sub-
mit: both assisted in drawing the hook with some
violence from the diver's jaw ; and he, finding him-
Belf at hberty, 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 ; they told her every circumstance, describ-
ing the monster they had caught. The old lady
Was one of the most discreet women in the world ;
she was called the black-eyed princess, from two
black eyes she had received in her youth, being a
.rttle 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 entertain-
ing than our squirrel or monkey." — " If that be
all," says the young coquette, " we will fish for
him again. If that be all, I'll hold three tooth-
picks to one pound of snufT, I catch him when-
ever 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 disappoint-
ment, 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 LXXXIX.
From the Same.
1 AM amused, my dear Fum, with the labours of
■ome of the learned here. One shall write you a
whcle folio on the dissection of a caterpillar.
Another shall swell his works with a description
of the plumage on the wing of a butterfly; a third
shall see a little world on a peach leaf, and publish
a book to describe what his readers 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 nature bit by
bit; now the proboscis, now the antennse, now the
the pinnae, of — a flea ! Now the polypus comes
to breakfast 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, con
slant in experiment, without one single abstrac
tion, by which alone knowledge may be properly
said to increase ; till at last their ideas, ever em-
ployed 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 their meetings ; in which one
shows his cockle-shell, and is praised by all the
society ; another produces his powder, makes some
experiments that result in nothing, and comes olT
with admiration and applause : a third comes out
with the important discovery of some new process
in the skeleton of a mole, and is set down as the
accurate and sensible ; while one, still more fortu-
nate than the rest, by pickling, potting, and pre-
serving monsters, rises into unbounded reputation.
The labours of such men, instead of being cal-
culated to amuse the public, are 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 turn is eaten by a
third ; but there are men who have studied them-
selves into a habit of investigating and admiring
such minutiae. To these such subjects are pleasing,
as there are some who contentedly spend whole
days in endeavouring to solve enigmas, or disen-
tangle the puzzling sticks of children.
But of all the learned, those who pretend to in-
vestigate remote antiquity have least to plead in
their own defence, when they carry this passion to
a faulty excess. They are generally found to sup-
ply by conjecture the want of record, and then hj
perseverance are wrought up into a confidence of
the truth of opinions, which even to themselves al
first appeared founded only in imagination.
The Europeans have heard much of the kingdom
of China : its politeness, arts, commerce, laws, ano
morals, are, however, but very imperfectly known
among thein. They have even now in their Indian
CITIZEN OP THE "WORLD.
359
warehouses numberless utensils, plants, minerals,
and machines, of the use of which they are entirely
ignorant : nor can any among them even make a
probable guess for what they might have been de-
signed. Yet though this people be so ignorant of
the present real state of China, the philosophers I
am describing have entered into long, learned, la-
borious disputes about what China was two thou-
sand years ago. China and European happiness
are but little connected even at this day ; but Eu-
ropean happiness and China two thousand years
ago have certainly no connexion at all. However,
the learned have written on and pursued the sub-
ject through all the labyrinths of antiquity : though
the early dews and the tainted gale be passed away,
though no footsteps remain 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 Ganges ; there-
fore, if he went so far, he might still have gone as
far as China, which is but 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 lanterns upon the same occasion :
the Egyptians had their great river ; so have the
Chinese. But what 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 wc only change K into A, and i into
toes, we shall have the name Atoes; and with
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
from 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 monar-
chy; and that of Noah, the preserver of the human
race ; Noah, Fohi, very like each other truly ; they
have each but four letters, and only two of the four
happen to differ. But to strengthen the argument,
Fohi, as the Chinese chronicle asserts, had no
father. Noah, it is true, had a father, as the Eu-
ropean 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
was covered with mud ; if it was covered with
mud, it must have been incrustatetl mud ; if it was
incrustated, it was clothed with verdure: this was a
fine unembarrassed road for Noah to fly from his
wicked children ; he therefore did fly from them,
and took a journey of two thousand miles for his
own amusement: therefore Noah and Folii are
the same.
Another sect of literati, for they all pass among
the vulgar for very great scholars, assert, that the
Chinese came neither from the colony of Sesos-
tris, nor from Noah, but are descended from Ma-
gog, Meshec, and Tubal, and therefore neither Se-
sostris, nor Noah, nor Fohi, are the same.
It is thus, my friend, that indolence assumes the
airs of wisdom, and while it tosses the cup and
ball with infantine folly, desires the world to look
on, and calls the stupid pastime philosophy and
learning. Adieu.
LETTER XC.
From the Same.
When the men of this country are once turned
of thirty, they regularly retire every year at proper
intervals to lie in of the spleen. The vulgar, un-
furnished vnth the luxurious comforts of the soft
cushion, down bed, and easy chair, are obliged,
when the fit is on them, to nurse it up by drink-
ing, idleness, and ill-humour. In such disposi-
tions, unhappy is the foreigner who happens to
cross them ; his long chin, tarnished coat, or pinch-
ed 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 sensibihty, are ope-
rated upon with greater violence by this disorder.
Different from the poor, instead of becoming more
insolent, they grow totally unfit for opposition. A
general here, who would have faced a culverin
when well, if the fit be on him, shall hardly find
courage to snuff a candle. An admiral, who could
have opposed a broadside without shrinking, shall
sit whole days in his chamber, mobbed up in dou-
ble night-caps, shuddering at the intrusive breeze,
and distinguishable from his wife only by his black
beard and heavy eyebrows.
In the country, this disorder mostly attacks the
fair sex ; in town, it is most unfavourable 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 gaming-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 ex-
change their disorders. In consequence of her
parties and exclusions, he puts on the furred cap and
360
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
scarlet stomacher, and perfectly resembles an In-
dian husband, who, when his wife is safely de-
livered, permits her to transact business abroad,
while 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 shall produce ; it has been
known to change a lady of fashion into a parlour
couch; an alderman into a plate of custards ; and a
dispenser of justice into a rat-trap. Even philoso-
phers themselves are not exempt from its influence;
it has often converted a poet into a coral and bells
and a patriot senator into a dumb waiter.
Some days ago I went to visit the man in black,
and entered his house with that cheerfulness which
the certainty of a favourable reception always in-
spires. Upon opening the door of his apartment,
I found him with the most rueful face imaginable,
in a morning'gown and flannel night-cap, earnest-
ly employed in learning to blow the German 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 mu-
sical, 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 lips, 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 demand-
ed, whether I did not think he had made a sur-
prising progress in two days 1 " You see, con-
tinues 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 astonish-
ed with this instance of inverted ambition, that I
knew not what to reply, but soon discerned the
cause of all his absurdities ; my friend 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 imper-
ceptibly, by seeming to indulge it, I began to des-
cant 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 hap-
piness of some wrought out of the miseries of
others ; the necessities that wretches should expire
under punishment, that rogues might enjoy afflu-
ence in tranquillity ; I led him on from the inhu-
manity 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 tempc/, hv pof
mitting him to expatiate upon all the mouoa ol Hu-
man misery.
" Some nights ago," says my friend, '' sitting
alone by my fire, I happened to look into zn account
of a 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 friend-
ship to wretches they meant to betray, of their
sending men out to rob, and then hanging them.
I could not avoid sometimes interrupting the narra-
tive, 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, ' I have
been sent into this world, and am desired 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 half-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 got, it
will do him service in Newgate, where we are
sending him.' This was an instance of such com-
plicated guilt and hypocrisy, that I threw 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 perceiving the ticking of my
watch beginning to grow noisy and troublesome,
I quickly placed it out of hearing, and strove to re-
sume my serenity. But the watchman soon gave
me a second alarm. 1 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-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 tranquillity in dissipation, sauntered from one
place of public resort to another, but found myself
disagreeable to my acquaintance, and ridiculous to
others. I tried at different 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 employment, if it can not cure, at least will
paUiate every anxiety." Adieu.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
361
LETTER XCI.
From the Same.
It is no unpleasing contemplation, to consider
the influence which soil and cKmate have upon the
disposition of the inhabitants, the animals, and ve-
getables, 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 playthings for children ;
and we are told that in some parts of Fez, there arc
lions so very timorous as to be scared away, though
coming in herds, by the cries of women.
I know of no country where the influence of cli-
mate 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 resem-
ble each other. But, as in simpling, it is among
the uncultivated productions of nature we are to
examine the characteristic differences of climate
and soil, so in an estimate of the genius of the
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 hardi-
ness of soul.
Perhaps no qualities in the world are more sus-
ceptible of a finer polish than these ; artificial com-
plaisance and easy deference being superinduced
over these generally form a great character ; some-
thing at once elegant and majestic; affable, yet
sincere. Such, in general, are the better sort ; but
they who are left in primitive rudeness are the
least disposed for society with others, or comfort in-
ternally, 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 httle from others. But in En-
gland the poor treat each other upon every occa-
sion 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 burdens, make a
thousand excuses to each other for the accidental
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-nature among themselves, and subjec-
tion to new penalties; but such considerationa
never weigh with them.
But to recompense this strange absurdity, they
are in the main generous, brave, and enterprising.
They feel the slightest injuries with a degree of
ungoverned impatience, but resist the greatest ca-
lamities with surprising fortitude. Those miseries
under which any other people in the world would
sink, they have often showed they were caj)able of
enduring ; if accidentally cast upon some desolate
coast, their perseverance is beyond what anv other
nation is capable of sustaining ; if imprisoned for
crimes, their efforts to escape are greater than
among others. The peculiar strengtii of their
prisons, when compared to those elsewhere, ar-
gues their hardiness ; even the strongest prisons I
have ever seen in other countries would be very in-
suflicient to confine the untameable spirit of an En-
glishman. In short, what man dares do in cir-
cumstances of danger, an Englishman 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. Per-
haps no people can produce instances of the same
kind, where the desperate mix pity with injustice ;
still showing that they understand a distinction in
crimes, and, even in acts of violence, having still
some tincture of remaining virtue. In every other
country, robbery and murder go almost always to-
gether; 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. Takincf,
therefore, my opinion of the English from tiie vir-
tues 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 phi-
losopher.
Foreigners are generally shocked at their inso-
lence upon first coming among them ; they find
themselves ridiculed and 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 country, either too ignorant or
too obstinate to cultivate a closer acquaintance;
meet every moment something to excite their dis-
gust, and return home to characterise this as the
region of spleen, insolence, and ill-nature. In short,
England would be the last place in the world I
would travel to by way of amusement, but the first
for instruction. I would choose to have othi rs t'ot
my acquaintance, but Englismen for my friends.
S62
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
LETTER XCIL
From 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, clothe, and employ him, his
wishes now rise one step above his station ; he
could he happy were he possessed of raiment, food,
and ease. Suppose his wishes gratified even in
these, his prospects widen as he ascends ; he finds
himself in affluence and tranquillity indeed, but in-
dolence soon breeds anxiety, and he desires not only
to be freed from pain, but to be possessed of pleasure;
pleasure is granted him, and this but opens his soul
to ambition ; and ambition will be sure to taint his
future happiness, either with jealousy, disappoint-
ment, or fatigue.
But of all the arts of distress found out by man
for his own iorment, perhaps that of philosophic
misery is most truly ridiculous ; a passion nowhere
carried to so extravagant an excess as in the coun-
try where I now reside. It is not enough to engage
all the compassion of a philosopher here, that his
own globe is harrassed with wars, pestilence, or
barbarity ; he shall grieve for the inhabitants of the
moon, if the situation of her imaginary mountains
happens to alter ; and dread the extinction of the
sun, if the spots on his surface happens to increase.
One should imagine, that philosophy was introduc-
ed to make men happy; but here it serves to make
hundreds miserable.
My landlady, some days ago, brought 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, apprehension and distress. A sin-
gle week will serve as a specimen of the whole.
Monday. In what a transient decaying situation
aie we placed ; and what various reasons does phi-
losophy furnish to make mankind unhappy ! A
single grain of mustard shall continue to produce
its similitude through numberless successions ;
yet, what has been granted to this little seed, has
been denied to our planetary system ; the mustard
seed is still unaltered, but the system is growing
old, and must quickly fall to decay. How terrible
will it be, when the motions of all the planets have
at last become so irregular as to need repairing ;
when the moon shall fall into frightful paroxysms
of alteration ; when the earth, deviating from its an-
cient track, and with every other planet forgetting
its circular revolutions, shall become so eccentric,
that unconfined by the laws of system, it shall fly
olf into boundless space, to knock against some dis-
tant world, or fill in upon the sun, either extin-
guishing his light, or burned up by his flames in a I
moment! Perhaps, while I write, this dreadful
change has begun. Shield me from universal
ruin! Yet, idiot man laughs, sings, and rejoices, in
the very face of the sun, and seems no way touch-
ed with his situation.
Tuesday. Went to bed in great distress, awaked
and was comforted, by considering that this change
was to happen at some indefinite time ; and there-
fore, like death, the thoughts of it might easily be
borne. But there is a revolution, a fixed deter-
mined revolution, which must certainly come to
pass ; yet which, by good fortune, I shall never feel,
except in my posterity. The obliquity of the equa-
tor with the ecliptic 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 supposed, 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 climate! 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 make its first appearance.
Heavens ! what terrors are impending over our lit-
tle dim speck 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 or-
chards, 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 meantime
burnt out, he must expire like an exhausted taper.
What a miserable situation must our earth be in
without his enlivening rays ! 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 ; 1
am sorry for it : first, sorry because my calculation
is false ; secondly, sorry lest the sun should want
fuel ; thirdly, sorry lest the wits should laugh at our
erroneous predictions ; and fourthly, sorry because,
if it appears to-night, it must necessarily come
within the sphere of the earth's attraction ; and
Heaven help the unhappy country on which it hap-
pens to fall !
Friday. Our whole society have been out, all
eager in search of the comet. We have seen not
CITIZEN OF THE "WORLD.
363
ess than sixtocn comets in different parts of the
heavens. However, we are unanimously resolved
to fix upon one only to be the comet expected.
That near Virgo 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, librations, and other irre-
gularities, indeed amaze me. My daughter, too, is
this morning gone off with a grenadier. No way
surprising ; I was never able to give her a relish for
wisdom. She ever promised to be a mere expletive
in the creation. 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 XCIIL
From 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 astonish-
ment 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 em-
ployment ; at last, however, he thought proper to
take the title of his Majesty's rat-catcher in ordi-
nary, and this succeeded beyond his expectations :
when it was known that he caught rats at court,
all were ready to give him countenance and em-
ployment.
But of all the people, they who make books seem
most perfectly sensible of the advantages 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 in-
form me right, not only kings and courtiers, bu-t
emperors themselves, in this country, periodically
supply the press.
A man here who should write, and honestly con-
fess that he wrote for bread, might as well send his
manuscript to fire the baker's oven ; not one crea-
ture 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 almost all the e«cellent
productions in wit that have appeared here, were
purely the offspring of necessity; their Dry dens,
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 deiiil-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 a hatter ; were I to buy shoes, I should
not go to the 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, and lived 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 even its resem-
blance, 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 circumstance, an excel-
lence which is in some measure acquired by habit,
and sharpened by necessity ? You have seen,
like me, many hterary reputations promoted by the
influence of fashion, which have scarcely survived
the possessor ; 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, howev-
er, is the reputation worth possessing ; that which
is hardly earned is hardly lost. Adieu.
LETTER XCIV.
From Hingpo, in Moscow, to Lien Chi Altangi, in London.
Where will my disappointments end 7 Must
1 still be doomed to accuse the severity of my for-
tune, and show my constancy in distress, rather
than moderation in prosperity 7 I had at least hopes
of conveying my charming companion safe from
the reach of every enemy, and of again restoring
her to her 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 with eternal snow, and tra-
versed the forest of Ufa, where the prowling bear
and shrieking hyena keep an undisputed posses-
sion. 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 valleyg
of Casan.
364
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
There were two vessels in company properly
equipped and armed, in order to oppose the Wolga
pirates, who, 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 the forests that lie
along the banks of 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 terriljle even than the tiger, and as insensible
to all the feelings of humanity. They neither give
quarter to those they conquer, nor receive it when
overpowered themselves. The severity of the laws
against them serves to increase their barbarity, and
seems to make them a neutral species of being, be-
tween the wilderness of the lion, and the subtlety
of the man. When taken aUve 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 agonies, some being
thus found to linger several days successively.
We were but three days' voyage from the con-
fluence of this river into the Wolga, when we per-
ceived at a distance behind us an armed bark com-
ing 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 this
occasion ; the whole crew instantly came together
to consult the properest means of safety. It was,
therefore, soon determined to send off our women
and valuable commodities in one of our vessels,
and that the men should stay in the other, and
boldly oppose the enemy. This resolution was
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 tonging eyes, in pro-
portion as that of the pirates approached us.
They soon came up; but upon examining our
strength, and perhaps sensible of the manner in
which we had sent off our most valuable effects,
they seemed more eager to pursue the vessel we
had sent away than attack us. In this manner
they continued to harrass us for three days, still
endeavouring to pass us without fighting. But, on
the fourth day, finding it entirely impossible, 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 terrible, because unexpected,
Bucceeded. The bark 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 country. Of this, however,
we were not sensible till our arrival at Moscow;
where, expecting to meet our separated bark, we
were informed of its misfortune, and our loss.
Need I paint the situation of my mind on this oc-
casion 1 Need I describe all I feel, when I despair
of beholding the beautiful Zelis more 1 Fancy
had dressed the future prospect of my hfe 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 witnout
her presence to enliven it, the whole becomes te-
dious, insipid, insupportable. I will confess — now
that she is lost, I v.ill confess I loved her : nor is it
in the power of time, or of reason, to erase her
image from my heart. Adieu.
LETTER XCV.
From Lien Chi AJtangi to Hingpo, at Mosccw.*
Your misfortunes are mine ; but, as every pe-
riod 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 successless avarice, that of age.
These three attack us through life ; and it is our
duty to stand upon our guard. To love, we ought
to oppose dissipation, and endeavour to change the
object of the affections ; to ambition, the happiness
of indolence and obscurity ; and to avarice the fear
of soon dying. These are the shields with which
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 ; they have it for seeking.
What they shoidd indeed complain of is, that the
heart is an enemy to that very repose they seek.
To themselves alone should they impute their dis-
content. They seek within the short span of life
to satisfy a thousand desires : each of which alone
is insatiable. One month passes, and another
comes on ; the year ends, and then begins ; but
man is still unchanging in folly, still blindly con-
tinuing in prejudice. To the wise man, every cli-
mate, 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 ;
to such a man, the melody of birds is more ravish-
ing than the harmony of a fuU concert ; and the
tincture of the cloud preferable to the touch of the
finest pencil.
The life of man is a journey ; a journey that must
• This letter is a raphsody from the maxims of the pniloso-
pher Me. Vide Lett, curieuse et edifiante. Vide eliamUu
Halde, Vol. U. p. 98.
CITIZEN OF THE "WORLD.
365
be travelled, however bad the roads or the accom-
modation. 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 which I find some un-
easiness. 1 look behind me, and see numbers on
foot, stooping under heavy burdens: let me learn
to pity their estate, and thank Heaven for my
own.
Shingfu, when under misfortunes, would, in the
beginning, weep like a child ; but he soon recover-
ed his former tranquillity. After indulging grief
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 suffering 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 : Which 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," returned Shingfu, " I am now fourscore
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." Adieu.
LETTER XCVI.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of the
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in China.
The manner of grieving for our departed friends
in China is very diflerent from that of Europe.
The mourning colour of Europe is black ; that of
China white. When a parent or relation dies
here, for they seldom mourn 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, ex-
cept, perhaps, a favourite housekeeper, or a favour-
ite cat.
On the contrary, with us in China it is a very
serious affair. The {>iety with which I have seen
you behave, on one of these occasions, should never
be forgotten. I remember it was upon the death
of thy grandmother's maiden sistv',. Viie coffin
was exposed in the principal hall, i/ public view.
Before it were placed the figuies of eimuchs,
horses, tortoises, and other animals, in attitudes 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 per-
fumes, and given the howl of departure, when,
crawling on his belly from unoer a curtain, out
came the reverend Fum Hoam hi.nself, in all the
dismal solemnity of distress. Your looks were set
for sorrow ; your clothing consisted of a hempen
bag tied round the neck witlt a string. For two
long months did this moui'ning continue. By
night, you lay stretched on a single mat, and sat on
the stool of discontent by <Uy. Pious man ! who
could thus set an example of sorrow and decorum
to our country. Pious country ! where, if we do
not grieve at the departure of our friends for their
sakes, at least we are taught to regret them for our
own.
All is very different here ; amazement all ! What
sort of a people am I got amongst? Fum, thou son
of Fo, what sort of people am I got amongst? No
crawling round the coffin; no dressing up in
hempen bags; no lying on mats, or sitting on stools!
Gentlemen here shall put on first mourning with
as sprightly an air as if preparing for a birth-night;
and widows shall actually dress for another husband
in their weeds for the former. The best jest of all
is, that our merry mourners clap bits of muslin on
their sleeves, and these are called weepers. Weep-
ing muslin I alas, alas ! very sorrowful truly ! These
weepers, then, it seems, are to bear the whole
burden 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 de-
parture, though sudden, was not unexpected, died
after a reign of many years. His age, and uncer-
tain state of health, served, in some measure, to
diminish the sorrow of his subjects ; and their ex-
pectations 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 en-
deavoured to testify there gratitude to their de-
ceased friend, than to proclaim their hopes i.f 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
rejoicings for the new.
For my part, 1 have no conception of this new
manner of mourning and rejoicing in a breath; o(
being merry and sad; of mixing a funeral proces-
sion with a jig and a bonfire. At least, it would
366
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
have been just, that they who flattered the king
while Uving, for virtues 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 sup-
pose 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 ; and, as
the Chinese proverb has it, that though the world
may sometimes want cobblers to mend their 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 my face by that 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 superlative misery of my
countenance. Instead of that, 1 was universally
condemned 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, im-
mediately observing my good-humour, desired me,
if I pleased, to go and grin somewhere else; they
wanted no disaffected scoundrels there. Leaving
this 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.
But 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 ex-
pense of the solemnities is defrayed from the royal
coffers. When the great die here, mandarines are
ready enough to order mourning ; 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 willing
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 tranquillity 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 got amongst? where
being out of black is a certain symptom of poverty ,
where those who have miserable faces cannot have
mourning, and those who have mourning will not
wear a miserable face ! Adieu.
LETTER XCVn.
From 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 which all men have to view a pleasing ob-
ject on every side. The first performance 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 first dif-
fuses 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 perform-
ance, 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, effectu-
ally precludes a revival of that subject or manner
for some time for the future ; the sated reader turns
from it with a kind of literary nausea ; 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 subjects, 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 small-
est 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 epicure in reading; plain
beef or solid mutton will never do. I am for a Chi-
nese dish of bear's claws and birds' nests. I am
for sauce strong with assafoetida, or fuming with
garlic. For this reason there are a hundred v^ry
wise, learned, virtuous, well-intended productions,
that have no charms for me. Thus, for the soul of
me, I could never find courage nor grace enough to
wade above two pages deep into " Thoughts upon
God and Nature;" or "Thoughts upon Provi-
dence;" or " Thoughts upon Free Grace;" or in-
deed into thoughts upon any thing at all. I csan
no longer meditate with meditations for every day
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
367'
in the year. Essays upon divers subjects can not
allure me, though never so interesting; and as for
funeral sermons, or even thanksgiving 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, 1 take u[)
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 information.
A parcel of gaudy images pass on before his imagi-
nation like the figures in a dream; but curiosity,
induction, reason, and the whole train of affections,
are fast asleep. The jucunda et idonea vitcB ;
those sallies which mend the heart, while they
amuse the fancy, are quite forgotten: so that a
reader, who would take up some modern apjilauded
performances of this kind, must, in order to be pleas-
ed, first leave his good sense behind him, take for
his recompense 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 ourselves but little pleased 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 diffuse, than
from what we privately feel. There are some sub-
jects of which almost all the world perceive the fu-
tility; yet all contribute in imposing them upon each
other, as worthy of praise. But chiefly this imposition
obtains in hterature, where men publicly contemn
•what they reUsh with rapture in private, and ap-
prove abroad what has given 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 an opin-
ion of our superior discernment.
But let works of this kind, which have already
come off with such applause, enjoy it all. It is
not my wish to diminish, as I was never considera-
ble enough to add to their fame. But, for the fu-
ture, 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 polite, classical, ol>
scure, and refined to be read, and entirely above hu-
man comprehension. Pastorals are pretty enough—
for those that like them ; but to me, Thyrsis is one
of the most insipid fellows I ever conversed with ;
and as for Corydon, I do not choose his comj)any.
Elegies and epistles are very fine to those to whom
they are addressed ; and as for cjiic poems, I am
geneiallv aole to discover the whole plan in reading
the two nrst pages.
Tragedies, however, as they are now made, are
good instructive moral sermons enough; and it
would be a fault not to be pleased v/'iih good things.
There I learn several great truths : as, that it is im-
possible to see into the ways of futurity ; that pii
nishment 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 ; with se-
veral other sentiments equally new, delicate, and
striking. Every new tragedy, therefore, 1 shall go
to see ; for reflections of this nature make a tolera-
ble harmony, when mixed up with a proi)er quan-
tity of drum, trumpet, thunder, lightning, or the
scene-shifter's whistle. Adieu. , ,
LETTER XCVIII.
From Ihe Same.
T 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 1 found him prejiarinc 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 depend-
ing for several years. " How is it possible," cried
I, "for a man who knows the world to go to lawl
I am well acquainted with the courts of justice in
China, they resemble rat-traps every one of them,
nothiiig 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!"
"Faith," replied my friend, "I should not have
gone to law, but that I was assured of success be-
fore I began ; things were presented to me in so
alluring a light, that I thought by barely declaring
myself a candidate for the prize, 1 had nothing more
to do than to enjoy the fruits of the \-ictory. Thus
have I been upon the eve of an imaginary triumi'h
every term these ten years; have travelled fo^^vard
with victory ever in my view, but ever out of reach;
however, at present, I fancy we have ham[.ercd
our antagonist in such a manner, that, without
some unforeseen demur, wc shall tliis very day lay
him fairly on his back."
" If things be so situated," said I, " I don't care
if I attend vou to the courl.«, and partake in the
pleasure of your success. But prilhee," continued
1 as wc set forward, " what reasons have you to
think an affair at last concluded, which has given
vou so many former di.«appointnients?" — " My
iawver tells me," relumed ho, " that 1 have Salkild
and Vcntris strong in my favour, and thai there
are no less than fifteen ca.so8 in point." — " I undrr-
stiind " said 1, "those arc two of your judsei' who
have alreadv declared their opinions." — " F.-inlnn
me," replied my friend, "Salkeld and Vcnin»ar»
368
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
lawj-ers, who some hundred years ago gave their
opinions on cases sinailar to mine ; these opinions
which make for me my lawyer is to cite ; and those
opinions which look another way are cited by the
lawyer employed by my antagonist : as I observed,
I have Salkeld and Ventris for me, he has Coke
and Hale for him ; and he that has most opinions
is most liliely to carry his cause." — " But where is
the necessity," cried I, " of prolonging a suit l)y
citing the opmions and reports of others, since the
same good sense which determined lawyers in for-
mer ages may serve to guide your judges at this
day 7 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 par-
ticularly adhered to in this 7 I plainly foresee how
such a method of investigation must embarrass
every suit, and even perplex the student ; ceremo-
nies will be multiplied, formalities must increase,
and more time will 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 un-
derstood. Besides, it is the boast of an English-
man, that his property is secure, and all the world
will grant that a deliberate administration of justice
is the best way to secure his property. Why have
we so many lawyers, but to secure our property ?
why so many formalities, but to secure our proper-
ty? Not less than one hundred thousand families
live in opulence, elegance, and ease, merely by se-
curing our property."
" To embarrass justice," returned I, "by a mul-
tiplicity of laws, or to hazard it by a confidence in
our judges, are, I grant, the opposite rocks on
which legislative 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 show 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 can find employment V — " Nothing
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 |
Bttorney, the solicitor the counsellor, and all find
sufficient employment." — "1 conceive you," inter-
rupted 1, " they watch each other, but it is the client
that pays them all for watching ; it puts me in mind
of a Chinese fable, which is entitled Five Animals
at a Meal.
" A grasshopper, filled with dew, was merrily
singing under a shade; a whangam, that eats
grasshoppers, had marked it for its prey, and was
just stretching forth to devour it; a serpent, that
had for a long time fed only on whangams, was
coiled up to fasten on the whangam ; a yellow bird
was just upon the wing to dai-t upon the serpent ;
a hawk had just stooped from above to seize the
yellow bird ; all were intent on their prey, and un-
mindful of their danger ; so the whangham ate the
grasshopper, the gerpent ate the whangam, the yel-
low bird the serpent, and the hawk the yellow
bird; when, sousing from on high, a vulture gob-
bled up the hawk, grasshopper, whangam, and all,
in a moment."
I had scarcely finished my fable, when the law-
yer came to inform my friend, that his cause was
put off till another term, that money was wanting
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 be-
lieve it will be my 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 XGIX.
From the Same. ^
I LATELY received a visit from the little beati,
who, I found, had assumed a new flow of spirits
with a new suit of clothes. Our discourse hap-
pened to turn upon the different treatment of the
fair sex here and in Asia, with the influence of
beauty in refining our manners, and improvi|igour
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 four wives at his
command, than he who had only one. " It is true,"
cries he, "your men of fashion in the East are
slaves, and under some terrors of having their
throats squeezed by a bow-string; but what then?
they can find ample consolation in a seraglio : they
make, indeed, an indifferent 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 se-
raglio; they may be deprived of wine and French
cookery, but they have a seraglio: a seraglio — a
seraglio, my dear creature, wipes off every incon-
venience in the world !
" Besides, I am told your Asiatic beauties are
the most convenient women alive, for they have no
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
souls ; positively thore is nothing in nature I should
like so much as ladies witiiout souls; soul, here, is
the utter ruin of half the sex. A girl of eighteen
shall have soul enough to spend a hundred pounds
m 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
purchase the furniture of a whole toy-shop ; and
others shall have soul enough 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
Cluna, gives every woman three; the Brahmins
give them fifteen ; and even Mahomet himself
nowhere excludes the sex from Paradise. Abulfeda
reports, that an old woman one day importuning him
to know what she ought to do in order to gain
Paradise 1 — " My good lady," answered the pro-
phet, "old women never get there." — "What!
never get to Paradise !" returned the matron in a
fury. " Never," says he, " for they always grow
young by the way."
" No, sir," continued I, " the men of Asia be-
have with more deference to the sex than you seem
to imagine. As you of Europe say grace upon
Bitting down to dinner, so it is the custom in China
to say grace when a man goes to bed to his wife."
— " And may I die," returned my companion,
" but it is a very pretty ceremony ! for, seriously,
sir, I see no reason why a man should not be 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 con-
versation, " in favour of the sex, amongst us, is
the bride's being allowed, after marriage, her three
days of freedom. During this interval, a thousand
extravagancies are practised by either sex. The
lady is placed upon the nuptial bed, and number-
less monkey-tricks are played round to divert her.
One gentleman smells her perfumed handkerchief,
another attempts to untie her garters, a third pulls
off her shoe to play hunt the slipper, another pre-
tends to be an ideot, and endeavours to raise a
laugh by grimacing ; in the mean time, the glass
jToes briskly about, till ladies, gentlemen, wife, hus-
band, and all, are mixed together in one inunda-
tion of arrack punch."
" Strike me dumb, deaf, and blind," cried my
companion, "but that's very pretty! there's some
sense in your Chinese ladies' condescensions ! but,
among us, you shall scarce find one of the whole
eex 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 ac-
quaintance, not because I loved her, but because I
had charity ; and what do vou think wiis the tcn-
24
der creature's reply? Only that she detested my
pig-tail wig, high-heeled shoes, and sallow com-
plexion ! That is all. Nothing more !— Yes, by the
Heavens, though she was more ugly than an un-
painted actress, I found her more insolent than a
thorough-bred woman of quahty !"
He 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 ap-
pearance was sufficient to silence the severest sati-
rist of the sex : easy without pride, and free with-
out impudence, she seemed capable of supplying
every sense with pleasure ; her looks, her conver-
sation, 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 in 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 appa-
rent merit before ; and could willingly have pro-
longed 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 con-
tented with borrowing half-a-crown. Adieu.
LETTER C.
From Lien Chi Altangi to Hingpo, by the way of Moscow.
Few virtues have been more praised by moral-
ists than generosity; every practical treatise of
ethics tends to increase our sensibility of the dis-
tresses of others, and to relax the grasp of fru-
gality. Philosophers that arc poor, praise it be-
cause they are gainers by its effects; and the
opulent Seneca liimself has written a treatise on
benefits, though he was known to give nothing
away.
But among many who have enforced the duty
of (riving, I am surprised there are none to incul-
cate the ignominy of receiving; to show that by
every favour we accept, we in some measure for-
feit our native frectlom ; and that a stale of con-
tinual dependance on the generosity of others, is a
life of gradual debasement.
Were men taught to despise the receiving obli-
gations with the same force of reas'.ining and de-
clamation that they are instructed to confer thorn,
wc mi<;ht then see every person in society filling
up the requisite duties of his station with cheerful
industry, neither relaxed by hope, nor suUcn from
disappointment.
Every favour a man receives in some mcasuri
370
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
sinks him below his dignity; and in proportion to
the value of the benefit, or the frequency of its ac-
ceptance, he gives up so much of his natural inde-
pendence. He, therefore, who thrives upon the
unmerited bounty of another, if he has any sensi-
bility, sutlers the worst of servitude ; the shackled
slave may murmur without reproach, but the hum-
ble dependant is taxed with ingratitude upon every
symptom of discontent; 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 con-
straint, and puts on habitual servility.
It is thus with a 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 offer 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 it was possible to be ; dependence degrades only
the ingenuous, but leaves the sordid mind in pris-
tine 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 commands of his superior, but for this
obedience the former has a right to demand an in-
tercourse of favour. Such is not the dependence I
would depreciate, but that where every expected
favour must be the result of mere benevolence in
the giver, where the benefit can be kept without
remorse, or transferred without injustice. The
character of a legacy hunter, for instance, is detesta-
ble in some countries, and despicable in all ; this
universal contempt of a man who infringes upon
none of the laws of society, some moralists have
arraigned as a popular and unjust prejudice; never
considering the necessary degradations 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 acknow-
ledgment, 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 cir-
cle of those whom hope or gratitude has gatliered
round him ; their unceasing humiliations must ne-
cessarily 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 disappoint-
ment.
It is, perhaps, one of the severest misfortunes of
the great, that they are, in general, obliged to live
among men whose real value is lessened by depend-
ence, and whose minds are enslaved by obligation.
The humble companion may have at first accepted
patronage with generous views; but soon he feels
the mortifying influence of conscious inferiority,
by degrees sinks into a flatterer, and from flattery
at last degenerates into stupid veneration. To
remedy this, the great often dismiss their old de-
pendants, and take new. Such changes are falsely
imputed to levity, falsehood, or caprice, in the pa-
tron, since they may be more justly ascribed to the
client's gradual deterioration.
No, my son, a life 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 our pleasure, but to re-
ceive, our shame ; serenity, health, and affluence,
attend tl.e desire of rising by labour ; misery, re-
pentance, and disrespect, that of succeeding by ex-
torted benevolence ; the man who can thanfc. hi^m-
self alone for the happiness he enjoys is truly
blessed; and lovely, far more lovely, the sturdy
gloom of laborious indigence, than the fawning
simper of thriving adulation. Adieu.
LETTER CL
From I.ien Chi Aliangi, to Fum Hoam, First President of
the Ceremonial Academy at Pelcin, 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 indus-
try, 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 weigli-
ed against the succeeding apparent inconsistencies
of their conduct. All can not be rulers, and men
are generally best governed by a few. In making
way through the intricacies of business, the smallesl
obstacles are apt to retard the execution of what is
to be planned by a multiplicity of counsels; the
judgment of one alone being always fittest for
winding through the labyrinths of intrigue, and the
CITIZEN OP THE WORLD.
3!7t
«bstructions of disappointment. A serpent which,
as the fable observes, 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 those truths are, the people of this
country seem insensible of their force. Not satis-
fied with the advantages of internal peace and opu-
lence, they still murmur at their governors and in-
terfere in the execution of their designs, as if they
wanted to be something more than happy. But as
the Europeans instruct by argument, and the
Asiatics mostly by narration, were I to address
them, I should convey my sentiments in the follow-
ing story.
"Takupi had long been prime minister of Ti-
partala, a fertile country that stretches along the
western confines of China. During his adminis-
tration, whatever advantages could be derived from
arts, learning, and commerce, were seen to bless
the people ; nor were the necessary ])recautions of
providing for the security of the state forgotten. It
often happens, however, that when mt n are pos-
sessed of all they want, they then begin to find
torment from imaginary afllictions, and lessen their
present enjoyments by foreboding that those en-
joyments are to have an end. The people now,
therefore, endeavoured to find out grievances ; and'
after some search, actually began to think them-
selves aggrieved. A petition against the enormi-
ties of Takupi was carried to the throne in due
form ; and the queen who governeil the country,
willing to satisfy her subjects, appointed a day in
which his accusers should be heard, and the minis-
ter should stand upon his defence.
"The day being arrived, and the minister
brought before the tribunal, a carrier, who supplied
the city with fish, appeared among the number of
his accusers. He exclaimed, that it was the cus-
tom 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 conveyed with ease and safety ; but that the
prisoner, moved either by a spirit of innovation, or
perhaps bribed by the hamper-makers, had obliged
all carriers to use the stone no longer, but balance
one hamper with another ; an order entirely repug-
nant to the customs of all antitiiiity, and those of
the kingdom of Tipartala in particular.
« The carrier finished, and the whole court shook
their heads at the innovating minister; when a
second witness appeared. He was inspector of
the city buildings, and accused the disgraced fa-
vourite of having given orders 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 bar-
barous antiquity ; contributed finely to show how
and for that reason such monuments sho \Jd be
held sacred, and suifcreJ gradually to decay.
" The last witness now appeared. This was a
widow, who had laudably attempted to burn her-
self uj)on her husband's funeral jiile. But the in-
novating minister had prevented the execution of
her design, and was insensible to her tears, protes-
tations, and entreaties.
" The queen could have pardoned the two former
offences; but this last was considered as so gross
an injury to the sex, and so directly contrary to all
the customs of antiquity, that it called for immedi-
ite justice. 'What!' cried the queen, 'not sufler
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, fur his injurious
treatment of the sex.'
" Takuju had been hitherto silent, and spoke
only to show the sincerity of his resignation.
' Great queen,' cried he, " I acknowledire my crime ;
and since I am to be banished, 1 beg it may be to
some ruined town, or desolate village, in the coun-
try I have governed. I shall find some pleasure
in improving the soil, and bringing back a spirit of
industry among the inhabitants.' His request ap-
pearing reasonable, it was immediately complied
with ; and a courtier had orders to fix upon a place
of banishment answering the minister's descrip-
tion. After some months' search, however, the
inquiry proved fruitless ; neither a desolate village
nor a ruined town was found in the whole king-
dom. '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 perceived the justice of his expostulation,
and the minister was received into more than
former favour."
LETTER C II.
From Ihe Same.
The ladies here are by no mean^ such ardent
iramesters as the women of Asia. In this rc8|x^:t
1 must do the English justice ; for I love to praiw
where applause isjustly merited. >'othing is more
common in China than to see two women of fashion
continue (Gaining till one has won all the other'*
clothes and stri[>iied her quite naked ; the winner
thus marching olf in a double suit of tinery, .-jnd
the loser shrinking bcliind in the primitive simplici-
ty of nature.
No doubt, you rememWr when Shanj:, our
maiden aunt, played with a sh:.ri>or. Fir^t hrt
little their ancestors understood of arcliictccture ; 1 money went
then her triiikcU were prinJuceJ
372
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
her clothes followed piece by piece soon after; when
she had thus played herself quite naked, being a
woman of spirit, and willing to pursue her 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 he 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 en-
tirely acquit them of ever playing — I mean of play-
ing for their eyes or their teeth.
It is true, they often stake their fortune, their
beauty, health, and reputation, at a gaming-table.
It even sometimes happens, that they play their
husbands into a gaol; yet still they preserve a de-
corum unknown to our wives and daughters in
China. I have been present at a rout in this
LETTER ClIL
From Lien Chi AJtangi to ' '", Merchant in Amsterdam.
I HAVE just received a letter from my son, in
which he informs me of the fruitlessness of his en-
deavours to recover the lady with whom he fled
from Persia. He strives to cover, under the ap-
pearance of fortitude, a heart torn with anxiety
and disappointment. I have offered little consola-
tion, since that but two frequently feeds the sor-
row 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 his
arrival, entreat the continuance of your friendship,
and beg of you to provide him with proper direc-
tions for finding me in London. You can scarce-
ly be sensible of the joy I expect upon seeing
him once more ; the ties between the father and
the son among us of China, are much more close-
country, where a woman of fashion, after losing \y drawn than with you of Europe,
her money, has sat writhing in all the agonies of
bad luck ; and yet, after all, never once attempted
to strip a single petticoat, 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
The remittances sent me from Argun to Moscow
came in safety. I can not sufficiently admire 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,
seems to be a festival, and night itself, which gives | benevolence, and generosity; and the uninterrupt-
others rest, only serves to increase the female j^j commerce between China and Russia serves as
gamester's industry. I have been told of an old i ^ collateral confirmation.
lady in the country, who, being given over by the ciLgt ug)) gays the Chinese lawgiver, "admire
physicians, played with the curate of her parish to tjjg j-ude virtues of the ignorant, 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 ex-
cess, yet every virtue is practised also with unex-
ampled superiority. A city like this is the soil for
great virtues and great vices; the villain can soon
improve himself in the deepest mysteries of de-
ceiving ; and the practical philosopher can every
day meet new incitements to mend his honest in-
tentions. There are no pleasures, sensual or sen-
timental, which this city does not produce ; 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 no-
thing but it can please. Whatever -vicissitudes
we experience in life, however we toil, or whereso-
ever we winder, our fatigued wishes still recur to
home tor tranquillity: we long to die in that spot
Winch ffave us birth, and in that pleasing expecta-
ticn opiate every calamity.
pass the time away : having won all his money,
she next proposed playing for her funeral charges ;
her proposal was accepted; but unfortunately the
lady expired just as she had taken in her game.
There are some passions which, though different-
ly pursued, are attended with equal consequences
in every country : here they game with more per-
severance, there with greater fury ; here they strip
their families, there they strip themselves naked.
A lady in China who indulges a passion for gaming,
often beco.Ties a drunkard; and by flourishing a
dice-box in one hand, she generally comes to brand-
ish a 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 every thing else but her honour, she will be
apt to toss that into the bargain; and, grown in-
sensil'le to nicer feelings, behave like the Spaniard,
who, when all his money was gone, endeavoured
to bonow more, by offering to pawn his whiskers.
Adieu.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
373
You now. therefore, perceive that I have some
intentions of leaving this country ; and yet my de-
signed departure fills me with reluctance and re
gret Though the friendships of travellers are
generally more transient than vernal snows, still I
feel an uneasiness at breaking the connexions 1
have formed since my arrival; particularly 1 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 sup-
port the fatigues of the way with re('oublcd ardour,
pleased at once with conveying instruction and ex-
acting obedience. Adieu.
LETTER CIV.
From Lien Chi Altangi to Fum Hoam, First President of tlie
Ceremonial Academy at Pekin, in Cliina.
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 philo-
sophical caps, and philosophical whislcers; their
philosophical 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 En-
rope; yet I am told that such characters are found
here. I mean such as punctually support all the
decorums of learning, without being really very
profound, or naturally possessed of a line under-
standing who labour hard to obtain the titular
honours attending literary merit, who flattcrothcrs
in order to be flattered in turn, and only study to
be thought students.
A character of this kind generally receives com-
pany in his study, in all the pensive formality of
slippers, night-gown, and easy chair. The tabic is
covered with a large book, which is always kept
open, and never read; his solitary hours being dedi-
cated to dozing, mending pens, feeling his pulse,
peeping through the microscope, and sometimes
reading amusing books, which he condemns in
company. His library is preserved with the most
religious neatness, and is generally a repository of
scarce books, which bear a high price, because too
dull or useless to become common by the ordinary
methods of publication.
Such men are generally candidates for admit-
tance into literary clubs, academies, and institu-
tions, where they regularly meet to give and receive
a little instruction, and a great deal of praise. In
conversation they lever betray ignorance, because
they never seem to receive information. OlFer a
new observation, they have heard it before, pinch
them in argument, and they reply with a sneer.
Yet, how trifling soever these httle arts may ap-
pear, they answer one valuable 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 library, a set of long nails, a silver
standish, or a well-comlied whisker, who are inca-
pable of distinguishing a dunce.
When Father Matthew, the first European
missionary, entered China, the court was informed,
that he possessed great skill in astronomy; he was
therefore 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 their
own. The missionary, however, appealed from
their judgment to experience, and challenged them
to calculate an eclipse of the moon that was to hap-
pen a few nights following. " What !" said some,
" shall a barbarian without nails pretend to vie
with men in astronomy, who have made it the
study of their lives ; with ir-en who know half of
the knowablc characters of words, who wear sci-
entifical caps and slippers, and who have gone
through every literary degree with applause?" They
accepted the challenge, confident of success. The
eclipse began : the Chinese produced a most splen-
did apparatus, and were fifteen minutes wrong;
the missionary, 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 error, they assured the em-
peror that their calculations were certainly exact,
but that the stranger without nails had actually'
bewitched the moon. " Well, then," cries the
good emperor smiling at their ignorance, "you
shall still continue to be servants of the moon ; but
I constitute this man her controller."
China is thus rejilete with men, whose only pre-
tensions to knowledge arise from external circum-
stances; and, in Euro[ic, every country ab<')und<)
with them in proportion to its ignorance. Spain
and Flanders, who are Iwhind 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 iheir Clarisirimi
and Praclarisgiini, their Accitratissimi and .Vi-
nutissimi. A round cap entitles one studrni to
argue, and a square cap permit* another to Irarh,
wliile a cap with a tassel almost sanctifies the head
it happens to cover. Rut where true knowledjre
is cultivated, these formalities begin to diRapi>car
The cimined cowl, the solemn beard, and Bwoep-
in" train, are laid aside ; philosophers dresR, and
talk, and think, like other men ; and lambskin
dressers, and capmakers, and tail-carrirrs now
deplore a literary age.
3-4
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
For my own part, my friend, I have seen enough'
of presuming ignorance never to venerate wisdom
but whore it actually appears, I have received
literary titles and distinctions myself; and, by the
quantity of my own wisdom, know how very little
wisdom they can confer. Adieu.
LETTER CV.
From the Same.
The time for the young king's coronation ap-
proaches. 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 the lower
part of the house where I lodge. His wife is lay-
ing in a large quantity of silks, which the mercer
tells her are to be fasliionable next season ; and
miss, her daughter, has actually had her ears bored
previous to the ceremony. 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 con-
vinced are ray betters , but whom, before me, she
is contented with only calling very good company.
The little beau, who has now forced himself into
my intimacy, was yesterday giving me a most mi-
nute detail of the intended procession. All men
are eloquent upon their favourite topic : and this
seemed peculiarly adapted to the size and turn of
his understanding. His whole mind was blazoned
over with a variety of glittering images ; coronets,
escutcheons, lace, fringe, tassals, stones, bugles,
and spun glass. " Here," cried he, " Garter is to
walk ; and there Rouge Dragon marches with the
escutcheons on his back. Here Clarencieux moves
forward ; and there Blue Mantle disdains to be
left behind. Here the alderman march two and
two ; and there the undaunted champion of Eng-
land, no way terrified at the very numerous ap-
pearance 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 show him no mercy ; he would
»oon teach him all his passes with a witness. How-
ever, I am afraid we shall have none willing to try
it with him upon the 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 ; 1 fancy none will be so hardy as to dis-
pute it with a champion like him inured to arms ;
and we shall probably see him prancing \inmolest-
ed away, holding his bridle thus in one hand, and
braauisiiing his dram-cup in the other."
Some men have a manner of describing, which
only wraps the subject in more than former obscu
rity ; thus I was 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
religious awe ; and 1 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 with 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 someway resembles a picture I have seen, de-
signed by Albert Durer, where, amidst all the so-
lemnity of that awful scene, a deity judging, and a
trembling world awaiting the decree, he has intro-
duced a merry mortal trundling a scolding wife to
hell in a wheel-barrow."
My companion, who mistook my silence, during
this interval of reflection, for the rapture of as-
tonishment, proceeded to describe those frivolous
parts of the show that nost struck his imagina-
tion ; and to assure me, that if I stayed^ 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 shown 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, "ine 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 sack, ruflles, and frenched hair : look
where you will, one thing finer than another ;
Mrs. Tibbs courtesies to the duchess ; her grace
returns the compliment with a bow. ' Largess,'
cries the herald. ' Make room,' cries the gentle-
man usher. ' Knock him down,' cries the guard,
Ah !" continued 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 ; but we
should rather study to make them elegant than ex-
pensive." Processions, cavalcades, and all that
fund of gay frippery, furnished out by tailors, bar-
bers, and tirewomen, mechanically influence the
mind into veneration. An emperor in his night-
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
375
cap would not meet with half the respect of an em-
peror 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 bu-
siness of a sensible government to impress all ranks
with a sense of subordirmtion, whether this be ef-
fected by a diamond buckle, or a virtuous edict, a
sumptuary law, or a glass necklace.
This interval of reflection only gave my com-
panion spirits to begin his description afresh; and,
as a greater inducement to raise my curiosity, he
informed 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
nave assured me, they would willingly part with
one eye rather than be prevented from looking on
with the other. Come, come," continues he, " I
have a friend, who, for my sake, will supply us
with places at the most reasonable rates; I'll 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 hun serious upon making the demand. —
" Prithee, friend," cried I, " after 1 have paid twen-
ty pounds for sitting here an hour or two, can I
bring a part of the coronation backl— " No, sir."—
" How long can I live upon it, after I have come
awayl"— "Not long, sir."— " Can a coronation
clothe, feed, or fatten meT'— "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 pay-
ing for that, since I am resolved to have that plea-
sure, 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, pre-
cedency, nor place ; that I seem ignorant whether
Gules walks before or behind Garter; that I have
neither mentioned the dimensions of a lord's cap,
nor measured the length of a lady's tail. I know
your delight is in minute descrii)tion ; and this I
am unhappily disqualified from furnishing; yet,
upon the whole, I fancy it will be no way compa-
rable to the magnificence of our late rinfieror
Whangti's procession, when he was married to
the moon, at which Fum Hoam himself presided
in person. Adieu.
.LETTER CVL
From the Same.
It was formerly the custom here, when men of
distinction died, for their surviving acquaintance to
throw each a slight present into the grave. Several
tilings of little value were made use of for that pur-
pose; perfumes, relics, spices, bitter herbs, camo-
mile, wormwood, and verses. This custom, how-
ever, is almost discontinued, and nothing but verses
alone are now lavished on such occasions ; an ob-
lation which they suppose may be interred with
the dead, without any injury 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 staiT, and mourn-
ing coach, the other produces the pastoral or elegy,
the monody or apotheosis. The nobility need be
under no apprehensions, but die as fast as they
tlunk 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
when the one has soberly laid the body in the grave,
the other is ready to fix it figuratively among the
stars.
There are several ways of being poetically sor-
rowful 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
circle of harmless sheep. Now Britannia sits upon
her ov?n shore, and gives a loose to maternal ten-
derness ; at another time, Parnassus, even the
mountain Parnassus, gives way to sorrow, and is
bathed in tears of distress.
But the most usual manner is thus: Damon
meets Menalcas, who has got a most gloomy coun-
tenance. The shepherd asks his friend, whence
that look of distress? to which the other replies,
that Pollio is no more. " If that lie the case then,"
cries Damon, " let us retire to yonder Iwwer at some
distance off, where the cypress and the jessamine
add fragrance to the breeze ; and let us weep alter-
nately for Pollio, the friend of shepherds, and the
patron of every muse."-" Ah," returns hi>i fellow
shepherd, " what think you rather of that grotto
by the fountain side! the murmurins stream will
help to assist our complaints, and a nightincale on
a neitrhbouring tree will join her voice to the con-
cert !" When the iilacc 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 with sympathetic concern. By the
tombs of our ancestors ! my dear Fum, I am quit*
376
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
unaffected 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 though I could never weep with the com-
plaining 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 na-
ture a more dismal figure than a man who sits
down to premeditated flattery: every stanza he
writes tacitly reproaches the meanness of his oc-
cupation, 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 worthless, 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 justice, without
being under the hateful reproach of self-conviction.
After long lucubration, I have hit upon such an
expedient : and send you the specimen of a poem
upon the decease of a great man, in which the flat-
tery is perfectly fine, and yet the poet perfectly in-
nocent.
ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE •*".
Ye muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch' d away:
O, had he lived another year, —
He had not died to-day.
O, were he born to bless mankind
In virtuous times of yore.
Heroes themselves had fallen behind, —
Whene'er he went before.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep :
Even pitying hills would drop a tear,^
If hills could learn to ueep.
His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard may well display
Since none implored relief in vain, —
That went relieved away.
And hark ! I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid :
He still shall live, shall live as long —
As ever dead man did.
LETTER CVII.
From the Same.
It is the most usual method in every report, first
to examine its probability, and then act as the con-
juncture may require. The English, however,
exert a different spirit in such circumstances ; they
first act, and, when too late, begin to examine.
From a knowledge of this disposition, there are se-
veral here, who 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 denunciation is eagerly caught
up by the pubhc : away they fling to propagate the
distress ; sell out at one place, buy in at another,
grumble at their governors, shout in mobs, and
when they have thus for some time behaved Uke
fools, sit down coolly to argue and talk wisdom, to
puzzle each other with syllogism, and prepare for
the next report that prevails, which is always at-
tended 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 ima-
gines him disengaged, his lower parts drag him
down again, and sink him to the nose ; he makes
new efforts to emerge, and every effort increasino
his weakness, only tends to sink him the deeper.
There are some here who, 1 am told, make a
tolerable subsistence by the credulity of their coun-
trymen. As they find the people 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 peoplp are go-
ing to jump down the gulf of luxury; and now no-
thing but a herring subscription can fish them up
again. Time passes on ; the report proves false ;
new circumstances produce new changes ; but the
people never change, they are persevering in folly.
In other countries, those boding politicians would
be left to fret over their own schemes alone, and
grow splenetic 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 kir>g-
dom, with a certainty of success. He has only to
cry out that the government, the government is all
wrong ; that their schemes are leading to ruin ; that
Britons are no more; — every good member of the
commonwealth thinks it his duty, in such a case,
to deplore the universal decadence with sympa-
thetic sorrow, and, by fancying the constitution in
a decay, absolutely to impair its vigour.
This people would laugh at my simplicity,
should I advise them to be less sanguine in har-
bouring gloomy predictions, and examine coolly
before they attempted to complain. I have just
heard a story, which, though transacted in a pri-
vate family, serves very well to describe the beha-
viour of the whole nation, in cases of threatened
calamity. As there are public, so there are private
incendiaries here. One of the last, either for the
amusement of his friends, or to divert a tit of th«
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
377
spleen, lately sent a threatening letter to a worthy
family in my neighbourhood, to this effect: —
"Sir, — Knowing you to be very rich, and find-
ing myself to be very poor, I think proper to inform
you, that I have learned the secret of poisoning
man, woman, and child, without danger of detec-
rion. Don't 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
liave full time to settle all your affmrs. Though 1
am poor, I love to do things like a gentleman.
But, sir, you must 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 can not possibly allow you longer time.
To convince you more certainly of the power of
my art, by which 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 ; he will swallow it, sir,
like a buttered toast: in three hours four minutes
after he has eaten 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 surprised, 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 affair, and that
the government should be solicited to offer a re-
ward and a pardon : a fellow of this kind would go
on poisoning family after family ; and it was im-
possible to say where the destruction would end.
In pursuance of these determinations, the govern-
ment 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 re-
lations, the seal was torn off, the packet folded up
with care, and soon they found, to the great sur-
prise of all — that thf dog would not cat the letter.
Adieu.
LETTER CVIII.
From the Same.
I HAVE frequently been amazed at the ignorance
)f almost all the European travellers who have
penetrated any considerable way eastward into
Asia. They have been influenced cither by mo-
tives of commerce or piety ; and their accounts are
such as niight rea.sonably be expected from men of
very narrow or very prejudiced education, the dic-
tates of superstition or the result of ignorance. Is
it not surprising, that in such a variety of adven-
turers, not one single philosopher should be found?
for as to the travels of Geiiielli, the learned are
long agreed that the whole is but an imposture.
There is scarcely any country, how rude or un-
cultivated soever, where the inhabitants are not
possessed of some peculiar secrets cither in nature
or art, which might be trans|)Ianted with success.
In Siberian Tartary, for instance, the natives ex-
tract a strong spirit from milk, which is a secret
probably unknown to the chemists of Europe. In
the most savage parts of India, they are possessed
of the secret of dyeing vegetable substances swirlet;
and of refining lead into a metal, which, for hard-
ness and colour, is little inferior to silver : not one
of which secrets but would, in Europe, make a
man's fortune. The power of tjie Asiatics in pro-
ducing wind.s, or bringing down rain, the Europe-
ans are apt to treat as fabulous, because they have
no instances of the like nature among themselves;
but they would have tn^ated the secrets of gun-
powder, and the mariner's compass, in the same
manner, had they been told the Chinese u.sed such
arts before the invention was common with them-
selves 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 difiicullies that oppose, prompts human
curiosity to examine every part of nature, and even
exhorts man to try, whether he can not subject the
tempest, the thunder, and even earthquakes, to
human control ! O, did a man of liis daring spirit,
of his genius, penetration, and learning, travel to
those countries which have been visited only by
the superstitious and the mercenary, what might
not mankind exjiect ! How would he enlighten
the rctrions to which he travelled! and what a.
variety of knowledge and useful iniprovcment
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 jierson who was ready to
give more knowledge than he received, would be
welcome wherever he came. All his care in travel-
ling should only be to suit his intellectual banquet
to the people with whom he conversed ; he should
not attempt to teach the uideltered Tartar a.-'lrono-
my nor yet instruct the [Hjlite Chinese in the rudci
arts of subsistence. He should endeavour to im-
jirove the barbarian in the secrets of living com
fortablv ; n»<l l'''" inhabitant of a more n fined
country in the speculative pleasures of wicnro.
How much more nobly would a jiliilosophcr ihm
878
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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
incateiiation of fleas, or the sculpture of a cherry-
Etone !
I never consider this subject without being sur-
prised, that none of those societies, so laudably es-
tablished 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 con-
vinced 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 de-
ceived themselves, as they attempt to deceive
others. The merchant tells us, perhaps, the price
of different commodities, the methods of baling
them up, and the properest manner for a European
to preserve his health in the country. The mis-
sionary, on the other hand, informs us, with what
pleasure the country to which he was sent em-
braced Christianity, and the numbers he convert-
ed ; what methods he took to keep Lent in a region
where there was no fish, or the shifts he made to
celebrate the rites of his religion, in places where
there was neither bread nor wine ! Such accounts,
with the usual appendage of marriages and funerals,
inscriptions, rivers, and mountains, make up the
whole of a European traveller's diary : but as to
all the secrets of which the inhabitants are pos-
sessed, those are universally attributed to magic;
and when the traveller can give no other account
of the wonders he sees performed, very contentedly
ascribes them to the power of the devil.
It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English
chemist, that if every artist would but discover
what new observations occurred to him in the ex-
ercise of his trade, philosophy would thence gain
innumerable improvements. It may be observed,
with still greater justice, that if the useful know-
ledge of every count-ry, howsoever barbarous, was
gleaned by a judicious observer, the advantages
would be inestimable. Are there not even in
Europe many useful inventions known or practised
but in one place! The instrument, as an example.
for cutting down corn in Germany, is much more
handy and expeditious, in my opinion, than the
sickle used in England. The cheap and expedi-
tious manner of making vinegar, without previous
fermentation, is known only in a part of France.
If such discoveries, therefore, remain still to be
known at home, what funds of knowledge might
not be collected in countries yet unexplored, or
only passed through by ignorant travellers in hasty
caravans']
The caution with which foreigners are received
ill Asia may be alleged as an objection to such a
design. But how readily have several European
merchants found admission into regions the most
suspecting, under the character of Sanjopins, or
northern pilgrims. To such, not even Cliina it-
self denies access.
To send out a traveller, properly qualified for
these purposes, might be an object of national con-
cern ; 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 lovenj
of men. The only difficulty would remain, in
choosing a proper person for so arduous an enter-
prise. He should be a man of a philosophical
turn ; one apt to deduce consequences of general
utility from particular occurrences : neither swol-
len with pride, nor hardened by prejudice; neither
wedded to one particular system, nor instructed
only in one particular science ; neither wholly a
botanist, nor quite an antiquarian ; his mind should
be tinctured with miscellaneous knowledge, and
his manners humanized by an intercourse with
men. He should be in some measure an enthu-
siast in the design ; fond of travelling, from a ra-
pid imagination and an innate love of change ;
furnished with a body capable of sustaining every
fatigue, and a heart not easily terrified at danger
Adieu.
LETTER CIX.
From the Same.
One of the principal tasks I had proposed to
myself, on my arrival here, was to become acquaint-
ed with the names and characters of those now
living, who, as scholars or wits, had acquired the
greatest share of reputation. In order to succeed
in this design, I fancied the surest method would
be to begin my inquiry among the ignorant, judg-
ing that his fame would be greatest, which was
loud enough to be heard by the vulgar. Thus pre-
disposed, 1 began the search, but only went in
quest of disappointment and perplexity. I found
every district had a peculiar famous man of its
own. Here the story-telling shoemalier had en-
grossed the admiration on one side of the street,
while the bellman, who excelleth at a catch, was
in quiet possession of the other. At one end of
a lane the sexton was regarded as the greatest man
alive ; but 1 had not travelled half its length, till I
found an enthusiastic teacher had divided his repu-
tation. 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
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
379
I now perceived, that taking my standard of re-
jiUtation among the vulgar, would swell my cata-
logue of great names above the size of a court
calendar ; I therefore discontinued this method of
pursuit, and resolved to prosecute my inquiry in
that usual residence of fame, a bookseller's shop.
In consequence of this, 1 entreated 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 Aitarncy'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 pamphlet, either for
title, preface, plan, body, or index, to be the com-
pletes! hand in England." I found it was vain to
prosecute my inquiry, where my informer appear-
ed so incompetent a judge of merit; so paying for
the Young Attorney's Guide, which good man-
ners obliged me to buy, I walked off.
My pursuit after famous men now brought me
into a print-shop. " Here," thought I, " the paint-
er only reflects the public voice. As every man
who deserved 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 our affections
are held up for public sale." But guess my sur-
prise, when I came to examine this repository 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 elbowed by the thief-taker; quacks,
pimps, and buffoons increased the group, and noted
Btallions only made room for more noted whores.
I had read the works of some of the moderns, pre-
vious to my coming to England, with delight and
approbation, but 1 found their faces had no place
here ; the walls were covered with the names of
authors I had never known, or had endeavoured to
forget; with the little self-advertising things of a
day, who had forced themselves into fashion, but
not into fame. I could read at the bottom of .soiiic
pictures the names of **, and ***, and *♦♦♦, all
equally candidates for the vulgar shout, and fore-
most 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 re-
flecting 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 clariorcs
qui imagines corum non dcfa-cbantur, their ab-
sence being the strongest proof of their merit."
" It is in vain," cried I, "to seek for true great-
ness among these monuments of the unburicd
icixil ; let mc go axuong the tombs of those who are
confessedly famous, and see if any have been lately
deposited there, who deserve the attention of pos-
terity, and whose names may be transmitted to my
distant friend, as an honour to the present age."
Determined in my pursuit, I paid a second visit to
Westminster Abbey. There I found s(;veral new
monuments erected to the memory of several great
men; the names of the great men I absolutely for-
get, but I well remember that Roubillac was the
statuary who carved them. 1 could not help smil-
ing at two modern epitaphs in particular, one of
which praised the deceased for being otItis ex an-
tiqud stirpe ; the other commended the dead Ihj-
cause hanc adem suis sumptibus icacdificavit.
The greatest merit of one consisted in his being
descended from an illustrious house; the 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 honour, not
upon the great men, but upon little Roubillac."
Hitherto disappointed in my inquiry after the
great of the present age, I was resolved to mix in
company, and try what 1 could learn among critics
in coffee-houses ; and here it was that I heard my
favourite 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; 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 1 now con-
verse with, they know the proper objects of admi-
ration, but mix envy with applause."
Disappointed so often, I was now resolved to ex-
amine 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,
aiiplause. I found the vulgar admiration entirely
misplaced, and malevolence without its sling. The
trulv (Treat, possessed of numerous small faults and
shininif virtues, preserve a sublime in morals as in
writiniT. They who have attained an excellence
in either, conunit numberless transgressions, ob-
servable to the meanest understanding. The ig-
norant critic and dull remarkcr can readily spy
blemishes in eloquence or morals, whose senti-
ments are not sullicicntly elevated to oltserve a
beauty. But such are judges neither of Ixioki
nor of life; they can diminish no solid reputation
by their censure, nor liestow a lasting chararirr by
their ajiphuise. In short, 1 found, by my rcMch,
that such only can confer rcil fame uix)n oihrr*
who have merit themselves to deserve it. A.Lcx
380
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
LETTER ex.
From the Same.
There are numberless employments in the
courts of the eastern monarchs 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 introduced at the
courts the mandarine appointed to bear the royal
tobacco-box, or the grave director of the imperial
excrcitations in the seraglio. Yet I am surprised
that the English have imitated us in none of these
particulars, as they are generally pleased with
every thing that comes 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 tish and the furniture they should have im-
ported ; our courtiers would fill u}) the necessary
ceremonies of a court better than those of Europe;
would be contented with receiving 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 admission of some new east-
ern ofllces and titles into their Court Register.
As I consider myself in the light of a cosmopo-
lite, I find as much satisfaction in scheming for the
countries in which I happen to reside as for that
in which 1 was born.
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 such 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 vennin in
every corner of the palace is surprising ; but a
prudent king, and a vigilant officer, soon drive
them from their sanctuaries behind the mats and
tapestry, and effectually free the court. Such an
officer in England would, in my opinion, be ser-
viceable at this juncture; for if, as I am told, the
palace be old, much vermin must undoubtedly have
taken refuge behind the wainscot and hangings.
A minister should therefore be invested with the
title and dignities of court vermin -killer ; he should
have full power either to banish, take, poison, or
destroy them, with enclwntments, traps, ferrets, or
ratsbane. . He might be permitted to brandish his
besom without remorse, and brush down every'
part of the furniture, without sparing a single cob-
web, however sacred by long prescription. I com-
municated this proposal some days ago in a com-
pany of the first distinction, and eajoying the most
honourable offices of the state. Among the num-
ber were the inspector of Great 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 acquiesced in the utility of my proposal, but
were apprehensive it might meet with some ob-
struction from court upholsterers and chamber-
maids, who would object to it from the demolition
of the furniture, and the dangerous use of ferrets
and ratsbane.
My next proposal is rather more general than
the former, and might probably meet with less op-
position. Though no people in the world flatter
each other more than the English, 1 know none
who understand the art less, and flatter with such
little refinement. Their panegyric, like a Tartar
feast, is indeed 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 an 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 probabty disagreeable
to both, I would constitute professed flatterers here,
as in several courts of India. These are appoint-
ed 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 offi-
cer of this kind is always in waiting when the em-
per'>r converses in a familiar manner among his
rajahs and other nobility. At every sentence, when
the monarch pauses, and smiles at what he has
been saying, the Karamatman, as this officer is
called, is to take it for granted that his majesty has
said a good thing. Upon which he cries out —
"Karamat! Karamat! — a miracle! a miracle!"
and throws up his hands and his eyes in ecstasy.
This is echoed by the courtiers around, while the
emperor sits all this time in sullen satisfaction, en-
joying 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 prac-
tice he might soon become a perfect master of the
art, and in time would turn out pleasing to his
patron, no way troublesome to himself, and might
prevent the nauseous attempts of many more ig-
norant pretenders. The clergy here, I am con-
vinced, would relish this proposal. It would pro-
vide places for several of them. And indeed, by
some of their late productions, many appear to
have qualified themselves as candidates for this
office already.
But my last proposal I take to be of the utmost
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
381
importance. Our neighbour the empress of Russia,
has, you may remember, instituted an order of fe-
male knighthood : the empress of Germany has
also instituted another : the Chinese have had such
an order time immemorial. I am amazed the En-
glish have never come into such an institution.
When I consider what kind of men are made
knights here, it appears strange that they have
never conferred this honour upon women. They
make cheesemongers and pastry cooks knights ;
then, why not their wives 1 They have called up
tallow-chandlers to maintain the hardy profession
of chivalry and arms: then, why not their wives ?
Haberdashers are sworn, as I suppose all knights
must be sworn, never tojly in time of mellay or
battle, to maintain and uphold the noble estate of
chivalrywith horse, harnishe and other knightlye
habiliments. Haberdashers, I say, are sworn to all
this; then, why not their wives? Certain 1 am,
their wives understand fighting and feats of mellay
and battle better than they ; and as for knightlye
horse and harnishe, it is probable botli know no-
thing more than the harness of a one-horse chaise.
No, no, my friend, instead of conferring any order
upon the 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 fur-
nish both a motto and a name, — the ladies might
be permitted to choose for themselves. There are,
for instance, the obsolete orders of the Dragon in
Germany, of the Rue in Scotland, and the Porcu-
pine in France; all well-sounding names, and very
applicable to my intended female institution. Adieu.
LETTER CXL
From the Same.
Relfgious sects in England are far more nu-
merous than in China. Every man, who has in-
terest enough to hire a conventicle here, may set
up for himself, and sell off a new rehgion. The
sellers of the newest pattern give extreme good
bargains ; and let their disciples have a great deal
of confidence for very little money.
Their shops are much frequented, and their cus-
tomers every day increasing ; for people are natu-
rally fond of going to Paradise at as small expense
as possible.
Yet, you must not conceive this modern sect as
differing in opinion from those of the established
religion; difference of opinion indeed formerly di-
vided their sectaries, and sometimes drew their ar-
miivs to the field. White gowns and black man-
tles. Happed 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 uresent, they arc arrived at such re-
finement 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 other, and that is all the diilerence be-
tween them.
But though their principles are the same, their
practice is somewhat different. Those of the es-
tablished religion laugh when they are pleased, and
their groans are seldom extorted but by pain or
danger. The new sect on the contrary we<>p for
their amusement, and use little music, except a
chovus of sighs and groans, or tunes that are made
to imitate groaning. Laughter is their aversion ;
lovers court each other from the Lamentations; the
bridegroom approaches the nuptial couch in sorrow-
ful 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 rattlesnake's tail than finger a
dice-box.
By this time you perceive, that I am describing a
sect of enthusiasts, and you have already compared
them with the Faquirs, Brahmins, and Talapoins
of the East. Among these, you know, arc scnera-
tions that have never been known to smile, and
voluntary affliction makes up all the merit they
can boast of. Enthusiasms in every country pro-
duce the same effects; stick the Faquir with pins,
or confine the Brahmin to a vermin hospital,
spread the Talapoin on the ground, or load the
sectary's brow with contrition : those worshippers
who discard the light of reason are ever gloomy;
their fears increase in proportion to their igno-
rance, as men are continually under apprehensions
who walk in darkness.
Yet there is still a stronger reason for the enthu-
siast's being an enemy to laughter ; namely, his be-
ing himself so projier an object of ridicule. It is re-
markable, that the propagators of false doctrines
have ever been averse to mirth, and always begin
by recommending gravity, when they intended to
disseminate im(>osture. Fohi, the idol of China, is
represented as having never laughed ; Zoroaster,
the leader of the Brahmins, is said to iiavc laughed
but twice — upon his coming into this world, and
upon his leaving it ; and Mahomet himself, though
a lover of pleasure, was a professed opposer of gaie-
ty. Upon a certain occasion, telling his followers
tiiat they would all api>rar naked at the resurrec-
tion, his favourite wife represented such an asr-em-
bly as immodest and unl>ecoming. " Foolish wo-
man!" cried the grave prophet, " though the whole
assembly be naked, on that day they shall have for-
gotten to luugh." Men like hirn opix)sed ridicule,
because they knew it to lie a most formiilabie an-
tagonist, and preached up gravity, to conceal thcit
own want of imixHtance.
Ridicule has ever been the moet powerful cuaay
3B2
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
of enthusiasm, and properly the only antagonist
that can be opposed to it with success. Pei-secu-
tion only serves to propagate new religions; they
acquire fresh vigour beneath the executioner and
the axe ; and like some vivacious insects, multiply
by dissection. It is also impossible to combat en-
thusiasm by 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 can not explain. A man who would en-
deavour to fix an enthusiast by argument, might
as well attempt to spread quicksilver with his
fingers. The only way to conquer a visionary is
to despise him ; the stake, the fagot, and the dis-
pufmgdoctor, 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 vul-
nerable part of the beasts they pursue, by the care
which every animal takes to defend the side which
*s 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 ridi-
cule.
When Philip the Second was king of Spain,
there was a contest in Salamanca between two or-
ders of friars for superiority. The legend of one
side contamed more extraordinary miracles, but the
legend of the other was reckoned most authentic.
They reviled each other, as is usual in disputes of
divinity, the people were divided into factions, and
a civil war appeared unavoidable. In order to pre-
vent such an imminent calamity, the combatants
were prevailed upon to submit their legends to the
fiery trial, and that which came forth untouched by
the fire was to have the victory, and to be honour-
ed with a double share of reverence. Whenever
the people flock to see a miracle, it is a hundred to
one but that they see a miracle; incredible, there-
fore, were the numbers 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 dis-
appointment of all the assembly, instead of a
miracle, both legends were consumed. Nothing
but thus turning both parties into contempt could
have prevented the effusion of blood. The people
now laughed at their former folly, and wondered
whv they fell out. Adieu
LETTER CXIL
From the Same.
The English are at present employed in cele-
brating a feast which becomes general every seventh
year; the parliament of the nation being then dis-
solved, 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 world can
compare with it for eating. Their eating, indeed,
amazes me ; had I five hundred heads, 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 country!
To say the truth, eating seems to make a grand
ingredient in all English parties 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 eat upon it, by
which means the business goes forward with suc-
cess. When the poor are to be relieved, the offi-
cers 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 pre-
viously satisfied their own. But in the 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 constitutents assemble,
eat upon him, and lend their applause, not to his in-
tegrity or sense, but to the quantities of his beef
and brandy. ^
And yet I could forgive this people their plenti
ful meals 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 rab-
bit, when loaded with a single election dinner, has
become more dangerous than a charged culverin.
Upon one of these occasions, I have actually seen
a bloody-minded man-milliner sally forth at the
head of a mob, determined to face a desperate pas-
try-cook, who was general of the opposite party.
But you must not suppose they are without a
pretext for thus beating each other. On the con-
trary, no man here is so uncivilized as to beat his
neighbour without producing very sufficient rea-
sons. One candidate, for instance, treats with
gin, a spirit of their own manufacture; another al-
ways diinks brandy, imported from abroad. Brandy
is a wholesome liquor; gin a Uquor wholly their
own. This then furnishes an obvious cause of
quarrel, whether it be most reasonable to get drunk
with gin, or get drunk with brandy? The mob
meet upon the debate ; fight themselves sober ; and
then draw off to get drunk again, and charge for
another encounter. So that the English may now
properly be said to be engaged in war; since, whi|«
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
383
tliey are subduing their enemies abroad, they are
breaking each other's heads at home.
1 hitely made an excursion to a neighbouring
town, in order to be a spectator of the ceremonies
practised upon this occasion. I left London in
company with three fiddlers, nine dozen of hams,
and a corporation poet, which were designed as
reinforcements to the gin-driiiking party. We
entered the town with a very good face ; the fiddlers,
no way intimidated by the enemy, kept handling
their arms up the principal street. By this prudent
manreuvre they took peaceable possession of their
head-quarters, amidst the shouts of multitudes,
who seemed perfectly rejoiced at hearing their mu-
sic, but above all at seeing their bacon.
I must own, I could not avoid being pleased to
see all ranks of people on this occasion levelled in-
to an equality, and the poor, in some measure, en-
joy the primitive privileges of nature. If there was
any distinction shown, the lowest of the people
seemed to receive it from the rich. I could per-
ceive a cobbler with a levee at his door, and a haber-
dasher giving audience from behind his counter.
But my reflections were soon interrupted by a
mob, who demanded whether I was for the distil-
lery or the breweryl 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 off to a skirmish
between a brandy-drinker's cow and a gin-drink-
er's mastift", which turned out, greatly to the satis-
faction of the mob, in favour of the mastiff
This spectacle, which afforded high entertain-
ment, was at last ended by the appearance of one
of the candidates, who came to harangue the mob :
he made a very pathetic speech upon the late ex-
cessive importation of foreign drams, and the down-
fal of tlie distillery ; I could see some of the audi-
ence shed tears. He was accompanied in his pro-
cession by Mrs. Deputy and Mrs. Mayoress.
Mrs. Deputy was not in the least in liquor; and
as for Mrs. Mayoress, one ofthe spectators assured
me in my ear, that — she was a very fine woman
before she had the small-pox.
Mixincr with the crowd, I was now conducted
to the hall where the magistrates are chosen: but
what tongue can describe this scene of confusion !
the whole crowd seemed equally inspired with
anger, jealousy, politics, patriotism, and jjunch. I
remarked one figure that was carried up by two
meh upon this occasion. I at first began to pity
his infirmities as natural, but soon found the fellow
soJrunk 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 exces-
sively 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 every passion is
seen without disguise; a school, where fools may
readily become worse, and where philosophers may
gather wisdom. Adieu.
LETTER CXIII.
From the Same.
The disputes among the learned here are now
carried 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 singio
sorites. At present, the controversy is decided ia
a summary way ; an epigram or an acrostic finish
es the debate, and the combatant, like the incur-
sive Tartar, advances and retires with a single
blow.
An important literary debate at present en
grosses the attention of the town. It is carried on
with sharpness, and a proper share of this epigram-
matical fury. An author, it seems, has taken an
aversion to the faces of several players, and has
written verses to prove; his dislike ; the players faQ
upon the author, and assure the town he must be
dull, and their faces must be good, because 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 wriltcn
them without the assistance of friends; the friends,
upon this, aiTaign the critic, and plainly prove the
verses to be all the author's own. So at it they
are, all four together by the ears; the friends at
the critic, the critic at the players, the players a
the author, and the author at the players again.
It is impossible to determine how this many-sided
contest will end, or which party to adhere to. The
town, without siding with any, views the comliat
in sus[iense, like the fabled hero of antiquity, who
beheld the earth-born brothers give and receive
mutual wounds, and fall by indiscriminate destruc-
tion.
This is, in some measure, the state of the pre-
sent dispute; but the comliatanti> here differ in one
respect from the champions of the fable. Every
new wound only gives vigour for another blow;
tliou'^h they apjiear to strike, they are in thcl mu-
tually swelling themselves into consideration, and
thus advertising each other into fame. " To-day."
says one, "my name shall be in the Gazette, Ine
next day my rival's; ])eopk' will naturally inquire
about us ; thus we shall at least make a noi«' in the
streets, though we have get nothing to sill." I
have read of a dispute of a similar nnture, which
was managed here about twenty years ago. llilJiv
8S4
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
brand Jacob, as I think he was called, and Charles
Johnson, were poets, both at that time possessed
of great reputation ; for Johnson had written eleven
plays, acted with great success ; and Jacob, though
he had written but five, had five times thanked the
town for their unmerited applause. They soon
became mutually enamoured of each other's talents ;
they wrote, they felt, they challenged the town for
each other. Johnson assured the public, that no
poet alive had the easy simplicity of Jacob, and Ja-
cob exhibited Johnson as a masterpiece in the pa-
thetic. Their mutual praise was not without ef-
fect ; the town saw their plays, were in raptures,
read, and, without censuring them, forgot them.
So formidable a union, however, was soon opposed
by Tibbald. Tibbald asserted that the tragedies
of the one had faults, and the comedies of the other
substituted wit for vivacity : the combined champions
flew at him like tigers, arraigned the censurer's
judgment, and impeached his sinceritj'. It was a
long time a dispute among the learned, which was
in fact the greatest man, Jacob, Johnson, or Tib-
bald ; they had all written for the stage with great
success, their names were seen in almost every pa-
per, and their works in every coffee-house. How-
ever, in the hottest of the dispute, a fourth com
batant made his appearance, and swept away the
three combatants, tragedy, comedy, and all, into
undistinguished ruin.
From this time they seemed consigned into the
hands of criticism ; scarcely a day passed in which
they were not arraigned as detested writers. The
critics, those enemies of Dryden and Pope, were
their enemies. So Jacob and Johnson, instead of
mending by criticism, called it envy; and, because
Dryden and Pope were censured, they compared
themselves' to Dryden and Pope.
But to return. The weapon chiefly used in the
present controversy is epigram; and certainly never
was a keener made use of. They have discovered
surprising sharpness on both sides. The first that
came out upon this occasion was a new kind of com-
position in this way, and might more properly be
called an epigrammatic thesis than an e[)igram.
It consists, first, of an argument in prose ; next
follows a motto from Roscommon ; then comes the
epigram ; and, lastly, notes serving to explain the
epigram. But you shall have it with all its deco-
rations.
AN EPIGRAM,
Addressed to the Gentlemen reflected on in the
RosciAD, a Poem, by the Author.
Worried with debts, ami past all hopes of bail,
His pen he prostitutes, t' avoid a gaol. — Roscoin.
" Let not tne hungry Bavius' aiagry stroke
Awiike resentment, or your rage provoke;
But, pitying his distress, let virtue* shine,
And giving each yourbounty,t let him dine;
For, thus retain'd, as learned counsel can,
Each case, however bad, he'll new japan
And, by a quick transition, plainly show
'Twas no defect of your's, but pocket low,
That caused his putrid kennel to o'erflow."
The last lines are certainly executed in a very
masterly manner. It is of that species of argu-
mentation called the perplexing. It effectually
flings the antagonist into a mist ; there is no an-
swering it : the laugh is raised against him, while
he is endeavouring to find out the jest. At once
he shows, that the author has a kennel, and that
his kennel is putrid, and that his putrid keimel
overflows. But why does it overflow! It over-
flows, because the author happens to have low
pockets !
There was also another new attempt in this
way ; a prosaic epigram which 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 R. 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's a perplex ! I could have wished
to make it quite perfect, the author, as in the case
before, had added notes. Almost every word ad-
mits a scolium, and a long one too. I, YOU, HE !
Suppose a stranger should ask, "and who are
you7 " 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 inextri-
cable. Here the stranger may dive for a mystery,
out 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 others' dangers,
[ must own I begin to tremble in this literary con-
test 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 / Tiever gave any creature
in this good city offence, except only my rivai
• Charity.
1 Settled at one ehiiling, the price of the poem.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
385
Doctor Rock ; yet by the letters I every day re-
ceive, and by some I have seen printed, I am ar-
raigned at one time as being a dull fellow, at
Wiother as beuig pert ; I am here petulant, there I
am heavy. By the head of my ancestors, they treat
me with more inhumanity than a flying lish. If I
dive and run my nose to the bottom, there a de-
vouring shark is ready to swallow me up ; if I skim
the 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 every
ravenous bird that winnows the bosom of the deep.
Adieu.^
LETTER CXIV.
From the f?ame.
The formalities, delays, and disappointments,
that precede a treaty of marriage here, are usually
as numerous as those previous to «. treaty of peace.
The laws of this country are finely calculated to
promote all commerce, but the commerce between
the sexes. Their encouragements for propagating
hemp, madder, and tobacco, are indeed admirable !
Marriages are the only commodity that meets with
none.
Yet from the vernal softness of the air, the ver-
dure of the fields, the transparency of the streams,
and the beauty of the women, I know few coun-
tries more proper to invite to courtship. Here love
might sport among painted lawns and warbling
groves, and revel amidst gales, wafting at once both
fragrance and harmony. Yet it seems he has for-
saken the island; and, when a couple are now to
be married, mutual love, or a 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. The gentleman's mortgaged lawn becomes
enamoured of the lady's marriagep-ble 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
'east of something that is lovely ; but I actually
pity those that have none. I am told there was a
time when ladies, with no other merit but youth,
virtue, and beauty, had a chance for husbands, at
least, among the ministers of the church, or the
officers of the army. The blush and innocence of
sixteen was said to have a powerful influence over
these two professions. But of late, all the little
traffic of blushing, ogling, dimpling, and smiling,
has been forbidden by an act in that case wisely
made and provided. A lady's whole cargo of
tmiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared utterly con-
traband, till she arrives in the warm latitudes of j
twenty-two, where coimnoditics of this nature are
2b
too often found to decay. She is then pemiitted
to dimple and smile when the dinijfles and siniies
begin to forsake her; and, when perhaps grown
ugly, is charitably intrusted with an unUmited use
of her channs. Her lovers, however, by this time
have forsaken her; the captain has changed for
another mistress; the priest himself leaves her ia
solitude to bewail her virginity; and she dies even
without benefit of clergy.
Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love
with as much earnestness as the rudest savage of
Sofala. The Genius is surely now no more. In
every region I find enemies in arms to oppress
him. Avarice in Europe, jealousy in Persia, cere-
mony in China, poverty among the Tartars, and
lust in Circassia, are all prejiared to oppose hia
power. The Genius is certainly banished from
earth, though once adored under such a variety
of forms. He is nowhere to be found ; and all that
the ladies of each country can produce, are but a
few trifling relics, as instances of his former resi-
dence and favour.
" The Genius of Love," says the eastern apo-
logue, "had long resided in the happy plains of
Abra, where every breeze was health, and every
sound produced tranquillity. His temple at first
was crowded, but every age lessened the number
of his votaries, or cooled their devotion. Pcrceivinir,
therefore, his altars at length quite deserted, he
was resolved to remove to some more propitious
region, and he apprised the fair sex of every coun-
try where he could hope for a proper reception, to
assert their right to his presence among them. In
return to this proclamation, emba-ssies were sent
from the ladies of every part of the world to in-
vite him, and to display the superiority of their
claims.
" And first, the beauties of China appeared. No
country could compare with them for modesty
either of look, dress, or behaviour ; their eyes were
never lifted from the ground; their robes of tJie
most beautiful silk hid their hands, bosom, and
neck, while their faces only were left uncovered.
They indulged no airs that might express loose
desire, and they seemed to study only the grace*
of inanimate beauty. Their black teeth, and pluck-
ed eyebrows, were, however, alleged by the Genius
against them, and he set them entirely aside when
he came to examine their little feet.
" The beauties of Circassia next made their ap-
pearance. They advanced hand-in-hand, singing
the most immodest airs, and leading up a danco
in the most luxurious attitudes. Their dress wad
but half a covering; ihe neck, the left breast, and
all the limbs, were ex|>osed to view, which, after
some time, seemed rather to satiate than indatno
desire. The lily and the rose contended in form-
ing their complexions; and a soft sleepiness oi ey*
added irresJMilile poignancy to their charms, but
386
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
their beauties were obtruded, not oflered, to their
admirers; they seemed to give rather than receive
courtship ; and the Genius of Love dismissed them
as unworthy his? regard, since they exchanged the
duties of love, and made themselves not the pur-
sued, but the pursuing sex.
" The kingdom of Cashmire next produced its
charming deputies. This happy region seemed
pccuUarly sequestered by nature for his abode.
Shady mountains fenced it on one side from the
scorching sun, and sea-born breezes, on the other,
gave peculiar luxuriance to the air. Their com-
plexions were of a bright yellovsr, that appeared al-
most 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 unfortunately one of the ladies talked
of appointing his seraglio.
"In this procession the naked inhabitants of
Southern America would not be left behind ; their
charms were found to surpass whatever the warm-
est imagination could conceive; and served to show,
that beauty could be j)crfect, even with the seem-
incr disadvantage of a brown complexion. But
their savage education rendered them utterly un-
qualified to make the proper use of their power, and
they were rejected as being incapable of uniting
mental with sensual satisfaction. In this manner,
the deputies of other kingdoms had their suits re-
jected: the black beauties of Benin, and the tawny
daughters of Borneo ; the women of Wida with
well-scarred faces, and the hideous virgins of Caf-
fraria ; the squab ladies of Lapland, three feet high,
and the giant fair ones of Patagonia.
"The beauties of Europe at last appeared ; grace
was in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in
every eye. It was the universal opinion, while
they were approaching, that they would prevail;
and the Genius seemed to lend them his most
favourable attention. They opened their preten-
sions with the utmost modesty ; but unfortunately,
as their orator proceeded, she happened to let fall
the words, house in town, settlement, and pin-
money. These seemingly harmless terms had in-
stantly a surprising effect : the Genius with un-
governable rage burst from amidst the circle; and,
•waving his youthful jiinions, left this earth, and
flew back to those ethereal mansions from whence
he descended.
"The whole assembly was struck with amaze-
nient ; they now justly apprehended, that female
power would be no more, since Love had forsaken
them.- They continued some time thus in a state
of torf)id despair, when it was proposed by one of
the number, that, since the real Genius had left
them, in order to continue their power, they should
KCt up an idol in his stead; and that the ladies of
every country should furnish him 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 resembhng the departed Genius. The ladies
of China furnished the monster with wings ; those
of Cashmire supphed him with horns; the dames
of Europe clapped a purse in his hand; and the
virgins of Congo furnished him with a tail. Since
that time, all the vows addressed to Love are in
reality paid to the idol ; but, as in other false re-
ligions, the adoration seems most fervent where
the heart is least sincere." Adieu.
LETTER CXV.
From the Same.
Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate in
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 accompanies such as are
sure of having a partial audience; they have ob-
tained victories, because there were none to oppose.
Yet, from all 1 have ever read or seen, men appear
more apt to err by having too high, than by having
too despicable, an opinion of their nature; and, by
attempting to exalt their original place in 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 glory and preservation; to have fought
their battles, and inspired their teachers: 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 first came
among the wretched inhabitants of the coast of
Africa, these savage nations readily allowed the
strangers more skill in navigation and war; 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 his neck, and whose legs
were covered with ivory.
In this manner, examine a savage in the history
of his country and predecessors, you ever find his
warriors able to conquer armies, and his sages ac-
quainted with more than possible knowledge.
Human nature is to him an unknown country : he
thinks it capable of great things, because he is ig-
norant of its boundaries; whatever can be con-
ceived to be done, he allows to be possible, and
whatever is possible, he conjectures must have been
JM
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
387
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 powers of others reflect a lustre on him-
self Thus, by degrees, he loses the idea of his
own insignificance in a confused notion of the ex-
traordinary powers of humanity, and is willing to
grant extraordinary gifts to every pretender, be-
cause unacquainted with their claims.
This is the reason why demi-goJs and heroes
have ever been erected in times or countries of ig-
norance and barbarity : they addressed a people,
who had high 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 imper-
fectly 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 ignorant nations are
not more proud of building a tower to reach to hea
gree of satirical contempt must they listen to the
songs of little mortals thus flattering each other!
thus to see creatures, wiser indeed than the mon-
key, and more active than the oyster, claiming to
themselves the mastery of heaven ; minims, the
tenants of an atom, thus arrogating a partnership
in the creation of universal nature ! Sure Heaven
is kind, that launches no thunder at those guilty
heads ! but it is kind, and regards 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 bar-
barous nations, I do not know that any man be-
came a god in a country where the inhabitants
were refined. Such countries generally 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 an-
cestors, which had their existence in times of ob-
scurity; their weakness being forgotten, whilo
nothing but their power and their niiracles were
remembered. The Chinese, for instance, never
had a god of their own country : the idols which
ven. era pyramid to last for ages, than of raising up a the vulgar worship at this day were brought from
demi-god of their own country and creation. The
same pride that erects a colossus or a pyramid, in-
stals a god or a hero ; but though the adoring sav-
age can raise his colossus to the clouds, he can ex-
alt the hero not one inch above the standard of
humanity: incapable, therefore, of exalting the
idol, he debases himself, and tails prostrate before
him. ' , ' :
When man has thus acquired an erroneous idea
of the dignity of his species, he and the gods be-
come perfectly intimate; men are but angels,
angels are but men, nay but servants, that stand
in waiting to execute human commands. The
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, great star of justice and
religion! The sea is not rich and liberal, but by
the gifts of thy munificent hands. The angel
treasurer of heaven reaps his harvest in the fertile
gardens of the purity of thy nature. Theprimwm
mobile would never dart the ball of the sun through
the trunk of heaven, were it not to serve the morn-
ing 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 throne of God, I
would aflirm it to be thy place, O master of the
faithful ! Gabriel, with all his art and knowledire
is but a mere scholar to thee." Thus, my
the barbarous nations around them. The Roman
emperors who pretended to divinity were generally
taught by a poniard that they were mortal; and
Alexander, though he passed among barbarous
countries for a real god, could never persuade his
polite countrymen into a similitude of thinking.
The Lacedemonians shrewdly complied with his
commands by the following sarcastic edict :
E/ AKi^avS'fO! SiUMTM insii Qn!, ©i:f tat-ee.
Adieu.
LETTER CXVL
From the Same.
There is something irresistibly pleasing in the
conversation of a line woman ; even though her
tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches
wisdom. The mind sympathizes with the regu-
larity of the object in view, and, struck with exter-
nal grace, vibrates into res]X)ndent harmony. In
this agreeable disjwsition, I lately found mynlf in
company with my friend and his niece. Our con-
versation turned upon love, which ehc seemed
equally capable of defending and ins[uring. Wo
were each of diflcrent opinions upon this subject :
the ladv insisted that it was a natural and univer-
sal passion, and protluced the happiness of thf»s«
friend! who cultivated it with proper precaution. My
men think proper to treat angels; but if indeed friend denied it to be the work of nature, but aJ-
there be suet an order of beings, with what a de- lowed .t to have a real existence, and "'[-"-i-^^
it was of mfnnte scrvico in refining e^x■l^■U ; w !»il«
I, to keep up the dispute, aflirmcd it to be mcicly a
Ciiardin's Travels, p. 402.
388
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
name, first used by the cunning part of the fair
sex, and admitted by the silly part of ours, there
fore no way more natural than taking snuff, or
chewing opium.
" How is it possible," cried I, " that such a pas-
sion can be natural, when our opinions even of
beauty, which inspires it, are entirely the result of
fashion and caprice ? Tlie ancients, who pretended
to be connoisseurs in the art, have praised narrow
foreheads, red hair, and eyebrows that joined each
other above the nose. Such was the charms that
captivated Catullus, Ovid, and Anacrenn. Ladies
would at present be out of humour, if their lovers
praised them for such graces ; and should an an-
tique beauty now revive, her face would certainly
be put under the discipline of the tweezer, fore-
head-cloth, and lead comb, before it could be seen
in public company.
"But the difference between the ancient and
moderns is not so great as between the different
countries of the present world. A lover of Gon-
gora, for instance, sighs for thick lips; a Chinese
lover is poetical in praise of thin. In Circassia, a
straight nose is thought most consistent with beau-
ty : 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 per-
ceive, 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 dis-
grace. In some parts of the East, a woman of
beauty, properly fed up for sale, often amounts to
one hundred crowns : in the kingdom of Loango,
ladies of the very best fashion are sold for a pig ;
queens, however, sell better, and sometimes amount
to a cow. In short, turn even to England, don't
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 moneyl Don't
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 stat-
ute of virginity? What! shall I call that rancid pas-
sion 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 they approached the decline,
and, hke 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 inter-
vals ; love is a method of protracting lur greatest
pleasure ; and surely that gamester, who plays the
greatest stake to the best advantage, will, at the end
of life, rise victorious. This was the opinion of
Vanini, who affirmed, that every hour was lost
tehich 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 introduc-
tion ; all laws calculated to discourage it, tend to
imbrute the species, and weaken the state. Though
it can not plant morals in the human breast, it cul-
tivates them when there; pity, generosity, and
honour, receive a brighter polish from its assist-
ance; and a single amour is sufficient entirely to
brush off the clown.
" But it is an exotic of the most delicate consti-
tution ; it requires the greatest art to introduce it
into a state, and the smallest discouragement is suf-
ficient to repress it again. Let us only consider
with what ease it was formerly extinguished in
Rome, and with what difficulty it was lately re-
vived in Europe : it seemed to sleep for ages, and
at last fought its way among us~ through tilts,
tournaments, dragons, and all the dreams of chi-
valry. The rest of the world, China only excepted,
are, and have ever been utter strangers to its de-
lights 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, which gives up this natural advantage, must
certainly be the effect of art, — an art calculated to
lengthen out our happier moments, and add new
graces to society."
" I entirely acquiesce in your sentiments," says
the lady, " with regard to the advantages of this
passion, but can not 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 cultivat-
ed, only make nearer advances to nature. The same
eflbrts that are used in some places to suppress
pity, and other natural passions, may have been
employed to extinguish love. No nation, howevei
unpolished, is remarkable for innocence that is not
famous for passion ; it has flourished in the coldest,
as well as in the warmest regions. Even in the
sultry wilds of Southern America, the lover is not
satisfied with possessing his mistress's person with-
out having her mind :
" In all my Enna's beauties bless'd,
Amidst profusion still I pine;
For though she gives me up her bieasf,
Its panting tenant is not mine."*
' Translation of a South- American Ode.
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
389
" But the effects of love are too violent to be the
result of an artificial passion. Nor is it in the
power of fashion to force the constitution into those
changes which we every day observe. Several
have died of it. Few lovers are unacquainted with
the fate of the two Italian lovers, Da Corsin and
Julia Bellamano, who, after a long separation, ex-
pired with pleasure in each other's arms. Such
instances are too strong confirmations of the reality
of the passion, and serve to show, that suppressing
it is but opposing the natural dictates of the heart."
Adieu.
LETTER CXVIL
From the Same.
The clock just struck two, the expiring taper
rises and sinks in the socket, the watchman forgets
the hour in slumber, the laborious and the happy
are at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation,
guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once
more fills the destroying bowl, the robber walks
his midnight round, and the suicide Ufts his guilty
arm against liis 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 pageant, and now, like a
froward child, seems hushed with her own unpor-
tunities.
What a gloom hangs all around! The dying
lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is
heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant
watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is for-
gotten, an hour like this may well display the
emptiness of human vanity.
There will come a time, when this temporary
BoUlude may be made continual, and the city itself,
like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert
in its room.
What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed
in existence, had their victories as great, joy as just,
and as unbounded, and, with short-sighted pre-
sumption, promised themselves immortality ! Pos-
terity can hardly trace the situation of some : the
sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins
of others ; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom,
and feels the transience of every sublunary pos-
session.
"Here," he cries, "stood their citadel, now
grown over with weeds; there their scnatr-house,
but now the haunt of every noxious reptile; tem-
ples and theatres stood here, now only an undis-
tinguished heap of rum. They are iallen,^ Jor
lux'ury and avarice first made them leeble. 1 he
rewards of the state were conferred on amusmg
and not on useful members of society. Their riches
and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at
first repulsed, returned again, conquered by perse-
verance, and at last swept the defendants into un-
distinguished destruction."
How few appear in those streets which but some
few hours ago were crowded ! and those who ap-
pear, now no longer wear their daily mask, nor at-
tempt to hide their lewdness or their misery.
But who are those who make the streets their
couch, and find a short refMjse from wretchedness
at the doors of the opulent? These are strangers,
wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are
too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses
are too great even for pity. Their wretchedness
excites rather horror than pity. Some are wit hout
the covering even of rags, and others emaciate<l
with disease : the world has disclaimed them ; so-
ciety turns its back ujion their distress, ami has
given them up to nakedness and hunger. These
])oor shivering females have once seen hapjaer
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 are insensible,
or debauchees who may curse but will not reheve
them.
Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the
sufferings of wretches I can not relieve ! Poor
houseless creatures! the world will give you re-
proaches, but will not give you relief The slight-
est misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary
uneasiness of the rich, are aggravated with all the
power of eloquence, and held up to engage our at-
tention and sympathetic sorrow. The pnor weep
unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate six>cie3
of tyranny; and every law which gives others se-
curity becomes an enemy to them.
Why 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 suei
for assistance. Adieu.
LETTER CXVni.
From Fum Iloam to I.len Chi Altansi, (lie (liscontentcd Wan-
derer, by the way of Moscow.
I havk been just sent upon an embassy to Ja-
pan ; my conmiission is to be dispatched in four
days', an.I you can hardly conceive tlie plca.«urc I
shidl' find uiM)n revisiting my native country. I
shall leave with joy this proud, barbarous, inhos-
pitable region, where every object conspire.-* to d»-
miiiish uiy satisfaction OJid increase mv patrioiistB.
S90
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
But though I find the inhabitants savage, yet
the Dutch merchants who are permitted to trade
hither seem still more detestable. They 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 em-
peror to the Dutch envoy, who had sent several
presents to all the courtiers some days previous to
his admission ; but he was obliged to attend those
designed for the emperor himself. From the ac-
counts 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 quar-
ter 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, chosen from the 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 the
gentleman-usher introduced them into the hall of
audience. The emperor was at length shown, sit-
ting 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; upon these words, the
envoy fell flat upon the ground, and crept upon his
hands and feet towards the throne. Still apjiroach-
ing, he reared himself upon his knees, and then
bowed his forehead to the ground. These cere-
monies being over, he was directed to withdraw,
still grovelling on his belly, and going backward
Lke a lobster.
Men must be excessively fond of riches, when
thi!y are earned with such circumstances of abject
submission. Do the Europeans worship Heaven
itself with marks of more profound respect 1 Do
they confer those honours on the Supreme of Be-
ings, which they pay to a barbarous king, who gives
them a permission to purchase trinkets and porce-
lain ? What a glorious exchange, to forfeit their
national honour, and even their title to humanity,
lor a screen or a snuflf-box!
If these ceremonies essayed in the first audience
appeared mortifying, those which were practised in
the second were infinitely more so. In the second
audience, 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 dehghted. 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 compli-
ment 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 shown 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 husbands, were all
equally fond of seeing the strangers perform, even
the children seeming 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 court of Pekin 7 Is this the
people that appear so proud at home, and in every
country where they have the least authority 1
Hovv does a love of gain transform the gravest of
mankind into the most contemptible and ridicu-
lous ! I had rather continue poor all my life than
become rich at such a rate. Perish those richea
which are acquired at the expense of n\y honour
or my humanity ! Let me quit," said I, "a coun-
try where there are none but such as treat all others
like slaves, and more detestable still, in suffering
such treatment. I have seen enough of this nation
to desire to see more of others. Let me leave a
people suspicious to excess,' whose morals are cor-
rupted, 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
debarred 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 consequent-
ly labour under the most miserable slaveiry, that
of mental servitude." Adieu.
LETTER CXIX.
From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoara, First President oj
tlie Ceremonial Academy at Peldn, in Cliina.
The misfortunes of the great, my frien'l, are held
up to engage our attention, are enlargcl upon m
tones of declamation, and the world is called upon
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
391
to gaze at the noble sufferers : they have at once
the comfort of admiration and pity.
Yet, where is the magnanimity of bearing mis-
fortunes when the whole world is looking on '■
Men, in such curcumstances, 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 i)ity, or even
without hope to alle^'iate his distresses, can behave
with tranquillity and indifference, is truly great :
whether peasant or courtier, he deserves admira-
tion, and should be held up for our imitation and
respect.
The miseries of the poor are, hov/ever, entirely
disregarded ; though some unijergo more real hard-
ships in one day than the great in their whole
lives. It is indeed inconceivable what difficulties
the meanest English sailor or soldier endures with-
out murmuring or regret. Every day to him is a
day of misery, and yet he bears his hard fate with-
out repining.
With what indignation do I hear the heroes of
tragedy complain of misfortunes 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-ci'eatures are obliged to wan-
der, without a friend to comfort or to assist them,
find enmity in every law, and are too poor to ob-
tain even justice.
I have been led into these reflections from acci-
dentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow
begging at one of the outlets of this town, with a
wooden leg. 1 was curious to learn what had re-
duced him to his present situation ; and, after giv-
ing him what I thought proper, desired to know
the history of his life and misfortunes, and the
sent nje to a third; till at last it was thought 1 be-
longed to no parish at all. At length, however,
they fixed me. I had some disimsition to be a
scholar, and had actually learned my letters ; but
the master of the work-house put me to businesi
as soon as I was able to handle a mallet.
" Here I lived an eas;y kind of a life for five yearc.
I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my
meat and drink provided for my lalwur. It is true,
I was not suffered to stir far from the house, for
fear I should run away : but what of that? 1 had
the lihcrty of the whole house, and the yard be-
lore 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 obli<;('d to pro^•ide for myself, I was re-
solved to go and seek my fortune. Thus I lived,
and went from town to town, working when I
could get employment, and starving when I could
get none, and might have lived so still ; but hap-
pening 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't? 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 ffive an account of mv.self I began inime-
diately to give a full account of all that I knew of
my breed, seed, and generation ; but, though I
(Tave 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 mav say this ami that of lieingin gaol;
but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a
place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my
bellvfull to eat and drink, and did no work ; but
las ! this kind of life was too good to lofi forever :
manner in wldch he was reduced to his present 1 1 was taken out of prison, after five months, put
distress— The disabled soldier, for such he was, on board of a ship, and sent olTwitti two hundred
with an intrepidity truly British, leaning on his niore. Our pnssage was but nuhrTrrent, for we
crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply were all confined m the hold, and d.ed very fa<,
with my request, and gave me his history as fol- for want of sweet a,r and provision.,; nul,^for my
lows:
"As for misfortunes, sir, I can not 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.
" My father was a labourer in the country, am!
died when I was five years old ; so I was put upon
the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of
a man, the parishioners were not able to tell to
what ivirish I belonged, or where 1 was born ; so
they sent me to another parish, and that paribh
])art, 1 did not want meat, brc.iuse I had n fcvernll
the way. Providence was ki ml; when provision«
grew short, it took away my desire of caling.
When wc came ashore, wc were sold to the plant-
ers. I was bound for seven years, ami ns I w;t«
no scholar, fori had forgot my letters, 1 wnsoMicrJ
to work among the negroes ; and scncd out my
time, as in duty bound to do.
" When inv time wa.s expired, I workr<l my
passage home, and glad I wan to ppc Old Fn^lsrv!
;iTain, liecause 1 loved my country. O lil«rrt> 1
liberty ! lilnnty ! that i« the property of every
Englishman, and 1 will die in its drfenre.' 1 v »•
afrrid, however, that 1 should be indicltyl foi •
393
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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 even-
ing, coming home from work, two men knocked
me down, and then desired me to stand still. They
belonged to a press-gang : I was carried before 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 of a
man of war, or list for a soldier. I chose to be a
soldier ; and in this post of a gentleman I served
two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of
Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound
through the breast, wliich is troublesome to this
day.
" When the peace came on, I was discharged ;
and as 1 could not work, because my wound was
Bometimes 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 and write, our captain would
have given me promotion, and made me a corpo-
ral. But that was not my good fortune; 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 service. This was
at the beginning of the present war, so I hoped to
be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spend-
ing 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 obsti-
nate fellow : he swore that I understood my busi-
ness perfectly well, but that I shammed Abraham
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.
" Ourcrew 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 a 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 haua. ' 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 1
had, about my middle, and went with him to fight
the Frenchmen. We had no arms ; but one Eng-
lishman is able to boat five Frenchmen at any time ;
an v^fe went down to the door, where both the sen-
tries were posted, and rushing upon them, seized
their arms in a moment, and knocked them down.
From thence, nine of us ran together to the quay
and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the
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 hours,
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 tfie 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.
" 1 had almost forget 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
oft". Had I had 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
clothing 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 God, I en-
joy 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 con-
tent ; nor could we avoid acknowledging, that an
habitual acquaintance with misery is the truest
school of fortitude and philosophy. Adieu.
LETTER CXX.
From the Same.
The titles of European princes are rather more
numerous than ours of Asia, but by no means so
sublime. The king of Visapour or Pegu, not
satisfied with claiming the globe and all its appur-
tenances to him and his heirs, asserts a property
even in the firmament, and extends his orders to
the milky way. The monarchs of Europe, 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 splen-
did trifles, that I have known a German prince
with more titles than subjects, and a Spanish no-
bleman with more names than shirts.
Contrary to this, "the English monarchs," says
a writer of the last century, " disdain to accept ol
CITIZEN OP THE WORLD.
393
Buch titles, which tend only to increase their pride, ,
without improving their glory; they are above de-
pending on the feeble helps of heraldry for respect,
perfectly satisfied with the consciousness of ac-
knowledged power." At present, however, these
maxims are laid aside ; the English monarchs have
of late assumed new titles, and have impressed
their coins with the names and arms of obscure
dukedoms, petty states, and subordinate employ-
ments. 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 awhitecture, a majestic sim-
plicity, which best conduces to inspire our rever-
ence 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 Great Britain, France, and Ireland,
desire to be acknowledged as duke of Brentford, !
Lunenburg, or Lincoln; the observer revolts at
this mixture of important and paltry claims, and
forgets the emperor in his familiarity with the duke
or the deputy. r ■ '
I remember a similar instance of this inverted
ambition, in the illustrious king of Manacabo, up-
on his first treaty with the Portuguese. Among
the presents that were made him by the ambassa-
dor of that nation, was a sword with a brass hilt,
upon 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 im-
mortal Potentate of Manacabo, Messenger of the
Morning, Enlightener of the Sun, Possessor of
the whole Earth, and might]/ Monarch of the
brass-handled Sword.
This method of mixing majestic 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 aflection 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 arc no more :
England has now a monarch wholly British ; and
it has some reason to hope for British titles upon
British coins.
However, were the money of England designed
to circulate in Germany, there would be no fia-
grant 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, there-
fore, designs to keep 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 bcgaa
his harangue by styhng him the most omniiwtent,
and the most glorious object of the creation. The
emperor seemed disjileased with his paltry adula-
tion, yet still 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 have got
another leg." In fact, the feeble or the despotic
alone find pleasure in multiplying these pageants
of vanity, but strength and freedom have nobler'
aims, and often fmd the finest adulation in majestic
simplicity.
The young monarch of this country has already
testified a proper contempt for several unmeaning
j appendages on royalty ; cooks and scullions have
been obliged to quit their fires ; gentlemen's gentle-
jmen, and the whole tribe of necessary people who
did nothing, have been dismissed from further
services. A youth who can thus bring back sim-
plicity and frugality to a court will soon probably
have a true respect for his own glory ; and, while
he has dismissed all useless employments, mav
disdain to accept of empty or degrading titles.
Adieu.
LETTER CXXI.
From the Same.
Whenever I attempt to charactcriTc the Eng-
lishin general, some unforeseen dilhcultics constant-
ly occur to disconcert my design ; 1 hesitate be-
tween censure and praise. When I consider ihcm
as a reasoning philosophical people, they have my
applause ; but when I reverse the mcdaJ, and ob-
serve their inconstancy and irresolution, I can
scarcely persuade myself that I am observing the
same people.
Yet, upon examination, this verj' inconsistency,
so remarkable here, flows from no other sourc«
than their love of reasoning. The man who ex-
amines a complicated subject on everv- side, anJ
calls in reason to his assistance, will frcqurnlly
change; will find himself distracted by opjwsing
improbabilities and contending proofs; every alter-
ation of place will .liversify the jirospecl, will pive
some latent argument new force, and contribute t«
maintain an anarchy in the mind.
394
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
On the contrary, they who never examine with
their own reason, act with mote simpUcity. Ig-
norance is positive, instinct perseveres, and the
human being moves in safety within the narrow
circle of brutal uniformity. What is true with re-
gard to individuals is not less so when applied to
states. A reasoning government like this is in
continual fluctuation, while those kingdoms where
men are taught, not to controvert but obey, con-
tinue always the same. In Asia, for instance,
where the monarch's authority is supported by
force, and acknowledged through fear, a change of
government is entirely unknown. All the inhabi-
tants seem to wear the same mental complexion,
and remain contented with hereditary oppression.
The sovereign's pleasure is the ultimate rule of
duty; every branch of the administration is a per-
fect epitome of the whole ; and if one tyrant is de-
posed, another starts 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
pleasure of the prince, appeal to the original rights
of mankind. What one rank of men assert is de-
nied by others, as the reasons on opposite sides
happen to come home with greater or less convic-
tion. The people of Asia are directed by prece-
dent, which never alters: the English, by reason,
which is ever changing its appearance.
The disadvantages of an Asiatic government,
acting in this manner by precedent, are evident;
original errors are thus continued, without hopes
of redress; and all marks of genius are levelled
down to one standard, since no superiority of think-
ing 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 be-
fore; 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 extremely 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 dif-
ferent ways, and equity and advantage will often
be out-balanced by a combination of clamour and
prejudice. But though such a people may be thus
in the wrong, they have been influenced by a hap-
py delusion ; their 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 witti pa*
tience when he knows himself to be the author of
his own misfortunes. Adieu.
LETTER CXXII.
From the Same.
My long residence here begins to fatigue mo.
As every object ceases to be new, it no longer con-
tinues 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 this
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 hu-
manity ; and whether we bustle in a pantomine^
or strut at a coronation ; whethpr we shout at a
bonfire, 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 probaWy is all
the diflference 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 th^ things of
this life ridiculous, it is only sufficient to call them
by their names.
In other respects, I have omitted several striking
circumstances in the description of this country,
as supposing them either already known to you,
or as not being thoroughly known to myself: but
there is one omission for which I expect no forgive-
ness, namely, my being totally silent upon their
buildings, roads, rivers, and mountains. This is a
branch of science on which all other travellers are
so very 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 dif-
ferent hole from that he entered ; of his stealing
the finger of an antique statue, in spite of the jani-
zary that watched him ; or his adding a new con-
jecture to the hundred and fourteen conjectures
already published, upon the names of Osiris and
Isis !
Methinks I hear some of my friends in China
demanding a similar account of London and the
adjacent villages ; and if I remain here much long-
er, it is probable I may gratify their curiosity. I
intend, when run dry on other topics, to take a
CITIZEN OP THE WORLD.
•
395 '
serious survey of the city wall; to descrihe that ing a fair stone building, callcil the White Conduit
beautiful building, the mansion-house ; I will enu- j House, on my right. Here the inhabitants of Lon
merate the magnificent squares in which the no- don often assemble to celebrate a feast of hot rolls
bility chiefly reside, and the royal palaces appointed and butter; seeing such numbers, each with their
for the reception of the English monarch ; nor will little tables before them, employed on this occasion,
I forget the beauties of Shoe-lane, in whicli I my- 1 must, no doubt, be a very amusing sight to the
eelf have resided since my arrival. You shall find looker-on, but still more so to those who perforin
me no way inferior to many of my brother -travellers in the solemnity.
in the arts of description. At present, however,
as a specimen of this way of writing, 1 send you a
few hasty remarks, collected in a late journey 1
made to Kentish-Town, and this in the manner
of modern voyagers.
"Having heard much of Kentish-Town, I con-
ceived 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 ninepence, 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, com-
manding on the right a fine prospect of groves, and
fields, enamelled with flowers, which would won-
derfully charm the sense of smelling, were it not
for a dunghill on the left, which mixes its effluvia
with their odours. This dunghill 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 r. long inseriiition
in large characters on the front, probably upon the
occasion of some triumph, but, being in haste, I lelt
it to be made out by some subsequent adventurer
who may happen to travel this way; so, continuitig
my course to the west, I soon arrived at an un-
walled town, called Islington.
" Ishngton 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 pre-
sent very much neglected. I am told it is dry in
summer : if this be the case, it can be no very i)roper
receptacle for fish, of which the inhabitants them-
selves seem sensible, by bringing all that is eaten
there from London.
" After having surveyed the curiosities of this
fair and beautiful town, 1 proceeded forward, leav-
" From hence I parted with reluctance to Pan-
eras, as it is written, or Pancridge as it is pro-
nounced : but which should be Ixjth pronounced
and written Pangracc : this emendation I will ven-
ture meo arbitrio : Tin.*, in the Greek language,
signifies all, which, added to the English word,
grace, maketh all grace, or Pangracc ; and, in-
deed, this is a very proper appellation to a place of
so much sanctity as Pangrace is universally es-
teemed. However this be, if you excejit the parish
church and its fine bells, there is little in Pangracc
worth the attention of the curious obserxer.
" From Pangrace to Kentish-Town is an easy
journey of one mile and a quarter : the road ilea
through a fine champaign country, well watered
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 impregnated with dust than per-
fume.
" As you enter Kentish-Town, the eye is at
once presented with the shops of artificers, such as
venders 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
peculiar order of architecture. 1 send you a draw-
ing of several, vide ABC. 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 lietween tliem. Be this
as it will, perceiving night ap|iroach, I made a
hasty repast on roasted mutton, an<l a certain dried
fruit called potatoes, resolving to protr:jrt my re-
marks upon my return : and this I would very will-
ingly have done, but was prevented by a circum-
stance which in truth 1 had for some lime fon-werj,
for night coming on, it was imi>o8sihlc to take a
proper survev of the country, as I was obliged Xo
return home in the dark." Adieu.
LETTER CXXIIL •
From the Santo.
Aftrr a variety of disnppointmenU, my wi^hna
arc at length fully satisfied. My s.>n, i^ li>nc rx-
pected, is arrived ; at once by his prrsence haninh-
ing my anxiety, and ojioning a new stcr.r of un-
expected pleasure. Uis improvcracnls In miiwl
396
GOLDSMITH'S "WORKS
and person have far surpassed even the sanguine
expectations of a father. I left him a boy, but he
is returned a man : pleasing in his person, harden-
ed by travel, and polished by adversity. His disap-
pointment 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 fa-
vours, has in a moment repaid every uneasiness
with rapture.
Two days after his arrival, the man in black,
with his beautiful niece, came to congratulate us
upon this pleasing occasion ; but, guess our sur-
prise, 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 con-
ceive their joy without my assistance : words were
unable to express their transports, then how can
words describe itl
When two young persons are sincerely ena-
moured of each other, nothing can give me such
pleasure as seeing them married: whether I know
the parties or not, I am happy at thus binding one
link more in the universal chain. Nature 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, con-
sulted the man in black, whether we might not
crown their mutual wishes by marriage ; his soul
seems formed of similar materials with mine;
he instantly gave his consent, and the next day
was appointed for the solemnization of their nup-
tials.
All the acquaintances which I had made since
my arrival were present at this gay solemnity.
The little beau was constituted master of the cere-
monies, 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 oif
by the assistance of a pig-tail wig, which was lent
by the little beau, to fit him for making love with
proper formality. The whole company easily per-
ceived 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
Sailed me aside, in order to know my candid opin-
'on, 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 pro-
duce 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 something 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
placed 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 oflT the leg. "Madam," cries my
friend, " if I might be permitted to advise, I would
begin 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, mad-
am," replies the lover, "but if the wing be the
most convenient manner, I would begin with the
wing." — " Sir," interrupts the lady, " when you
have fowls of your own, begin with 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!" interrupts the other,
" who is old, sir ? when I die of age, I know of
some that will quake for fear : if the leg does not
come off, take the turkey to yourself" — "Madam,"
replied the man in black, " I do not care a farthing
whether the leg or the wing comes off; if you are
for the leg first, why you shall have the argument,
even though 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 futiu-e keep your distance."—'
" O," replied the other, " that is easily done
it is only removing to the other end of the
table ; and so, madam, your most obedient humble
servant."
Thus was this courtship of an age destroyed m
one moment; for this dialogue effectually broke off
the match between this respectable couple, that
had been but just concluded. The smallest acci-
dents disappoint the most important treaties.
However, though it in some measure inter-
rupted the general satisfaction, it no ways les-
sened the happiness of the youthful couple ;
CITIZEN OF THE WORLD.
397
and, by the young lady's looks, I could per-
ceive she was not entirely displeased with this
interruption.
In a few hours the whole transaction seemed en-
tirely forgotten, and we 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 reside : I
shall, therefore, spend the remainder of my life in
examining the manners of dilVcrent countries, and
have prevailed upon the man in black to be my
companion. " They must often change," says
Confucius, " who would be constant in happinesa
or wisdom." Adieu.
THE
MWm (S)W ffll!®S£^S ]?ii,IBSriiILEifi W, lS)g
ARCHDEACON OF CLOGHER.
[printed in 1770.]
The life of a scholar seldom abounds with ad-
venture. His fame is acquired in solitude. And
the historian, 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 any
thing important to say, but because the subject is
pleasing.
Thomas Parnell, D. D. was descended from
aa ancient femily, that had for some centuries been
eettled at Congleton in Cheshire. His father,
Thomas Parnell, who had been attached to the
commonwealth party, upon the Restoration went
over to Ireland ; thither he carried a large person-
al fortune, which he laid out in lands in that king-
dom. 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 re-
main in the family. Thus want, which has com-
pelled many of our greatest men into the service of
the muses, had no influence upon Parnell ; he was
a poet by inclination.
He was born in Dublin, in the year 1679, and
received the first rudiments of his education at the
school of Doctor Jones in that city. Surprising
things are told us of the greatness of his memory
at that early period ; as his being able to repeat by
heart forty lines of any book at the first reading ; of
his getting the third book of the lUad in one night's
time, which was given in order to confine him for
some days. These stories, which 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 de-
sirous, among the ignorant, of being thought so.
There is one presumption, however, of the early
maturity of his understanding. He was admitted
a member oi *Jie college of Dublin at the age of thir-
teen, which is much sooner than usual, as at that
university they are a great deal stricter in their ex-
amination for entrance, than either at Oxford or
Cambridge. His progress through the college
course of study was probably marked with but little
splendour; his imagination might have been too
warm to rehsh the cold logic of Burgersdicius, or
the dreary subtleties of Smiglesius ; but it is cer-
tain, that as a classical scholar few could equal him.
His own compositions showthis; and the deference
which the most eminent men of his time paid
him upon that head, put it beyond a doubt. He
took the degree of master of arts the ninth of Ju-
ly, 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 Dubhn; and on the ninth of Febru-
ary, 1705, he was collated by Sir George Ashe,
bishop of Clogher, to the archdeaconry of Clogher.
About that time also he married 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 lining. 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 thirty-first of
May, 1716, he was presented, by his friend and
patron Archbishop King, to the vicarage of Fin-
glass, a benefice worth about four hundred pounds
a-ycar in the diocese of Dublin, but he lived to en-
joy his preferment a very short time. He died at
Chester, in July, 1717, on his way to Ireland, and
was buried in Trinity church in that town, with-
out any monument to mark the place of his inter-
ment. As he died without male issue, his estate
devolved to his only nephew, Sir John Parnell,
baronet, whpse father was younger brother to the
LIFE OF DR. PARNELL.
399
archdeacon, and one of the justices of the Klno-'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 orna-
ments of a country tombstone, are all that remain
of one, whose labours now begin to excite univer-
sal curiosity. A poet, while living, is seldom an
object sufficiently 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 increased by time, it is then too late to in-
vestigate the peculiarities of hi? disposition; 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 interesting and amusing his-
tory, 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, and would consequently
afford the richest materials : but in the present in-
stance, from not knowing Dr. Parnell, his peculi-
arities are gone to the grave with him ; and we are
ebhged to take his character from such as knew
but Uttle 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 dis-
position which bears disappointment with phlegm,
and joy with indifference. He was ever very much
elated or depressed ; and his whole Ufe 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 charac-
ter, 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 connexions, and the
number of his friends. Even before he made any
figure in the hterary world, his friendship wxs
sought by persons of every rank and party. The
wits at that time dilfered a good deal from those
who are most eminent for their understanding at
present. It would now be thought a very indif-
ferent sign of a writer's good sense, to disclaim his
private friends for happening to be of a diflVreiit
party in politics ; but it was then otherwise, the
■whig wits held the tory wits in great contempt,
and these retaliated in their turn. At the head of
one party were Addison, Steele, and Congreve ; at
that of the other, Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot.
Parnell was a friend to both sides, and with a
liberaUty becoming a scholar, scorned all those
trifling 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 connexions on this side of the water
gave his friends in Ireland great offence: they were
much enraged to see him keep company with Pope,
and Swift, and Gay; they blamed his undistin-
guishing taste, and wondered what j-Iea-sure he
could find in the conversation of men who ap-
proved the treaty of Utrecht, and disliked the Duke
of Marlborough. His conversation is said to have
been extremely pleasing, but in what its pccuUar
excellence consisted is now unknown. The let-
ters which were written to him hy his friends, are
full of compliments upon liis Undents as a com-
panion, and his good-nature as a man. I have
several of them now before me. Pope was parti-
cularly fond of his company, and seems to regret
his absence more than any of the rest.
A letter from iiim follows thus :
■> - "London, July 29.
"Dear Sir,
"I wish it were not as ungenerous as vain to
complain too much of a man that forgets me, but I
could expostulate with you a whole dav Ufionyour
inhuman silence : I call it inhuman ; nor would vou
think it less, if you were truly sensible of the un-
easiness 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. Gay and myself have written
several letters in vain; and that we were constant-
ly inquiring, of all who have seen Ireland, if they
saw you, and that (forgotten as we arc) we are
every day remembering you in our most agrroabic
hours. All this is true; as that we arc Fincerrly
lovers of you, and deplorcrs of your absence, atid
that we form no wish more ardently th.an that
which brings you over to us, and places you in
your old seat between us. We have lately had
some distant hopes of the Dean's design to revisit
England; will you not accompany him? or is Eng-
land to lose every thing thai h.xsany charms for ur,
and must we pray for banishment as a l)rnr<iiclion7
I have once been witness of some, I hope all of
your splenetic hours: come, and l>e a comforter in
your turn to me, in mine. I am in Ruch an un-
settled state, that I can't tell if I shall ever mx> you,
unless it he this year: whether I do or not, bcrvrr
a-ssured, vou have as large a share of my thouehf*
and good wishes as any man, and as gre.-il a (wr-
tion of gratitude in my heart as would cnnch m
monarch, could he know where to fin>! ii 1 •'• i^'
400
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
not die without testifying something of this nature,
and leaving to the world a memorial of the friend-
ship that has been so great a pleasure and pride to
me. It would be hke 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 obscurity.
My friend Jervas, the bearer of this, will inform
j'ou of all particulars 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
all to be forgot : if you care for any of us, tell them
so, and write so to me. I can say no more, but
that I love you, and am, in spite of the longest ne-
glect of happiness,
" Dear Sir, your most faithful
" and affectionate friend, and servant,
"A. Pope.
" Gay is in Devonshire, and from thence he goes
to Bath. My father and mother never fail to com-
memorate you."
Among the number of his most intimate friends
was Lord Oxford, whom Pope has so finely com-
plimented upon the delicacy of his choice.
For him thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend ;
For Swift an.', liim despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of tlte wise and great;
Dext'fous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Pope himself was not only excessively fond of
his company, but under several hterary obUgations
to him for his assistance in the translation of Ho-
mer. Gay was obliged to him upon another ac-
count; for, being always poor, he was not above
receiving from Parnell the copy-money which the
latter got for his 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 their idle effusions,
than with any thing I can hammer out for his
amusement.
" Binfield, near Oakingham, Tuesday.
"Dear Sir,
" 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
60 there 1 I very much fear both for your health
and your 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 un-
luccessful. for your sake; and that at least it may
soon be put into other proner hands. For my own,
I beg earnestly of you to return to us as soon aa
possible. You know how very much I want you ;
and that, however your 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 time,
the more I love you, the more I can spare you j
which alone will, I dare say, be a reason to you to
let me have you back the sooner. The minute 1
lost you, Eustathius with nine hundred pages, and
nine thousand contractitms of the Greek charac-
ters, arose to view ! Spondanus, with all his aux-
iliaries, in number a thousand pages (value three
shillings) and Dacier's three volumes, Barnes's
two, Valterie's three, Cuperus, half in Greek, Leo
Allatus, three parts in Greek, Scaliger, Macrobius,
and (worse than them all) Aulus Geliius! All
these rushed upon my sou,! at once, and whelmed
me under a fit of the headach. I cursed them re-
ligiously, damned my best friends among the rest,
and even blas{>hemed 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 degree impatient for your
return, who at all times should have been so
(though never so much as since I knew you in best
health here,) but you have wrought several mira-
cles 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 mar-
ry Dennis for your sake, because he is your man,
and loves his master. In short, come down forth-
with, 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 tune is at present; my
hours were never worth so much money before;
but perhaps you are not sensible of this, who give
away your own works. You are a generous au-
thor; I a hackney scribbler; you a Grecian, and
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 obliged and affectionate
" Friend and faithful servant,
" A. Pope.
" My hearty service to the Dean, Dr. Arbuth-
rot, Mr. Ford, and the true genuine shepherd,
J. Gay of Devon. I expect him down with
you."
LIFE OF DR. PARNELL.
401
We may easily perceive by this, that Parnell
was not a little necessary to Pope in conductinn-
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 expli-
cit when he mentions his friend Gay's obliirations
in another letter, which he takes no pains to con-
ceal.
"Dear Sir,
" 1 write to you with the same warmth, the same
seal of good- will and friendship, with which I used
X) converse with you two years ago, and can't
jhnik myself absent, when I feel you so much at my
heart. The picture of you which Jervas brought
me over, is infinitely less hvely a representation
than that I carry about with me, and which rises
lo 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 imaginary entertainment, this being the cheap-
est way of treating me ; 1 hope he will not be dis-
pleased at this manner of paying my respects to
him, instead of following my friend Jervas's exam-
ple, which, to say the truth, I have as much incli-
nation to do as 1 want ability. 1 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 authors have
raised against it ; the best revenge upon such fel-
lows is now in my hands, I mean your Zoilus,
which really transcends the expectation 1 had con-
ceived of it. I have put it into the press, begin-
ning with the poem Batrachom ; for you seem, by
the first paragraph of the dedication to it, to design
to prefix the name of some particular person. 1
beg therefore w know for whom you intend it, that
the pul)lication may not be delayed on this account,
and this as soon as is possible. Inform me also
upon vvhnt 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, etc. I scarce see any thing
to be altered in this whole piece ; in the poems you
sent I will take the liberty you allow me : the story
of Pandora, and the Eclogue upon Health, are two
of the mo^t beautiful things I ever read. I do not
say this to the prejudice of the rest, but as 1 have
read these oftener. Let me know how far my
commission is to extend, and be conlident of my
punctual performance of whatever you enjoin. I
must add a paragraph on tliis occasion in regard to
Mr. "Ward, whose verses have been a great plea-
t!.ure to me ; 1 will contrive thev shall be so to the
26
world, whenever I can find a proper ojiportunity
of publishing them.
" I shall very soon print an entire collection of
my own madrigals, 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 ujjon his own, and fears and flatters no man.
I hope before I die to discharge the debt I owe to
Homer, and get upon the whole just fame enough
to serve for an annuity for my own time, though I
leave nothing to posterity.
"I beg our correspondence may be more fre-
quent than it has been of late. I am sure my es-
teem and love 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 busi-
ness) to say a great deal in my name, both to your-
self and the Dean, and must once more repeat the
assurances to you both, of an unchanging friend-
ship and unalterable esteem.
I am. Dear Sir,
" Most entirely, your affectionate,
" Faithful, obliged friend and servant,
"A. Pope."
From these letters to Parnell, we may •.oncludc,
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 should always ice hiin
to the best advantage ; for, when he found his fits
of spleen and uneasiness, which sometimes lasted
for weeks together, returning, he returned 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 lo which
he retired. It is said of a famous jmintcr, that,
being confined in prison for debt, his whole de-
light consisted in drawing the faces of his credi-
tors in caricatura. It was just so with Parnell.
From many of his unpublished pieces which I
have seen, and from others that have a])|M'ared, it
would seem, that scarcely a bog in his neighUiur-
hood was left without re]iroach, and scarcely a
mountain reared its head unsung. " I can easily,"
says Poj)e, in one of his letters, in answer to »
dreary description of Parnell's, " I can easily image
to my thoughts the solitary hours of your eremiti-
cal life in the mountains, from some parallel lo it
in my own retirement at Binficdd:" and in anothft
place, " We are Iwlh miserably enough situated,
God knows ; but of the two evils, I think the soli-
tudes of the South are to lie preferred lo the desert*
of the West." In this manner Pojie answrrrtl
him in the tone of his own romplainls; and ihpse
descriptions of the imagined dislrrsB of his wtu»-
lion served lo give him a temporary relief; ihrj
threw off the blame from himeell", and laid upon
402
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
fortune and accident a wretchedness of his own
creating.
But though this method of quarrelUng in his
poems with his situation, served to reUeve himself,
yd it was not easily endured 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 en-
dure to be without even theirs, which, however,
among his English friends, he pretended to despise.
In fact, his conduct, in this particular, was rather
splenetic than wise : he had either lost the art to
engage^ or did not employ his skill in securing
those more permanent, though more humble con-
nexions, 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 lived 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 revenues, he
nnmediately set out for England, to enjoy the com-
pany 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 Gay.
Among these he was particularly happy, his mind
was entirely at ease, and gave a loose to every harm-
less folly that came uppermost. Indeed, it was a
society in which, of all others, a wise man might
be most foolish, without incurring any danger or
contempt. Perhaps the reader will be pleased to
see a letter to him from a part of this junto, as
there is something striking even in the levities of
genius. It comes from Gay, Jervas, Arbuthnot,
and Pope, assembled at a chop-house near the Ex-
change, 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 published it,
which I have sent to you by Dr. El wood. In the
summer I ate two dishes of toad-stools of my own
gathering, instead of mushrooms ; and in the win-
ter 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, 1 shall
tell you what I intend to do the ensuing summer ;
i propose to do the same thing I did last, which
vas 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 four letters : but, having
no answer, I feared both yours and my lettt^rs
might have miscarried. I hope my performance
will please the Dean, whom I often wished for, and
to whom I would 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 from you : which, next to
the seeing you, would be the greatest satisfaction
to your most affectionate friend and humble ser
vant, " J. G."
" Dear Mr. Archdeacon,
" Though my proportion of this epistle should
be but a sketch in miniature, yet I take up this
half page, having paid my club with the good com
pany both for our dinner of chops and for this })a-
per. 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 1 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 worth. He hai
been so unreasonable as to expect that I should
have made them as beautiful upon canvass 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 td let me lan-
guish for them, as I have done ever since they
crossed the seas : remember by what neglects, etc.
we missed them when we lost you, and therefore
I have not yet forgiven any of those triflcrs that let
them escape and run those hazards. I am going
on the old rate, and want you and the Dean pro-
digiously, and am in hopes of making you a visit
this summer, and of hearing from you both, now
you are together. Fortescue, 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 trcs humble,
''C. Jervas."
" It is so great an honour to a poor Scotchman
to be remembered at this time of day, especially by
an inhabitant of the Olacialis lerne, that 1 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 com-
plete our happiness but your company, and our
dear friend the Dean's. I am sure the whole en-
tertainment 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
is just going to the Bank to negociate some ex-
change-bills. Mr. Pope delays his second volume
of his Homer till the martial spirit of the rebels is
quite quelled, it being judged that the first part did | It is past a doubt that thcv wrote mnnv things
some harm that way. Our love again and again in conjunction, and Gay usually held the pen.
to the dear Dean. F'uimus tonjs, I can say no
more. Arbuthnot."
" 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 hasten-
ing this testimonial from your friends above writ-
ing : their love to you indeed wants no spur, their
ink wants no pen, their pen wants no hand, their
hand wants no heart, and so forth (alter the man-
ner of Rabelais ; which is betwixt some meaning
and no meaning); and yet it may be said, when
present thought and opportunity is wanting, their
pens want ink, their hands want pens, their hearts
want hands, etc. till time, place, and conveniency,
concur to set them writing, as at present, a sociable
meeting, a good dinner, warm fire, 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 included in my love), though
my love be such, that, if I should say much, 1
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 your treatise of Zoilus, with Batrachomuoma-
chia, and the Pervigilium Veneris, both which
poems are masterpieces in several kinds; and I
question not the prose is as excellent in its sort as
the Essay on Homer. Nothing can be more glo-
rious 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 scarecrow of
his miserable critic, and gibbet up the carcass of
Zoilus, to the terror of the witlings of posterity.
More, and much more, upon this and a thousand
ther 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 aiiectionate and humble ser-
vant, " A. POPK."
If we regard this letter with a critical eye, we
must find it indifferent enough ; if we consider it
as a mere effusion of friendshif), in which every
writer contended in affection, it will ai)[)ear much
to the honour of those who wrote it. To be mind-
ful of an absent friend in the hours of mirth 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
jonjunctior.. The above named, together with
Swift and Parncll, had some time before formed
themselves into a society, called the SrrilMerus
Club, and I should suppose they commemorated
him thus, as being an absent member.
And yet I do not remember any productions which
were the joint effort of this society, as doing it hon-
our. There is something feeble and quaint in all
their attempts, as if company repressed thought,
and genius wanted solitude for its boldest and hap-
piest exertions. Of those productions in which
Parnell had a principal share, that of the Origin
of the Sciences from the INIonkeys in Ethioiiia, is
pi^rticularly mentioned by Pope himself, in some
manuscript anecdotes which he left behind him.
The Life of Homer also, prefixed to the translation
of the Iliad, 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 writ-
ten still stiffer ; as it is, I verily think it cost me
more pains in the correcting, than the wriliiig it
would have done." All this may be easily credit-
ed ; for every thing of Parnell's that has ap[>enred
in prose, is written in a very awkward inelerjant
manner. It is true, his productions teem with im-
agination, and show great learning, but they want
that ease and sweetness for which his poetrv is so
much admired ; and the language is also shame-
fully incorrect. Yet, though all this must be al-
lowed, Po[)e should have taken care not to leave
his errors upon record airainst him, or ]iut it in the
power of envy to tax his friend with faults that do
not appear in what he has left to the world. A
poet has a right to exjiect the same secrecy in his
friend as in his confessor ; the sins he discovers are
not divulged for punishment but j)ardon. Indeed,
Pope is almost inexcusable in this instance, as what
he seems to condemn in one |ilace hf very much
applauds in another. In one of the h'flers from
him to Parnell, alwvementioned, he treats the Life
of Ilonicrwith much greater respect, and g<-einf< to
say, that the prose is excellent in its kind. It must
be confessed, however, that he is by no mrnnH in-
consistent; what he says in tx>th places may very
easily be reconciled to truth ; but who ran defend
his candour and sincerity.
It would be hard, however, to suppose that there
was no real friendship l>etween these {rreat men.
The benevolence of Parnell's <lisi>o^ition remains
unim|)eached ; and Poi>e, though subjt^t to starts
of passiim and envy, yet never niissod an op|H>r-
tunity of 1h inn truly serviceable to him. The com-
merce between them was carrie.1 on to the common
interest of both. When Poi>e had a Miscellnnvio
publish, he aj>plied to Parnell for |VH'li<<il assist-
ance and the latter as implicitly submitted to him
for correction. Thus they mutually advanced cjich
other's interest or fame, and prew stronger byren-
junction. Nor was Poik* the only jvrson to whom
Parnell had recourse for nssi^lancr. We Irani
from Swift's letteni to Stella, that he suVmiUwi hit
pieces to all his friends, and readily adopted their
alterations. Swift, among the number, was very
useful to him in that particular; and care has been
taken that the world should not remain ignorant
of the obligation.
But in the connexion of wits, interest has gene-
rally very little share ; they have only pleasure in
view, and can seldom find it but among each other.
The Sciibblerus Club, when the meml)ers were in
town, were seldom asunder, and they often made
excursions together into the country, and generally
on foot. Swift was usually the butt of the compa-
ny, 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, upon
his arrival, to choose the very best bed for himself,
for that was his custom. In the meantime Par-
nell was determined to prevent his intentions, and
taking horse, arrived at Lord B 's by another
way, long before hhn. Having apprised his lord-
ship of Swift's design, it was resolved at any rate
to keep him out of the house ; but how to affect this
was the question. Swift never had the small-pox,
and was very much afraid of catching it : as soon
therefore as he appeared striding along at some
distance from the house, one of his lordship's ser-
vants 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. There the
disappointed Dean was obliged 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 accounts
of the follies of the wise ; they give a natural air to
the picture, and reconcile us to our own. There
have been few poetical societies more talked of, or
productive of a greater variety of whimsical con-
ceits, than this of the Scribblerus Club, but how
long it lasted I can not exactly determine. The
whole of Parnell's poetical existence was not of
more than eight or ten years' continuance ; his first
excursions to England began about the year 1706,
and he died in the year 1718 ; so that it is probable
the club began with him, and his death ended the
connexion. Indeed, the festivity of his conversa-
tion, the benevolence of his heart, and the gene-
rosity of his tcm{)er, were qualities that might serve
to cement any society, and that could hardly be
replaced when he was taken away. During the
two or three last years of his life, he was more fond
t>\ rompany 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 re-
cover. From that time he could never venture to
court the Muse in solitude, where he was sure to
find the image of her who first inspired his attemj'ts.
He began therefore to throw himself into every
company, and seek from wine, if not relief, at least
insensibility. Those helps that sorrow first called
for assistance, habit soon rendered necessary, an. I
he died before his fortieth year, in some measure a
martyr to conjugal fidelity.
Thus, in the space of a very few years, Parnell
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 univer
sal esteem in which his poems are held, and the
reiterated pleasure they give in the perusal, are a
sufficient test of their merit. He appears to me to
be the last of that great school that had modelled
itself upon the ancients, and taught English poetry
to resemble 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 delight-
fully he resembled the other. To copy nature is a
task the most bungling workman is able to exe-
cute ; to select such parts as contribute to delight, is
reserved only for those whom accident has blessed
with uncommon talents, or such as have read the
ancients with indefatigable industry. Parnell is
ever happy in the selection of his images, and scru-
pulously 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 admiration, 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 for-
ward, and just gives him refreshment sufficient to
support him to his journey's end. At the end of
his course, the readier regrets that his way has been
so short, he wonders that it gave him so little trou-
ble, 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 has 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 much
pains to involve it into pristine barbarity. These
misguided innovators have not been content with
restoring antiquated words and phrases, but have
indulged themselves in the most licentious transoo
isitions, and the harshest constructions, vainly ima-
gining, that the more their writings are unlike
prose, the more they resemble poetry. They have
adopted a language of their own, and call upon
mankind for admiration. All those who 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 affecta-
(aons the poems of Parnell are entirely free ; he
has considered the language of poetry as the lan-
guage 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
publishing what he may even suspect will do it
injury. Of those which are usually inserted in
his works, some are indifferent, and some moderate-
ly good, but the greater part are excellent. A
slight stricture on the most striking shall conclude
this account, which I have already drawn out to
a disproportionate length.
Hesiod, or the Rise of Woman, is a very fine il-
lustration of a hint from Hesiod. It was one of his
earliest productions, and first appeared in a miscel-
lany published by Tonson.
Of the three songs that follow, 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, " When
Spring came on with fresh delight," is taken from
a French poet whose name I forget, and, as far as
I am able to judge of the French language is bet-
ter than the original. The Anacreontic that fol-
lows " Gay Bacchus," etc., is also a translation of
a Latin poem by Aurelius Augurellus, an Italian
poet, beginning with,
InvUat olim Bacchus ad cocnam suoa
Comum, Jocum, Cupidinuni.
Parnell, when he translated it, applied the cha-
Idcters to some of his friends, and, as it was written
for their entertainment, it probably gave them more
pleasure than it has given the public in the peru-
sal. It seems to have more spirit than the original ;
but it is extraordinary that it was [mblished as an
original and not as a translation. Pope should
have acknowledged it, as he knew.
The fairy tale is incontestably one of the finest
pieces in anv 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, l)y the by,
dots not belong to Catullus) is very well versified,
and in general all Parnell's translations are excr 1-
Icnt. The Battle of the Frogs and Mice, which
follows, is done as well as the subject would admit:
but there is a defect in the translation which sink<j
it below the original, and which it was impossible
to remedy; I mean the names of the combatants,
which in the Greek 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
Pternotractas in Greek was a very good soun<ling
word that conveyed that meaning. PulTcheek
would sound odiously as a name for a frog, and
yet Physignathos docs admirably well in the origi-
nal.
The letter to Mr. Pope is one of the finest
compliments that ever was paid to any [K¥>t;
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 fur from
wit and learning, as being far from Pof>e, gave
particular offence to his friends at home. Mr.
Coote, a gentleman in his neighbourhood, who
thought that he himself had wit, was very much
displeased with Parnell for casting his eyes so far
off for a learned friend, when he could so conve-
niently be supphed at home.
The translation of a part of the Rape of (he
Lock into monkish verse, serves to show what a
master Parnell was of the Latin ; a copy of verses
made in this manner, is one of the most diflirult
trillcs that can possibly be imagined. 1 am assured
that it was written upon the following occasion.
Before the Rape of the Lock was yet com|)letetl,
Pope was reading it to his friend Swift, who sat
very attentively, while Parnell, who hap[)oned to
be in the house, went in and out without seeming
to take any notice. However, he was very dili-
gently employed in listening, ami was able, from
the strength of his memory, to bring away (he
whole description of the toilet pretty exacily. Thi«
he versified in the manner now jiublishcd in hif
works; and the next day, when Po|>e wan reniling
his poem to some friends, Parixll insisteil ihnt he
had stolen that part of the description from nn old
monkish manuscript. An old pa|x-r witli the Latin
verses was soon brought forth, and it was not (ill
after some time that Pope wa« delivered from the
confusion which it at first pro<luccd.
The Book-worm is ano(her unarknowlnlged
translation from a Latin \*<>cm by r.eza. It wn«
the fashion with the wits of (he la!=l age to cnnrrnl
the places whence thi-y t<K)k (heir liintn or (heir
subjects. A (rillin<i ackiiowletlgmeiit woidd h>i»^
made that lawful prize, whirh may now Iw con«d
ered as plunder.
The Ni^zhl Piecr on Deadi drwrven ever*- pr^i^ft,
and 1 should suppose, wi(h very liltle nmrndinrni,
ini'fht be made to surpass all (hn«e ni;:h( pi<Trt
and church-vard scene* that Ust^c ninrr ap|iMrc«l
406
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
But the poem of Parnell's best known, and on
wliich his best reputation is grounded, is the Her-
mit. Pope, speaking of this in those manuscript
anecdotes already quoted, says " That the poem is
very good. The story," continues he, " was writ-
ten originally in Spanish, whence probably Howel
had translated it into prose, and inserted it in one
of his letters. Addison liked the scheme, and was
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
soni°, that it is originally of Arabian invention.
"With respect to the prose works of Parnell, I
have mentioned them already ; his fame is too well
grounded fur any defects in them to shake it. 1
will only add, that the Life of Zoilus was written
at the request of his friends, and designed 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 Gay, in
which they endeavour to hasten him to finish that
production.
" London, March 18.
"Dear Sir,
" I must own I have long owed you a letter, but
you must own, you have 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 you : but you have several who 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 aflairs;
others, that you are so much in the archbishop's
good graces, that you will not correspond with any
that have seen the last ministry. Some aflirin you
have quarrelled with Pope (whose friends they ob-
serve daily fall from him on account of his satirical
and comical disposition;) others that you are in-
sinuating yourself into the opinion of the inge-
nious Mr. What-do-ye-call-him. Some think you
are preparing' your sermons for the press; and
others, that you will transform 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 tiieir transportation
to England, and are sensible how much that Doc-
tor is cursed and hated, who introduced their spe-
cies into your nation ; therefore, as you dread the
wrath of St. Patrick, send them hither, and rid the
kingdom of those pernicious and loquacious animals.
" I have 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 Templeof 'Fame, Mr. Thomas Burnet's
Grumbler on Mr. Gay, and the Bishop of Ails-
bury's Elegy, written either by Mr. Gary or some
other hand.
" Mr. Pope is reading a letter; and in the mean
time, I make use of the pen to testify my uneasi-
ness in not hearing from you. I find success, even
in the most trivial things, raises the indignation of
Scribblers: for I, for my What-d'ye-call-it, could
neither escape the fury of Mr. Burnet, or the Ger-
man doctor ; then where will rage end, when H o-
mer is to be translated? Let Zoilus hasten to your
friend's assistance, and envious criticism shall be
no more. I am in hopes that we may order our
affairs 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 honour to
leave the Bath for fear of a broken head, as for a
Terrse Filius of Oxford to be expelled.^ I have no
place at court ; therefore, that I may not entirely
be without one every where, show that I have a
place in your remembrance.
" Your most affectionate,
"Faithful servants,
"A. Pope and J. Gay."
" Homer will be published in three weeks."
I can not finish this trifle without returning my
sincerest acknowledgments to Sir John Parnell,
for the generous assistance he was pleased to give
me, in furnishing me with many materials, when
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
OF
mtnvvt, Hottr 2ft!(^tount JJolinijtjroftr.
[first printed in 1771.]
There are some characters that seem formed
by nature to take delight in strjggUng with oppo-
sition, and whose most agreeable hours are passed
in storms of their own creating. The subject of
the present sketch was, perhaps, of all others, the
most indefatigable in raising himself enemies, to
show his power in subduing them ; and was not
less employed in improving his superior talents
than in finding objects on which to exercise their
activity. His life was spent in a continual con-
flict of politics ; and, as if that was too short for the
combat, he has left his memory as a subject of last-
ing contention.
It is, indeed, no easy matter to preserve an ac-
knowledged impartiality in talking of a man so
differently regarded on account of his political, as
well as liis 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;
and this was perhaps what he most desired, hanng,
from nature, a mind better pleased with the struggle
than the victory.
Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbrokc,
was born in the year 1G73, at Battersea, in Surrey,
at a seat that had been in the possession of his an-
cestors 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 origin
as high as Adam de Port, Baron of Basing, in
Hampshire, before the CoiKjucst ; and in a suc-
cession of ages, to have produced warriors, patriots,
and statesmen, some of whom were cons]iicuous
for their loyalty, and others for their defending the
rights of the people. His grandfather, Sir Walter
St. John, of Battersea, marrying one of the daugh-
ters of L'"-d Chief Justice St. John, who, as all
know, was strongly attached to the republican
party, Henry, the subject of the present mi-nioir,
was brought up in his family, and consequently
imbibed the first principles of his education amon^^t
the dissenters. At that time, Daniel Burgess, ,i
fanatic of a very peculiar kind, being at once \>o^
scssed of zeal and humour, and as well known fur
the archness of his conceits as the furious olwtina-
cy of his principles; was confessor in the presby-
terian way to his grandmother, and was apfminteJ
to direct our author's first studies. Nothing is m
apt to disgust a feeling mind as mistaken zeal; and,
perhaps, the absurdity of the first lectures he re-
ceived might have given him that contempt for all
religions which he might have justly conceivnl
against one. Indeed no task can be more morti-
fying than what he was condemned to undergo:
"I was obliged," says he, in one ]ilace, "while yet
a boy, to read over the commentaries of Dr. Man-
ton, whose pride it was to have made a hundred
and nineteen sermons on the hundred and nine-
teenth psalm." Dr. Manton and hLs sermon* wcro
not likely to prevail much on one who wiui, |*r-
haps, the most sharp-sighted in the world at dis-
covering the absurdities of olherH, however ho
might have been guilty of establishing many of
his own.
But these dreary instiiuiions were of no very
long contiiiuanre ; as soon as it was fit to takr him
out of the hands of the women, ho was wot 1.)
Eton school, and removed Ihcncc to Chriiil<hurrh
collew in Oxford. His gi ni\i8 and unden»tandinj{
were seen and admiretl in l>«)lh these wniinanr*,
but his love of pleasure had so much the nsrrndrn
cy, that he seemeil contented rather with the om
sriousness of his own great power* than iheir cl
ertion. However, his friends, and ihow whc> ki-.rw
him most intimately, were thoroughly sonwMe cf
the extent of liis luind j and when he left llM
408
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
university, he was considered as one who had the
fairest opportunity of making a shining figure in
active Ufe.
Nature seemed not less kind to liim in her ex-
ternal embellishments than in adorning his mind.
With the graces of a handsome person, and a face
in which dignity was happily blended with sweet-
ness, he had a manner of address that was very
engaging. His vivacity was always awake, his
ai)prehension was quick, his wit refined, and his
memory amazing: his sublety in thinking and
reasoning was profound; and all these talents
were adorned with an elocution that was irre-
sistible.
To the assemblage of so many gifts from na-
ture, it was expected that art would soon give her
finishing hand; and that a youth, begun in excel-
lence, would soon arrive at perfection : but such is
the perverseness of human nature, that an age
which should have been employed in the acquisi-
tion of knowledge, was dissipated in pleasure; and
instead of aiming to excel in praiseworthy pur-
suits, Bolingbroke seemed more ambitious of being
thought the greatest rake about town. This period
might have been compared to that of fermentation
in liquors, which grow muddy before they bright-
en; 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 in
tervals ; 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 even then despised his
paltry ambition. " The love of study," says he,
" and desire of knowledge, were what I felt all my
life; and though my genius, unlike the demon 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 very 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 intoxication ; but then
it was a time when public decency might be trans-
gressed with less danger than at present.
During this period, as all his attachments were
to pleasure, so his studies 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, compliment-
* Our author uppears fond of this figure, for we find it in-
iroduced into his Essay on Polite Literature. The propriety,
however, both of the simile, and of the position it endeavours
'« illustrate, is ably examineil in a periodical work, entitled
l|ie PhilantKrope, published in London in the year 1797.
ing the poet, and praising his translation. W
have another, not so well known, prefixed to a
French work, published in Holland by the Che-
valier de St. Hyacinth, entitled, Le Chcf-cV-CEuvre.
d'un Inconnu. This performance is a humorous
piece of criticism upon a miserable old ballad; and
Bolingbroke's compliment, though written in Eng-
lish, is printed in Greek characters, so that at the
first glance it may deceive the eye, and be mistaken
for real Greek. The(re 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
sometime; but at length, in 1700, when he ar-
rived at the twenty-eighth year of his age, he be-
gan 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 there-
fore made his first effort to break from his state of
infatuation, by marrying the daughter and colieir-
ess 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 hU
former plcasure.s, 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 ob-
stinacy of her temper, she of the shamelessness of
his infidelity. A great part of her fortune, some
time after, upon his attainder, was given her back;
but, as her family estates were settled ujjon him,
he enjoyed them after her death, upon the reversal
of his attainder.
Having taken a resolution to quit the allure-
ments of pleasure for the stronger attractions of
ambition, soon after his marriage he procured a
seat in the House of Commons, being elected for
the borough of Wotton-Basset, in Wiltshire, his
father having served several times for the same
place. Besides his natural endowments and his
large fortune, he had other very considerable ad-
vantages that gave him weight in the senate, and
seconded his views of preferment. His grand-
father, Sir WaUer St. John, was still ahve; and
that gentleman's interest was so great in his own
county of Wilts, that he represented it in two Par-
liaments in a former reign. His father also was
then the representative for the same; and the in-
terest of his wife's family in the House was very
extensive. Thus Bolingbroke took his seat will,
many accidental helps, but his chief and great ro
source lay in his own extensive abilities.
At that time the whig and the tor^j parties were
strongly opposed in the House, and pretty nearly
balanced. In the latter yearsof 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 continued in the same upon the accession of
Clueen Anne, the year ensuing. Bolingbroke 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 gainintr
ground, while the whigs were declining, he soon
changed his connexions, and joined himself to Har-
ley, 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 very considerable, the Hou.se perceivincr
even in so young a speaker the greatest eloquence,
united with the profoundcst discernment. The
year following he was again chosen anew for the
same borough, and persevered in his former at-
tachments, 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 Marine, his friend Harley having a
little before been made Secretary of State.
The tory party being thus established 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 Marlbo-
rough, who might be considered as at the head of
the opposite party, was supplied with all the ne-
cessaries for carrying on the war in Flanders with
vigour; and it is remarkable, that the greatest
events of his campaigns, such as the battles of
Blenheim and Ramilics. and several glorious at-
tempts made by the duke to shorten the war by
some decisive action, fell out while Bolingbroke
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 life ; he
knew his faults, he admired his virtues, and had
the boast of beino- instrumental in giving lustre to
those triumphs by which his own power was in a
manner overthrown.
As the affairs of the nation were then in as
fluctuating a state as at j)resent, Harley, after
maintaining the lead for above three years, wa.s in
his turn obliged to submit to the whigs, who once
more became the prevailing party, and he was com-
pelled to resign the seals. The friendship lietwoen
him and Bolinirhroke seemed at this time to have
been smcere and disinterested ; for the latter chose
to follow his fortune, and the next day resigned hia
employments in the administration, "following Iiis
friend's example, and setting an example at once of
mtegrity and moderation. As an instance of this,
when his coadjutors, the tories, were for carrying
a violent measure in the House of Commons, io
order to bring the Princess Sojihia into England,
Bolingbroke so artfully opposed it, that it droj-jx-d
without a debate. For this his mwleration was
praised, but perhaps at the exi)enscof hissag.icity.
For some time the whigs seemed to have gained
a complete triumph, and ufion the election of a new
Pariiament, in the year 1708, Bolingbroke was not
returned. The interval which followed, of al)ove
two years, he employed in the severest study, and
this recluse period he ever after used to cons'i.lcras
the most active and serviceable of liis wln.lc life.
But his retirement was soon interrujitcd bv the
prevailing of his party once more; for the Whig
Parliament being dissolved in the year 1710, he
was again chosen, and Harley being made Chan-
cellor, and Undertreasurcr of the Exchequer, the
important post of Secretary of State was given to
our author, in which he discovered a degree of
genius and assiduity that perhaps have never been
known to be united in one person to the same
degree.
The English annals scarcely produce a more
trying juncture, or that required such various abili-
ties to regulate. He was then placed in a sphere
where he was obliged to conduct the machine of
state, struggling with a thousand various calami-
ties ; a desperate enraged party, whose character-
istic it has ever been to liear none in power but
themselves ; a war conducted by an able general,
his professed o])|)onent, and whose victories only
tended to render him every day more formidable;
a foreign etiemy, pos.sessed of endless re»ourco»,
and seeming to gather strength from everv' drfrat j
an insidious alliance, that wanted only to gain the
advantage of victory, without contributing to the
expenses of the combat ; a weak ileclininp nn.«f rr«i,
that was led by every re]H>rt, and seemed ready to
listen to whatever was said against liim ; still more,
a gloomy, indolent, and suspicious colleague, that
envied his power, and hated him for his nbilitie«:
these were a jiart of the dillii-ulties that Hojingbrokc
had to struggle with in office, anti under which ho
was to conduct the treaty of |icacc of Utrecht, which
was considered as one of the most complicat«\! no-
Tociations that history can afford. But nothinjt
seemed too great for his abilities and industry ; he
set himself to the undertaking with spirit ; ho bo
gan to pave the way to the intended treaty, ny
niakiniT the people discontented at the cnnlinuanre
of the war; for this purpose he cmploycti liinurelf
in drawing up accurate compulations of ihr num-
I'crs of our own men, and thai of fon-igncr*, cm-
'.10
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ployeil in its destructive progress. He even wrote
m the Examiner, and other periodical papers of
the times, showing how much of the burden rested
upon England, and how little was sustained by
those who falsely boasted their alliance. By these
means, and after much debate in the House of
Commons, the Clueen received a petition from Par-
liament, showing the hardships the allies had put
upon England in carrying on this war, and conse-
quently 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 levelled, did all that was in their power to
oppose it : many of the foreign courts also, with
whom he had any transactions, were continually
at work to defeat the minister's intentions. Me-
morial was delivered after memorial ; the people of
England, the Parliament, and all Europe, were
made acquainted with the injustice and the dan-
gers of such a proceeding ; however, Bolingbroke
went on with steadiness and resolution, and al-
though the attacks of his enemies at home might
have been deemed sufficient to employ his atten-
tion, yet he was obliged, at the same time that he
furnished materials to the press in London, to fur-
nish instructions to all our ministers and ambassa-
dors abroad, who would do nothing but in pursu-
ance of his 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 an-
swered the objections that were made by the lead-
ers of the opi)osition ; and all this with such suc-
cess, that even his enemies, while they oi)posed
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 vastnessof 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 fol-
low such abilities, joined to so much assiduity. In
July, 1712, he was created Baron St. John of
Lidyard Tregoze, in Wiltshire, and Viscount Bo-
lingbroke ; by the last of which titles he is now
generally known, and is likely to be talked of by
posterity ; he was also the same year appointed
Lord Lieutenant of the county of Essex. By the
titles of Tregoze and Bolingbroke, he united the
honours of elder and younger branches of his fami-
ly ; and thus transmitted into one channel the op-
])osing interest of two races, that had been distin-
guished, one for their loyalty to King Charles I.
the other for their attachment to the Parliament
that opposed him. It was always his boast, that
ne steered deal of the extremes for which his an-
cestors had been distinguished, having kept the
spirit of the one, and acknowledged the subordina-
tion that distinguished the other.
Bolingbroke, being thus raised very near the
summit of power, began to perceive more clearly
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 industrious as he
supposed him to be. He now began from his heart
to renounce the friendship which he once had for
his coadjutor ; he began to imagine him treache-
rous, mean, indolent, and invidious ; he even be-
gan to ascribe his own promotion to Oxford's ha-
tred, and to suppose that he was sent up to the
House of Lords only to render him contemptible.
These suspicions were partly true, and partly sug-
gested by Bolingbroke's own ambition : being sen-
sible of his own superior importance and capacity,
he could not bear to see another take the lead in
public aflairs, when he knew they owed their chief
success to his own management. Whatever might
have been his motives, whether of contempt, ha-
tred, or ambition, it is certain an irreconcileable
breach began between these two leaders of their
party ; their mutual hatred was so great, that even
their own common interest, the vigour of their ne-
gociations, and the safety of their friends, were en-
tirely sacrificed to it. It was in vain that Swift,
who was admitted into their counsels, urged the
unreasonable impropriety of their disputes ; that,
while they were thus at variance within the walls,
the enemy were making irreparable breaches with-
out. 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 mutual safety, preferring even death itself
to the appearance of a temporary friendship.
Nothing could have been more weak and injudi-
cious than their mutual animosities at this junc-
ture ; and it may be asserted with truth, that men
who were unable to suppress or conceal their re-
sentments upon such a trying occasion, were unfit
to take the lead in any measures, be their industry
or their abilities ever so great. In fact, their dis-
sensions were soon found to involve not only them,
but their party in utter ruin ; their hopes had for
some time been declining, the whigs were daily
gaining ground, and the queen's death soon after
totally destroyed all their schemes with their
power.
Upon the accession of George I. to the throne,
danger began to threaten the late ministry on every
side : whether they had really intentions of bring-
in jj in the Pretender, or whether the whigs made
LIFE I ^' HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE.
411
it a pretext for destroying them, is uncertain ; but
the king very soon began to show that they were
to expect neither favour nor mercy at his hands.
Upon his landing at Greenwich, when the court
came to wait upon him, and Lord Oxford among
the number, he studiously avoided taking any no-
tice of him, and testified his resentment by the ca-
resses he bestowed upon the members of the opposite
faction. A regency had been some time before
appointed to govern the kingdom, and Addison
was made Secretary. Bolingbroke still maintain-
ed his place of State Secretary, but subject to the
contempt of the great, and the insults of the mean.
The first step taken by them to mortify him, was
to order all letters and packets, directed to the Sec-
retary of State, to be sent to Mr. Addison ; so
that Bolingbroke was in fact removed from his
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 malevolence, or who
expected to make their court to those in power by
abusing him.
Upon this sudden turn of fortune, when the
seals were taken from him, he went into the coun
try ; and having received a message from court to
be present when the seal was taken from the door
of the secretary's office, he excused himself, alleg-
ing, that so trifling a ceremony might as well be
performed by one of the under secretaries, but at
the same time requested the honour of kissing the
king's hand, to whom he testified the utmost sub-
mission. Tliis 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 on the 17th of March, and in the king's speech
from the throne many inflaming hints were given,
and many methods of violence chalked out to the
two Houses. " The first steps (says Lord Bo-
lingbroke, 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 concur to condemn, in one general vote, all
that they had approved in a former Parliament by
many particular resolutions. Among several
bloody resolutions proposed and agitated at this
time, the resolution of impeaching me of high
trea-son was taken, and I took that of leaving Eng-
land, not in a panic terror, improved by the arti-
fices of the Duke of Marlborough, whom 1 knew
even at that time too well to act by his advice or
information in any case, but on such grounds as
the proceedinjjs which soon followed sufiiciently
justified, and such as 1 have never repented build-
ing upon. Those who blamed it in the first hea»
were soon after obliged to change their language •
for what other resolution could 1 take? The me-
thod of prosecution designed against me would have
put me out of a condition iimnediatdy to act for
myself, 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 as-
sistance I could depend, or to whom I would even
m these circumstances be obliged] The ferment
in the nation was wrought up to a considerable
height ; but there was at that time no reason to
expect that it could influence the proceedings in
Parliament, in favour of those who should be ac-
cused : left to its own movement, it waa much
more proper to quicken than slacken the prosecu-
tions J and who was there to guide its motions ]
The tories, who had been true to one another to
the last, were a handful, and no great vigour could
be expected from them; the whimsicals, dimip-
pointed of the figure which they hoj>ed to make,
began indeed to join their old friends. One of
the principal among them, namely, the Earl of An-
glesea, was so very good as to confess to me, that
if the court had called the servants of the late
queen to account, and stopj)cd 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 declared to the whole
tory party, and that now the state of things was
altered. This discourse needed no commenlarj-,
and proved to me, that 1 had never erred in the
judgment 1 made of this set of men. Could I then
resolved to be obliged to them, or to sufltT wiih
Oxford 7 As much as I still was heated by the
dis|)utes, in which 1 had l>een all my life engagtxl
against the whigs, 1 would sooner have ch<>»«'n to
owe my security to their indulgence, than to
the assistance of the whimsicals ; but 1 thought
banishment, with all her train of cvih», preferaUo
to either."
Such was the miserable situation to which he
was reduced uimn tiiis occasion : of all the numlxT
of his former llalterers and dei>ondantj«, nc-irccly
was one found remaining. Every hour brought
fresh reports of his alarming situation, and the dan-
gers which threatened him and his i«rty on all
sides. Prior, who had been cmployeti in neg.v
cialing the treaty of Utrecht, was come over lo
Dover, and promised to reveal all he know. Tbo
Duke of Marlborough plantoil his creatures munJ
his lordship, who artfully endeavoured lo inrmi»o
the danger; and an impeachment was actually
preparing in which he wa." accused of high trr.i.».'n.
It argued therelore no great degror of linutlilv in
his lordship, to take the first opjiortunily to with-
draw from danger, and lo suffer the first Ixulinga
of poi)ular animoiiily to quench the tlainc that ItaJ
L
been raised against him : accordingly, having made
a gallant show of despising the machinations against
him, having appeared in a very unconcerned man-
ner 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 Vigne, a messenger be-
longing to the French king ; and there one Wil-
liam Morgan, who had been a captain in General
Hill's regiment of dragoons, hired a vessel, and
carried him over to Calais, where the governor at-
tended him in his coach, and carried him to his
house with all possible 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 abruptly, that I had no time
to take leave of you or any of my friends. You
will excuse me, when you know that 1 had certain
and repeated informations, from some who are in
the secret of affairs, that a resolution was taken,
by those who have power to execute it, to pursue
mc to the scaffold. My blood was to have been
the cement of a new alliance, nor could my iniio-
cence be any security, after it had once been de-
manded 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 fair and open trial,
after having been already prejudged unheard by
the two Houses of Parliament, I should not have
declined the strictest examination. I challenge the
most inveterate of my enemies to produce any one
instance of a criminal correspondence, or the least
corruption 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 favourable 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 shortly.
" Yours," etc.
K o sooner was it vmiversally known that he was
.eiired to France, than his flight was construed
into a proof of his guilt ; and his enemies accord-
ingly set about driving on his iuipeachment with
redoubled alacrity. Mr., afterwards Sir Roberi
Walpole, who had suffered a good deal by his at-
tachment 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 impeachment consisted of six articles, which
Walpole read to th(^ House, in substance as fol-
lows: — First, that whereas the Lord Bolingbroke
had assured the Dutch ministers, that 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 al-
lies. Secondly, that he advised and promoted the
making a separate treaty of convention with France,
which was signed in September. Thirdly, that he
disclosed to M. Mesnager, the French minister at
London, this convention, which was the prelimi-
nary instructions to her majesty's plenipotentiaries
at Utrecht. Fourthly, that her majesty's final in-
structions to her plenipotentiaries were disclosed
by him to the Abbot Gualtier, who was an emissa-
ry of France. Fifthly, that he disclosed to the
French the manner how Tournay in Flanders
might be gained by them. And lastly, that he ad-
vised 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 aggravated 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 universal consternation of the tory
party, none was for some time seen to stir ; but at
length General Ross, who had received favours from
his lordship, 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 proceed, he hesitated so much that he was
obliged to sit down, observing, that he would re-
serve what he had to say to another opportunity.
It may easily be supposed, that the whigs found no
great difficulty in passing the vote for his impeach-
ment 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
10th of September. Nothing could be more unjust
than such a sentence; but justice had been drovrried
in the spirit of party.
Bolingbroke, thus finding all hopes cut off at
home, began to think of improving 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 de-
pressed situation he began to listen to some propo-
sals which were made by the Pretender, who was
then residing at Bar, in France, and who was do-
LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE.
413
tirous of admitting Bolingbroke into his secret
councils. A proposal of this nature had been made
liiiii 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 re-
fused, and made the best applications his 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 found it vain
to think of maldng 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 frank-
ly ashe had exposed all that was gone. At length,
Bays he, talking of himself, these commands came,
and were executed in the following manner. The
person who was sent to me arrived in the begin-
nincr of July, 1715, at the place I had retired to in
Dauphiny. 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, but under some sort of dissatisfaction to be
withheld from begianing : that in England the
people were exasperated against the government
to such a degree, that, far from wanting to be en-
couraged, they could n«t be restrained from insult-
ing it on every occasion ; that the whole tory party
was become avowedly Jacobites ; that many officers
of the army, and the majority of the soldiers, were
well affected to the cause ; that tlie city of London
tvas ready to rise, and that the enterprises for seiz-
ing of several places were ripe for execution; in a
word, that most of the principal tories were in con-
cert 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, that there remained no
doubt of their joining as soon as the first blow
should be struck. He added, that my friends were
a little surprised to observe that I lay neuter in such
a conjuncture. He represented to me the danger
I ran, of being prevented by people of all sides from
having the merit of engaging early in this enter-
prise, and how unaccountable it would be fur a man,
unpeached and attainted under the present govern-
ment, to take no share in bringing about a revolu-
tion, so near at hand and so certain. He entreated
that I would defer no longer to join the Chevalier,
to advise and assist in carrying on his affairs, and
to solicit and ncgociate at tlic court of France,
where my friends imagined that I should not fill
to meet a favourable reception, and whence they
made no doubt of receiving assistance in a situation
of affairs so critical, so unexpected, and so promis-
ing. He concluded, by giving me a l.tter from the
Pretender, whom he hai seen in his way to me,
iu which I was pressed to repair without loss of
time to Commercj ; and this instance was ground-
ed on the message which the bearer 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 tho
general disposition of the people ; but he gave nie
little satisfaction as to the measures taken to im-
prove this disposition, for driving the business on
with vigour, if it tended to a revolution, or for sup
porting it to advantage, if it spun into a war. Whin
I questioned him concerning several |KT»ons whouc
disinclination to the government admitted no doubt,
p.nd whose names, quality, and exj)crirnce wero
very essential to the success of the undertaking, he
owned to me that they kept a great res«rvc, 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 imiMirtant 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 l)e under op-
pression, and to call for my assistance. Besides
which, I considered first that I should 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 bo
near to take up arms as he represented them to
be, on no other foundation than that wliich he ex-
posed.
In this manner, having for some time debated
with himself, and taken his resolution, he lost no
time in repairing to the Pretender at Comtncrcy,
and took the seals of that nominal king, as he had
formeriv those of his potent mistress. But this was
a terrible falling off indeed; and the very first con-
versation he had with this weak projector, gave
him the most unfavourable cxjiectations of future
success. He talked to me, says liLs lordship, like
a man who expected every moment to set out foi
England or Scotland, but who did not very well
know for which : and when he entered into the
particulars of his affairs, 1 found, that concerning
the former he had nothing more circumslanlial or
positive to go upon than what I have already re-
lated. But the Duke of Ormond ha<l U-en forii..n>e
time, I can not say how long, cngnged with the
Chevalier : he had taken the direction of this whole
allair, as far as it related to England, uin.n hininclf;
and had received a commiii-ion for thin purjowte,
which contained the most ample p-wers ihntrouU
be given. But still, however, all was uni«-lllrtl,
undetermined, and ill undersUHHl. The duke had
asked from France a fmall Inxly of foree«, a nuni
of money, and a quantity of ommunitioi.: but to
the first part of the request he received a flat deni-
al but was made to Iioih- that siome armo and Mm«
ammunition might Ik« given. This was but a vrrv
gloomy prosi>ect; yet hope swelled the deprr>.M d
414
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
party so high, that they talked of nothing less than
an instant and ready revolution. It was their in-
terest 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 insurrec-
tion.
Such was the state of things when Bolingbroke
arrived to take up his new office at Commercy ; 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 reception and ne-
gociations at Paris were still more unpromising
than those at Commercy ; and nothing but absolute
infatuation seemed to dictate every measure 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 subordination, no order,
no concert. The Jacobites had wrought one another
up to look upon the success of the present designs
as infallible : every meeting-house which the popu-
lace demolished, as he himself says, every little
drunken riot which happened, served to confirm
them in these sanguine expectations; and there was
hardly one among them, who would lose the air
of contributing by his intrigues to the restoration,
which he took for granted would be brought about
in a few weeks. Care and hope, says our author
very humorously, sat on every busy Irish face;
those who could read and write had letters to show,
aTid those who had not arrived to this pitch of eru-
dition had their secrets to whisper. No sex was
excluded from this mini.^try; 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 ridiculous corres-
[Kindence was carried on with England by people
of like importance, and who were busy in sound-
ing 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 l)efore he
came to Paris, what was doing had been discover-
ed. The little armament made at Havre de Grace,
which furnished the only means to the Pretender
of landing on the coasts of Britain, and which had
exhausted the treasury of St. Germain's, was talk-
ed of publicly. The Earl of Stair, the English
minister at that city, very soon discovered its desti-
nation, and all the particulars of the intended in-
vasion; the names of the persons from whom sup-
plies came, and who were particularly active in the
dpsi<'-n, were whispered about at tea-tables and
coffee-houses. In short, what by the indiscretion
af the projectors, what by the private interests and
ambitious views of the French, the most private
transactions came to light; and such of the mora
prudent jilotters, who supposed that they had trust-
ed their heads to the keeping of one or two friends,
were in reality at the mercy of numbers. Into
such company, exclaims 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 en-
deavours abortive : yet, notwithstanding these un-
favourable circumstances, he still continued to dis-
patch several messages and directions 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, 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 through the French Secretary of State,
wherein they declared themselves unable to say
any thing, till they saw what turn affairs 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 ar-
dently 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 the 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 Eng-
land, to inform them, that though the Chevaliei
was destitute of succour, and all reasonable hoi)eg
of it, yet he would land as they pleased in England
or Scotland at a minute's warning; and therefore
they might rise immediately after they had sent
dispatches to him. To this message Mr. Hamil-
ton returned very soon with an answer given by
Lord Lansdowne, in the name of all the persons
privy to the secret, that since affairs grew daily
worse, and would not mend by delay, the mal-
contents in England had resolved to declare im-
mediately, 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 other respect it was better he should
land in England ; that they had used their utmost
endeavours, and hoped the western counties 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 ofhismos<
zealous adherents, of the dispersion of many more
and the consternation of all ; so that upon his ar-
rival at Plymouth, finding nothing in readiness, he
returned to Britany. In these circumstances the
Pretender himself sent to have a vessel got ready
for him at D\mkirk, in which he went to Scotland,
leaving Lord Bolingbroke all this while at Paris,
to trv if by any means some assistance might not
be procured, without which all hopes of success
were at an end. It was during this negociation
upon this miserable proceeding, that he was sent
for by Mrs. Trant (a woman who had for some
tniie before ingratiated herself with the Regent of
France, by supplying him with mistresses from
England), to a Uttle house in the Bois de Boulogne,
where she lived with Mademoiselle Chausery, an
old superannuated waiting-woman belonging to
the regent. By these he was acquainted with the
measures they had taken for the service of the
Duke of Ormond ; although Bolingbroke, who was
actual secretary to the negociation, had never been
admitted to a confidence in their secrets. He was
therefore a little surprised at finding such mean
agents employed without his privity, and very soon
found them utterly unequal to the task. He quick-
ly therefore withdrew himself from such vv'retched
auxiliaries, and the regent himself seemed pleased
at his defection.
In the mean time the Pretender set sail from Dun-
kirk 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 service ; 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,
forcfot no argument which his understanding could
suggest, 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 Pre-
tender with money himself, had written some time
before his death to his grandson the King of Spain,
and had obtained from him a promise of forty
thousand crowns. A small part of this sum had
been received by the queen's treasurer at St. Ger-
main's, and had been sent to Scotland, or employ-
ed to defray the expenses which were daily mak-
ing on the coast; at the same time Bolingbroke
pressed the Spanish ambassador at Paris, and so-
ficifed the minister at the court of Sjiain. 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 trilling 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 pri-
vateers in the expedition, that were to have carried
wtiatever should be r>ecessary to send to any part
of Britain in their first voyage, and then to cruise
under the Pretender's commission. He had ac-
tually agreed for some, and had it in his power to
have made the same bargain with others : Sweden
on the one side, and Scotland on the other, could
have afforded them retreats ; and, if the war had
been kept up in any part of the mountains, this
armament would have been of the utmost advan-
tage. But all his projects and negociations failed
by the Pretender's i)recipitate return, who was not
p.bove six weeks in his expedition, and flew out of
Scotland even before all had been tried in his de-
fence.
The expedition being in this manner totally de-
feated, Bolingbroke now began to think that it was
his duty as well as interest to save the poor re-
mains of the disappointed party. He never had
any great opinion of the Pretender's success be-
fore he set off; but when this adventurer had taken
the last step which it was in his power to make,
our secretary then resolved to suffer neither him,
nor the Scotch, to be any longer bubbles of their
own credulity, and of the scandalous artifices of
the French court. In a conversation he had with
the Marshal de Huxelles, he took occasion to de-
clare, that he would not be the instrument of amus-
ing the Scotch ; and since he was able to do them
no other service, he would at least inform them
of what little dependence they might place upon
assistance from France. He added, that he would
send them vessels, which, with those already 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 resolu-
tion, and advised him to execute it, as the only
thing which was left to do ; but in the mean time
the Pretender landed at Graveline, and gave orders
to stop all vessels bound on his account to Scot-
land ; and Bolingbroke saw him the morning after
his arrival at St. Germain's, and he received him
with open arms.
As it was the secretary's business, as soon as
Bolingbroke heard of his return, he went to ac-
quaint the French court with it ; when it was re-
commended to him to advise the Pretender to pro-
ceed to Bar with all possible diligence ; 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. Gernuiin's, and in
the neighbourhood of Paris, and to have a private
meeting with the regent : he accordingly sent
Bolingbroke to solicit this meeting, who exerted all
his influence in the negociation. He wrote and
spoke to the Marshall de Huxelles, who answered
him bv word of mouth and by letters, refusing
him bv both, and assuring him that the regent said
the things which were asked were puerilities, and
swore he would not see hitn. The secretary, no
ways disi)leased with his ill success; returned will'
this answer to his master, who acquiesced in this
determination, and declared he would instantly set
out for Lorrain, at the same time assuring BoUng-
broke of his firm reliance on his integrity.
However, the Pretender, instead of taking post
for Lorrain, as he had promised, went to a^ittle
house in the Bois de Boulogne, where his female
ministers resided, and there continued for several
days, seeing the Spanish and Swedish ministers,
and even 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 Ormond 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 t'.iis Bolingbroke was
not to be deceived, who knew the place of his pre-
sent residence. In one of these papers the Pre-
tender declared that he had no further occasion for
the secretary's service ; and the other was an order
to him to give up the papers in 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 seve-
ral insinuations, under the Pretender'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 up without scruple all the
papers which remained in his hands, because he
was determined never to make use of them, so iie
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 little need there was to get rid of
a man in this manner, who only wanted an oppor-
tunity 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
princiijle to give a foundation to their hopes, union
to advance them, nor abilities to put them in
motion.
Bolingbroke, bcintr thus dismissed from the Pre-
tender's service, supposed that he had got rid of
the trouble and the ignominy of so mean an em-
ployment at the same lime ; but he was mistaken :
he was no sooner rejected from the office than ar-
ticles of impeachment were preferred against him,
in the same manner as he had before been im-
peached in England, though not with such effectual
injury to his person and fortune. The articles of
his impeachment 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 found by those who came
to him about business ; and if by chance or strata-
gem they got hold of him, he affected being in a
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 dif-
ferent messengers at different times, before the
Chevalier came from Dunkirk, of his being in
want of arms and ammunition, and prayed a sj)eedy
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 Gene-
ral Hamilton to inform him. that his want of arms
and ammunition was such, that he should be oblig-
ed to leave Scotland, unless he received speedy re-
lief ; yet Lord Bolingbroke amused Mr. Hamilton
twelve days together, and did not introduce him
to any of the French ministers, though he was re-
ferred to them for a particular account of affairs ;
or so much as communicated his letters to the
queen, or any body else. Fourthly, the Count de
Castel Blanco had for several months at Havre a
considerable quantity of arms and ammunition,
and did daily ask his lordship's orders how to dis
pose of them, but 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
merchants in France would have carried privately
any quantity of arms and ammunition into Scot-
land, his lordship desired a public order for the em-
barkation, which 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 arrival in Scotland; and though
there were many opportunities of writing in re-
turn, 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 extra-
ordinary reverse of fortune, preferred against Lord
Bolingbroke, in less than a year after similar arti-
cles 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 learned 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 virtue.
But though it was mortifying to be thus rejected
on both sides, yet he was not remiss in vindicating
himself from all. Against these articles of im-
peachment, therefore, he drew up an elaborate an-
swer in which he vindicates himself with great
plausibility. He had long, as he asserts, wished
LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE.
417
*0 leave the Pretender's service, but was entirely at
\ loss how to conduct himself in so difficult a re
«ignalion ; but at length, says he, the Pretender
»nd his council disposed of things better for me
than I could have done for myself. I had resolved,
on his return from Scotland, to follow him till his
residence should be fixed somewhere ; after which,
having served the tories in this, which I looked
upon as their last struggle for power, and having
continued to act in the Pretender's affairs till the
end of the term for which I embarked with 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 future occasion
to call me out of my retreat, the tories would pro-
bably have thought the same thing; my resolution
was taken to refuse them both, and I foresaw that
both would condemn 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 him, but also from making
my peace at home. The Pretender cut this Gordian
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 measures with
him, as I should have continued if I had never en-
gaged in his interest.
It is not to be supposed that one so very delicate
to preserve his honour, would previously have
basely betrayed his employer ; a man, conscious of
acting so infamous a part, would have undertaken
no defence, but let the accusations, 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 transact-
ed business, for the integrity of his proceedings at
that juncture; and had he been really guilty,
when he opposed the ministry here after his return,
they would not have failed to brand and detect his
duplicity. The truth is, that he perhaps was the
most disinterested minister at that time in the Pre-
tender'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 be-
lieves he was single. His integrity is much less
impeachable on this occasion than his ambition; for
all the steps he took may be fairly ascribed to his
displeasure at having the Duke of Ormond and the
Earl of IMar treated more confidentially than him-
self. It was his aim always to be foremost in every
administration, and he could not bear to act as
subaltern to so paltry a court aa that of the Pre-
tender's.
27
At all periods of his exile, he still looked towards
home with secret regret ; and had even taken every
opjwrtunity to apply to th.ise in power, either to
soften his prosecutions, or lessen the number of his
enemies at home. In accepting his office under the
Pretender, he made it a condition to be at liberty to
quit the post whenever he should think proper;
and being now disgracefully dismisscil, he turned
his mind entirely towards making his peace in
England, arid employing all the unfortunate expe-
rience he had acquired to undeceive his tory friends,
and to promote the union and quiet of Ids native
country. It was not a little favourable to his hopes,
that about this time, though unknown to him, the
Earl of Stair, ambassador to the French 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 consider-
ed as the grossest outrage. But when the breach
with the Pretender was universally known, the
earl sent one Monsieur Saludin, a gentleman of
Geneva, to Lord Bolingbroke, to communicate to
him his Majesty King George's favourable dispo-
tion 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 Boling-
broke, in his wretched circumstances, to refuse; he
embraced it, as became him to do, with all possible
sense of the king's goodness, and of the ambassa-
dor's friendship. 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 stipu-
late the conditions on which this act of grace should
be granted him : but this method of neo-ociation he
would by no means submit to; the notion of a
treaty shocked him, and he resolved never to be re-
stored, rather than go that way to work. Accord-
ingly, he opened himself without any reserve to
Lord Stair, and told him, that he looked upon him-
self obliged in honour and conscience to undeceive
his friends in England, both as to the state of for-
eign affairs, as to the management of the Jacobite
interest abroad, and as to the characters of the
persons ; in every one of which points he knew
them to be most grossly and most dangerously de-
luded. 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 Ufc, lie might be as-
sured 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 under a
necessity of making : that in doing this, he liatter-
ed himself that he should contribute sometliing to-
wards the establishment of the king's government,
and to the union of his subjects. He added, tha*
if the court thought hbu sincere ui those profe*
418
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
sions, a treaty with him was unnecessary; and
if they did not believe so, then a treaty would be
dangerous to him. The Earl of Stair, who has
also confirmed this account 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 accord-
ingly received a promise of pardon from George I.,
who, on the 2d of July, 1716, created his father
Baron of Battersea, in the county of Surrey, and
Viscount St. John. This seemed preparatory to
his own restoration ; and, instead of prosecuting
any further ambitious schemes against the govern-
ment, he rather began to turn his mind to philoso-
phy; 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 events that
had hitherto attended all his struggles, at last had
thrown him into a state of reflection, and this pro-
duced, by way of relief, a consolatio philosophica,
which he wrote the 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 picture, and repre-
sents himself as suffering persecution, for having
served his country with abilities and integrity. A
state of exile thus incurred, he very justly shows to
be rather honourable than distressful ; and indeed
there are few men who will deny, that the com-
pany of strangers to virtue is better than the com-
pany of enemies to it. Besides this philosophical
tract, he also wrote this year several letters, in an-
swer to the charges laid upon him by the Pretender
and his adherents ; and the following year he drew
up a vindication of his 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 pleasure a share in its
pursuits. He had never much agreed with the la-
dy he 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 sufficient maintenance to support her
•with becoming dignity: however, she did not long
survive his first disgrace ; and upon his becoming
a widower he began to think of trying his fortune
once more in a state which was at first so unfa-
vourable. For this purpose he cast his eye on the
widow of Villette, a niece to the famous Madame
Maintenon ; a young lady of great merit and un-
derstanding, possessed of a very large fortune, but
encumbered with a long and troublesome law-suit.
In the company of this very sensible woman he
passed his time in France, sometimes in the coun-
try, and sometimes at the capital, till the year 17'23,
in which, after the breaking up of the Parliament,
Ills majesty was pleased to grant him a pardon as
to his personal safety, but as yet neither restorinij
him to his family inheritance, his titic, nor a seal
in Parliament.
To obtain this favour had been the governing
principle of his politics for some years before ; and
upon the first notice of his good fortune, he pre
pared to return to his native country, where, how-
ever, his dearest connexions were either dead, or
declared themselves suspicious of his former con-
duct in support of their party. It is observable that
Bishop Atterbury, who was banished at this timo
for a supposed treasonable correspondence in favour
of the tories, was set on shore at Calais, just when
Lord Bolingbroke arrived there on his return to
England. So extraordinary a reverse of fortune
could not fail of strongly aflTecting that good pre-
late, who observed with some emotion, that he per-
ceived himself to be exchanged : he presently left it
to his auditors to imagine, 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 very vigorous applications
for further favours 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, his 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 inhentance, which amounted to nearly
three thousand pounds a-year. He was also ena-
bled by the same to possess any purchase he should
make of any other estate in the kingdom ; and he
accordingly pitched upon a seat of Lord Tanker-
ville's, at Dawley, near Uxbridge, in Middlesex,
where he settled with his lady, and laid himself out
to enjoy the rural pleasures in perfection, since the
more glorious ones of ambition were denied him.
With this resolution he began to improve his new
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 sketch of his way of living in this retreat in a let-
ter 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 Davi'ley,
the country farm abovementioned, and begins thus :
" I now hold the pen for my Lord Bolingbroke,
who is reading your letter between two hay-cocks ;
but his attention is somewhat diverted, by casting
his eyes on the clouds, not in the admiration of what
you say, but for fear of a shower. He is pleased
with your placing him in the triumvirate between
yourself and me ; 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 pleasure, like Antony. It is upon a foresight
of this, that he has fitted up his farm, and you will
LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE.
419
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 economy are
60 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 bishopric in England. As to
the return of his health and vigour, were you here,
you might inquire of his hay-makers ; but as to his
temperance, I can answer that for one whole day
we have had nothing for dinner but mutton-broth,
beans and bacon, and a barn-door fowl. Nov/ his
lordship is run after his cart, I have a moment left
' to myself to tell you, that I overheard him yesterday
agree with a painter for two hundred pounds, to
paint his country hall with rakes, spades, prongs,
etc. and other ornaments, merely to countenance
his calling this place a farm." Wiiat 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 char-
coal, or the smoke of a candle, upon the kitchen
walls of farm-houses. The whole, however, pro-
duced a most striking effect, and over the door at
the entrance into it was this motto : Satis beatus
ruris honoribus. His lordship seemed to be ex-
tremely happy in this pursuit of moral tranquillity,
and in the exultation of his heart could not fail of
communicating his satisfaction 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 phrase, and
neither my enemies nor my friends will find it an
easy matter to transplant me again."
■ There is not, perhaps, astronger instance in the
world than his lordship, 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 mistaken 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 obscurity; 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 thoroughly restored ; ^nd, as
he was excluded from a seat 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 business, and
disavowing all obligations to the minister, he em-
barked in the opposition against him, in which he
had several powerful coadjutors : but previously he
had taken care to prefer a petition to the House
of Commons, desiring to be reinstated in his former
emoluments and capacities. This petition at first
occasioned very warm debates : Walpole, who- pre-
tended to espouse his cause, alleged that it was
very right to admit him to his inheritance ; and
when Lord William Pawlet moved for a clause to
disqualify him from sitting in either House, Wal-
pole rejected the motion, secretly satisfied with a
resolution which had been settled in the cabinet,
that he should never more be admitted into any
share of power. To this artful method of evading
his pretensions, Bolingbroke was no stranger ; and
he was. now resolved to shake that power vs-hich
thus endeavoured to obstruct the increase of his
own : taking, therefore, his part in the opposition
with Pulteney, while the latter engaged to manage
the House of Commons, Bolingbroke undertook to
enlighten the people. Accordingly, he soon dis-
tinguished himself by a multitude of pieces, written
luring the latter part of George the First's reign,
and likewise the beginning of that which succeed-
ed. These were conceived with great vigour and
boldness ; and now, once more engaged in the ser-
vice of his country, though disarmed, gagged, and
almost bound, as he declared 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 dis-
advantages with himself. His letters, in a paper
called the Craftsman, were particularly distinguish-
ed in this political contest; and though several of
the most expert politicians of the time joined in
this paper, his essays were peculiarly relished by
the public. However, it is the fate of things writ-
ten to an occasion, seldom to survive that occasion:
the Craftsman, though written with great s{)irit
and sharpness, is now almost forgotten, although,
when it was published as a weekly paper, it sold
much more rapidly than even the Spectator. Be-
side this work he published several other separate
pamphlets, which were afterwards rcjirinted in the
second edition of his works, and which were very
popular in their day. This political warfare con-
tinued for ten years, during which time he laboured
with 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 desert him, upon whose
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 that he was perfectly cured of his
patriotic frenzy ; he fell out not only with Pulteney
for his selfish views, but with his old tricnds the
tories, for abandoning their cause as desperate-
averring, that the faint and unsteady exercise of
[larts on one side, was a crime but one degree infe-
rior 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, with-
out giving a parting blow, in which he seemed to
420
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Bummon up all his vigour at once : and where, as
the poet says,
Animam in vulnere posuit.
This inimitable piece is entitled, '■ 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 resolved to take leave, not
only of his enemies and friends, but even of his
country ; 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 present. They are divided, not so
much as it seemed, and as they would have it be-
lieved, about measures ; the true division is about
their different ends. Whilst the minister was not
hard pushed, nor the prospect of succeeding to him
near, they appeared to have but one end, the re-
formation of the government. The destruction of
the minister was pursued only as a preliminary, but
of essential and indisputable necessity, to that end;
but when his destruction seemed to approach, the
object of his succession interposed to the sight of
many, and the reformation of the government was
no longer their point of view. They had divided
the skin, at least in their thought, before they had
taken the beast. The common fear of hastening
his downfal for others, made them all faint in the
chase. It was this, and this alone that saved him,
and put off his evil day."
Such were his cooler reflections, after he had
laid down his political pen, to employ it in a man-
ner that was much more agreeable to his usual pro-
fessions, and his approaching age. He had long em-
ployed 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 interrrupted
by the alarms of {larty, he made no great proficiency
in his design. Still, however, 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 sight of every well con-
stituted 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 returned into France, far from the
noise and hurry of party ; for his seat at Dawley
was too near to devote the rest of his life to retire-
ment and stud)'. Upon his going to that country,
oa 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 suspicion was
Swift, whom Pope, in one of his letters, very round-
ly chides for harbouring such an unjust 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 ma-
licious reporter. What you writ to me about him,
I find, to my great scandal, repeated in one of
your's to another. Whatever you might hint to
me, was this for the profane? The thing, if true,
should be concealed : but it is, I assure you, abso-
lutely untrue in every circumstance. He has
fixed in a very agreeable retirement near Fontaine-
bleau, and makes it his whole business vacare lit-
leris."
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 embark 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 absolutely irreversible, and the door of the
House of Lords finally shut against him. He
therefore, at Pope's suggestion, retired merely to
be at leisure from the broils of opposition, for the
calmer pleasures of philosophy. Thus the decline
of his life, though less brilliant, became more ami-
able ; and even his happiness was improved by age,
which had rendered his passions more moderate,
and his wishes more attainable.
But he was far from sufl!ering even in solitude his
hours to glide away in torpid inactivity. That ac-
tive, restless disposition still continued to actuate his
pursuits ; and having lost the season for gaining
power over his contemporaries, he was now re-
solved upon acquiring fame from posterity. He
had not been long in his retreat near Fontaine-
bleau, when he began a course of " Letters on the
study and use of history, for the use of a young
nobleman." In these he does not follow the
methods of St.^Heal and others who have treat-
ed this subject,; who make history the great foun-
tain 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 application of
historical 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, which he had always
propagated in conversation, and which he now be
gan to adopt in his more laboured compositionsj
LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE.
421
Beenied 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
objeciions very new and unanswerable which had
been already confuted by thousatids. " Lord Bo-
lingbroke," 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 v^'as evident that a man
of his active ambition, in choosing retirement when
no longer able to lead in public, must be liable to
ridicule in resuming a resigned philosophical air, in
order to obviate the censure, he addressed a letter
to Lord Bathurst upon the true use of retirement
and study : in which he shows 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 coun-
try nor my friends ; and by my friends, I mean all
those, and those alone, who are such to their coun-
try. In their prosperity they shall endeavour to
hear of me ; in their distress always. In that re-
treat 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 ex-
changed the gay statesman for the grave philoso-
pher, he shone forth with distinguished lustre.
His conversation took a different turn from what
had been usual with him ; and as we are assured
by Lord Orrery, 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 himself up entirely to the
calls of philosophy, he could not resist embarking
once more in the debates of his country ; and com-
ing back from France, 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 re-
tard its fall. To redeem or save the nation from
perdition, he thought impossible, since national
c<irruptions were to be purged by national calami-
ties ; but he was resolved to lend his feeble assist-
ance to stem the torrent that was pouring in. With
this spirit he wrote that excellent piece, which is
entitled, "The Idea of a Patriot King;" in which
he describes a monarch uninfluenced by party,
leaning to the suggestions neither of whigs nor
tories, but equally the friend and the father of all.
Some time after, in the year 1719, after the con-
clusion of the peace two years before, the measures
taken by the administration seemed not to have
been repugnant to his notions of political prudence
for that juncture; in that year he wrote his last
production, containing reflections on the then state
of the nation, principally with the regard to her
taxes and debts, and on the causes and consequen-
ces of them. This undertaking was left unfinish-
ed, for death snatched the pen from the hand of
the writer.
Having passed the latter part of his life in digni-
ty and splendour, his rational faculties improved by
reflection, and his ambition kept under by disap-
pointment, his whole aim seemed to have been to
leave the stage of life, on which he had acted such
various parts, with applause. He had long wished
to fetch his breath at Battersea, the place where he
was born ; and fortune, that had through life
seemed to trace all his aims, at last indulged him
in this. He had long been troubled with a can-
cer in his cheek, by which excruciating disease he
died" on the verge of fourscore years of age. He
was consonant with himself to the last ; and those
principles which he had all along avowed, he con-
firmed with his dying breath, having given orders
that none of the clergy should be permitted to trou-
ble him in his latest moments.
His body was interred in Battersea church with
those of his ancestors ; and a marble monument
erected to his memory, with the following excellent
inscription :
HERE LIES
HENRY ST. JOHN,
IN THE REIGN OF ftDEEN ANNE -' • ,:
SECRETARY OF WAR, SECRETARY OF STATE, -•
-' , AND VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE ;
IN THE DAYS OF KING GEORGE I. AND
KING GEORGE II.
SOMETHING MORE AND BETTER.
HIS ATTACHMENT TO aUEEN ANNE EXPOSED
HIM TO A LONG AND SEVERE PERSECUTION;
HE BORE IT WITH FIRMNESS OF MIND ; HE
PASSED THE LATTER PART OF HIS TI.ME AT HOME,
THE ENEMY OF NO NATIONAL PARTY,
THE FRIEND OF NO FACTION ;
DISTINGUISHED (UNDER THE CLOUD OP A ■
PROSCRIPTION, WHICH HAD NOT BEEN E.VTIRELY
TAKEN off) BY ZEAL TO MAINTAIN
THE LIBERTY, AND TO RESTORE THE ANCIEN
PROSPERITY OF GREAT BRITAIN. t
HE DIED THE 12tH OF DECEMBER, 1751,
AGED Id,
In this manner lived and died Lord Bolingbroke,
ever active, never depressed, ever pursuing fortune,
and as constantly disappointed by her. In what-
ever light we view his character, we shall find nira
an object rather properer for our wonder than our
imitation, more to be feared than esteemed, and
gaining our admiration without our love. Ilis am-
bition ever aimed at the summit of power, and no-
thing seemed capable of satisfying his immoderate
1 desires, but the hberty of governing all things withr
422
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
out a rival. With as much ambition, as great
abilities, and more acquired knowledge than Caisar,
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 per-
form just when the great occasion called for all his
eflbrts 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 ca-
pacities : 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 show 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 accumulation that numbers have contributed
to increase ; and it is not for one single man to pre-
tend, that he can add more to the heap than the
thousands that have gone before him. Such innova-
tions more frequently retard than promote know-
ledge; their maxims are more agreeable to the read-
er, by having the gloss of novelty to recommend
them, than those which are trite, only because they
are true. Such men are therefore followed at first
with avidity, nor is it till some time that their dis-
ciples begin to find their error. They often,
though too late, perceive thaft they have been fol-
lowing 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 rectitude 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
practical politician, his writings are less filled with
those speculative illusions, which are the result of
solitude and seclusion. He wrote them with a
certainty of their being opposed, sifted, examined,
and reviled ; he therefore took care to build them
of such materials as could not be easily overthrown :
they prevailed at the times in which they were
written, they still continue to the admiration of the
present age, and will probably last for ever.
THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THE LATE
RIGHT HON. HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD VISCODNT
BOLINGBROKE.
In the name of God, whom I humbly adore, to
wh.">m I offer up perpetual thanksgiving, and to the
OKirti of whose providence I am cheerfully resign-
ed : this is the Last Will and Testament of me,
Henry St. John, in the reign of Clueen Anne, and
by her grace and favour. Viscount Bolingbroke.
After more than thirty years' proscription, and
after the immense losses I have sustained by un-
expected events in the course of it; by the injustice
and treachery of persons nearest to me ; by the negli-
gence of friends, and by the infidelity of servants ;
as my fortune is so reduced at this time, that it is
impossible for me to make such disposition, and to
give such ample legacies as I always intended, I
content therefore to give as follows :
My debts, and the expenses of my burial in a
decent and private manner at Battersea, in the
vault where my last wife lies, being first paid, I
give to William Chetwynd, of Stafford, Esq., and
Joseph Taylor, of the Inner-Temple, London,
Esq., my two assured friends, each of them one
hundred guineas, to be laid out by them, as to each
of them shall seem best, in some memorial, as the
legacy of their departed friend; and I constitute
them executors of this my will. The diamond ring
which 1 wear upon my finger, I give to my old and
long approved friend the Marquis of Matigrion,
and after his decease, to his son the Count de Gace,
that 1 may be kept in the remembrance of a family
whom I love and honour above all others.
Item, I give to my said executors the sum of four
hundred pounds in trust, to place out the same in
some of the pubhc funds, or government securities,
or any other securities, as they shall think proper,
and to pay the interest or income thereof to Fran-
cis Arboneau, my valet de chambre, and Ann, his
wife, and the survivor of them; and after the de-
cease of the survivor of them, if their son John Ar-
boneau shall be living, and under the age of eighteen
years, to pay the said interest or income to him,
until he shall attain his said age, and then to pay
the principal money, or assign the securities for the
same, to him ; but if he shall not be living at the
decease of his father and mother, or shall afterwards
die before his said age of eighteen years, in either
of the said cases the said principal sum of four
hundred pounds, and the securities for the same,
shall sink into my personal estate, and be account-
ed part thereof.
Item, I give to my two servants, Marianne Tri-
bon, and Remi Charnet, commonly called Picard,
each one hundred pounds ; and to every other ser-
vant living with me at the time of my decease, and
who shall have Hved with me two years or longer,
I give one year's wages more than what shall be
due to them at my death.
And whereas 1 am the author of (he several books
or tracts following, viz.
Remarks on the History of England, from the
Minutes of Humphrey Oldcastle. In twenty-four
letters.
LIFE OF HENRY LORD BOLINGBROKE.
423
A Dissertation upon Parties. In nineteen let-
ters to Caleb Danvcrs, Esq.
The Occasional Writer. Numb. 1, 2, 3.
The Vision of Camilick.
An Answer to the London Journal of Decem-
ber 21, 1728, by John Trot.
An Answer to the Defence of the Inquiry into
ihe Reasons of the Conduct of Great Britain.
A final Answer to the Remarks on the Crafts-
man's Vindication.
AH which books or tracts have been printed and
published ; and I am also the author of
Four Letters on History, etc.
which have been privately printed, and not pub-
lished ; but I have not assigned to any person or
persons whatsoever the copy, or the liberty of print-
ing or reprinting any of the said books, or tracts,
or letters : Now I do hereby, as far as by law I
can, give a«id assign to David Mallet, of Putney,
in the county of Surrey, Esquire, the copy and
copies of all and each of the before mentioned books
or tracts, and letters, and the liberty of reprinting
the same. I also give to the said David Mallet the
copy and copies of all the manuscript books, papers,
and writings, which I have written or composed,
or shall write or compose, and leave at the time of
my decease. And I further give to the said David
Mallet, all the books which, at the time of my de-
cease, shall be in the room called my library.
All the rest and residue of my personal estate,
whatsoever and wheresoever, I give to my said
(executors ; and hereby revoking all former wills, I
declare this to be my last will and testament. In
witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and
seal the twenty-second day of November, in the
year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and
fifty-one.
Henry Saint John, Bolingbroke.
Signed, sealed, published, and declared
by the said testator, as and for his iast , ,
will and testament, in the presence of
Oliver Price. . ••
Thomas Hall.
Proved at London, the fifth day of March, 1752,
before the worshipful Robert Chapman, doctor of
laws and surrogate, by the oaths of William
Chetwynd and Joseph Taylor, Esquires, the ex-
ecutors named in the will, to whom administra-
tion was granted, being first sworn duly to ad-
minister.
-, , WITXTANI,ER.\RD,
March, p j;tER ST. El ,OY,
i7o^. HENllY STEVENS,
Deputy Uegisten.
In Dr. Matty's Life of Lord Chesterfield, he
mentions that the earl had seen Lord Bolingbroke
for several months labouring under a cruel, and to
appearance incurable disorder. A cancerous hu-
mour in his face made a daily progress ; and the
empirical treatment he submitted to not only
hastened his end, but also exposed him to the most
excruciating pain. He saw him, for the last time,
the day before his tortures began. Though the
unhappy patient, as well as his friend, did then ex-
pect that he should recover, and accordingly de-
sired him not to come again till his cure was com-
pleted, yet he still took leave of him in a manner
which showed how much he was allected. He
embraced the earl with tenderness, and said, " God,
who placed me here, will do what he pleases with
me hereafter, and he knows best what to do. May
he bless you." — And in a letter from Chesterfield
to a lady of rank at Paris, he says, " I frequently
see our friend Bolingbroke, but I see him with
great concern. A humour he has long had in his
cheek proves to be cancerous, and has made an
alarming progress of late. Hitherto it is not at-
tended with pain, which is all he wishes, for as to
the rest he is resigned. Truly a mind like his, so
far superior to the generality, would have well de-
served that nature should have made an effort in
his favour as to the body, and given him an un-
common share of health and duration."
The last scene is thus lamented, in a letter to
the same lady : — Are you not greatly shocked, but
I am sure you are, at the dreadful death of our
friend Bolingbroke? The remedy has hastened his
death, against which there was no remedy, for his
cancer was not topical, but universal, and had so in-
fected the whole mass of his blood, as to be incur-
able. What I most lament is, that the medicines
put him to exquisite pain ; an evil I droad much
more than death, both for my friends and my.self.
I lose a warm, an amialile, and instructive friend.
I saw him a fortnight before his death, when he
depended upon a cure, and so did I ; and he de-
sired I would not come any more till he was quite
well, which he expected would be in ten or twelve
days. The next day the great pains came on, and
never left him till within two days of his death,
during which he lay insensible. What a man I
what extensive knowledge ! what a memory ! what
eloquence ! His passions, which were strong, were
injurious to the delicacy of his sentiments; they
were ajjt to be confounded together, and often wil-
fully. The world will do him more justice now
than in his lifetime."
ffiij:i ]isis
Select €oUectio5i of ^mayt^
ON THE MOST INTERESTING AND ENTERTAINING SUBJECTS.
[first printed in 1759.]
THE BEE, No. I.
Saturday, October 6, 1759.
INTRODUCTION.
There is not, perhaps, a more whimsically dis-
mal figure in nature, than a man of real modesty
who assumes an air of impudence ; who, while his
heart beats with anxiety, studies ease, and affects
good-humour. In this situation, however, a pe-
riodical writer often finds himself, upon his first
attempt to address the public 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-
iiess, 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 indulged with a favourable hearing, is left to
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 mak-
ing my bow, such bodings as these had like to
have totally repressed iny 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 dechne all merit, it
was too probable the hasty reader might have taken
me at my word. If, on the other hand, like labour-
ers in the magazine trade, I had, with modest im-
pudence, humbly presumed to promise an epitome
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, 1 might have been
censured as vastly low ; and had 1 been sorrowful,
I might have been left to mourn in solitude and si-
lence : in short, whichever way I turned, nothing
presented but prospects of terror, despair, chand-
lers' shops, and waste paper.
In the debate between fear and ambition, my
publisher, happening to arrive, interrupted for a
while my anxiety. Perceiving my emharrassment
about making my first appearance, he instantly of-
fered his assistance and advice. " You must
know, sir," 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 re-
sult of any single man's industry, but goes through
as many hands as a new pin before it is fit for the
public. I fiincy, sir," continues he, " I can pro-
vide an eminent hand, and upon moderate terms,
to draw up a promising plan to smooth up our
readers a little, and pay them as Colonel Charteris
paid his seraglio, at the rate of three halfpence in
hand, and three shilUngs more in promises."
He was proceeding in his advice, which, how
ever, I thought proper to decline, by assuring him,
that as I intended to pursue no fixed method, so it
was impossible to form any regular plan ; determin-
ed never to be tedious in order to be logical,
wherever pleasure presented I was resolved to fol-
low. 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.
This reply may also serve 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 anti-
cipate any pleasure I am able to procure him, by
saying what shall come next. Thus much, how-
THE BEE.
425
ever, he may l>e assured of, that neither war nor
Bcaiulal shall make any part of it, Homer finely
imagines his deity turning away with horror from
thf prospect of a field of battle, and seeking tran-
quillity among a nation noted for peace and sim-
plicity. Happy, could any effort of mine, but for
a moment, repress that savage pleasure some men
find in the daily accounts of human misery ! How
gladly would 1 lead them from scenes of blood and
altercation, to prospects of innoccnee 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 convinced, 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 a
happy concurrence of circumstances in its favour.
Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged countries, the
one might have been a sergeant, 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 in-
stance, that might be relislied at White's, may
lose all its flavour when delivered at the Cat and
Bagpipes in St. Giles's. A jest, calculated to
spread at a gaming-table, may be received with a
perfect neutrality of face, should it happen to drop
in a mackerel-boat. We have all seen dunces
triumph in such companies, when men of real hu-
mour were disregarded, by a general combination
in favour of stupidity. To drive the observation
as far as it will go, should the labours of a writer,
who designs his performances for readers of a more
refined appetite, fall into the hands of a devourer
of compilations, what can he ex[>ect but contempt
and confusion? If his merits are to be determined
by judges, who estimate the value of a book from
its bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival must acquire
an easy superiority, who, with persuasive elo-
quence, promises four extraordinary pages of letter-
press, or three beautiful prints, curiously coloured
from nature.
But to proceed : though I can not promise as
much entertainment, or as much elegance, as
others have done, yet the reader may be assured,
he shall have as much of both as I can. He shall,
t)t least, find me alive while I study iiis entertain-
ment; for I solemnly assure him, I was never yet
possessed of the secret at once of writing and
sleeping.
During the ourse of this paper, therefore, all
the wit and letrning I have are heartily at his ser-
vice ; which if, after so candid a confession, he
should, notwithstanding, still find intolerably dull,
low, or sad stuff, this I protest is more than I
know. I have a clear conscience, and am entirely -
out of the secret.
Yet I would not have him, upon the perusal of
a single paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may
try a second, which, as there is a studied differ-
ence in subject and style, may be more suited to
his taste ; if this also fails, I must refer him to a
third, or even to a fourth, in case of extremity.
If he should still continue to be refractory, and
find me dull to the last, I must inform liim, with
Bays in the Rehearsal, that I think him a very
odd kind of a fellow, and desire no more of his ac-
quaintance.
It is vi'ith such reflections as these I endeavour
to fortify myself against the future contempt or
neglect of some readers, and am prepared i'or their
dislike by mutual recrimination. If such should
impute dealing neither in battles nor scandal tome
as a fault, instead of acquiescing in their censure,
I must beg leave to tell them 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 excrescence depending from the chin, like
the pouch of a monkey. This deformity, as it
was endemic, and the people little used to stran-
gers, it had been the custom, time immemorial, to
look upon as the greatest ornament of the human
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 willing 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 em-
blem of beauty, a pursed chin ! This was a defect
that not a single creature had suiEcient gravity
(though they were noted for being grave) to with-
stand. Stifled bursts of laughter, winks and whis-
pers, circulated from visage to visage, and the pris-
matic figure of the stranger's face was a fund of
infinite gaiety ; even the parson, equally remarka-
ble for his gravity and chin, could hardly refrain
joining in the good-humour. Our traveller could
no longer patiently continue an object for defor-
mity to point at. " Good folks," said he, " I per-
ceive that I am the unfortunate cause of all 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."*
' Dr. Goldsmith inserted this Introiiuctiun, with a few
trifling alterations, In the voltane 0/ Bsss^^s he puljhshcd \M
the year 17C5.
426
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND WITH
LIGHTNING.
Imitated froin the Spanish.
LuMiNE Aeon dextro, capta est Leonida sinistro,
Et poterat forma vincere uterque Deos.
Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede puellaj ;
Sic tu csecus amor, sic erit ilia Venus.*
REMARKS ON OUR THEATRES.
Our Theatres are now opened, and all Grub-
Btreet is preparing its advice to the managers. We
shall undoubtedly hear learned disquisitions on
the structure of one actor's legs, and another's eye-
brows. We shall be told much of enunciations,
tones, and attitudes ; and shall have our lightest
pleasures commented upon by didactic dulness.
We shall, it is feared, be told, that Garrick is a
fine actor ; but then as a manager, so avaricious !
That Palmer is a most surprising genius, and Hol-
land likely to do well in a particular cast of cha-
racter. We shall have them giving Shuter instruc-
tions to amuse us by rule, and deploring over the
ruins of desolated majesty at Covent-Garden. As
I love to be advising too, for advice is easily given,
and bears a show 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 un-
easy 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
imagination alone. A French comedian finds
proper models of action in every company and in
every coffee-house he enters. An Englishman is
obliged to take his models from the stage itself;
he is obliged to imitate nature from an imitation
of nature. I know of no set of men more likely
to be improved by travelling than those of the
theatrica. profession. The inhabitants of the con-
tinent 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 thing of his own to the poet's dialogue,
yet, as to action, he is entirely at liberty. By this
• An English Epigram, on the eame subject, is inserted in
th» second volume, p. 110.
he may show the fehility of his genius, the poi^
nancy of his humour, and the exactness of Ills
judgment: we scarcely see a coxcomb or a fool \k
common hfe, that has not some peculiar oddity in
his 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 preserve the peculiar
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, particularly,
by a squint which he threw into some characters
of low life, assumed a look of infinite stolidity.
This, though upon reflection we might condemn,
yet immediately upon representation we could not
avoid being pleased with. To illustrate what I
have been saying by the plays which 1 have of
late gone to see : in the Miser, which was played
a few nights ago at Covent-Garden, Lovegold ap-
pears through the whole in circumstances of ex-
aggerated avarice ; all the player's action, there-
fore should conspire with the poet's design, and
represent him as an epitome of penury. The
J'rench comedian, in this character, in the midst
of one of his most violent passions, while he ap-
pears in an ungovernable 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 assiduity. Two candles are
lighted 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 come-
dian had an opportunity of heightening the ridi-
cule by action. The French player sits in a chair
with a high back, and then begins to show away
by talking nonsense, which he would have thought
Latin by those who he knows do not understand
a syllable of the matter. At last he grows enthu-
siastic, 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, instead of this,
we too often see our fine gentlemen do nothing,
through 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 barreu
as the character he would expose^
THE BEE.
4^
The niagnififonce of our theatres is far s jperior
to aiiy otliers in Europe, where plays only are act-
ed. The great care our performers lake in painting
for a part, their exactness in all the minutis; of
dress, and other little scenical properties, have been
taken notice of by Ricoboni, a gentleman of Italy,
who travelled Europe with no other design but to
remark upon the stage ; but there are several im-
proprieties still continued, or lately come into
fashion. As, for instance, spreading a carpet
punctually at the beginning of the death scence, in
order to prevent our actors from spoiling their
clothes; this immediately 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 Drury-Lane. Our little pages also,
with unmeaning faces, that bear up the train of a
weeping princess, and our awkward lords in wait-
ing, take off much from her distress. Mutes of
every kind divide our attention, and lessen our
sensibility ; but here it is entirely ridiculous, as we
see them seriously employed in doing nothing. If
we must have dirty-shirted guards upon the thea-
tres, they should be taught to keep 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 qualifica-
tion in an actress. This seems scrupulously ob-
served elsewhere, and, for my part, I could wish
to see it observed at home. I can never con-
ceive a hero dying for love of a lady totally destitute
of beauty. I must think the part unnatural ; for I
can not bear to hear him call that face angelic,
where even paint can not 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 admiration. But if
this be a defect, what must be the entire perver-
sion of scenical decorum, when, for instance, we
see an actress, that might act the Wapping land-
lady without a bolster, [lining in the character of
Jane Shore, and while unwieldy with fat, en-
deavouring to convince the audience that she is
dying with hunger !
For the future, then, I could wish that the parts
of the young or beautiful were given to performers
of suitable figures; for I nmst own, I could rather
see the stage filled with agreeable objects, though
they might sometimes bungle a httle, than see it
crowded with withered or misshapen figures, be
their emphasis, as I think it is called, ever so proper.
The first may have the awkward a[)peararice of
new raised troops; but in viewing the last, I can-
not avoid the mortification of fancying myself
placed in an hospital of invalids.
THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEP
TIMIUS.
Translated from a Byzantine Historian.
Athens, even long before the decline of the
Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning,
politeness, and wisdom. The emperors and gene-
rals, who in these periods of approaching ignorance,
still felt a passion for science, from time to time add-
ed to its buildings, or increased its professorships.
Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, was of the number; he
repaired those schools, which barbarity was suffer-
ing to fall into decay, and continued those pensions
to men of learning, which avaricious governors
had monopolized 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 ;
the other the most eloquent speaker in the academic
grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an ac-
quaintance, and a similitude of disposition made
them perfect friends. Their fortunes were nearly
equal, their studies the same, and they were na-
tives of the two most celebrated cities in the world;
for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from
Rome.
In this mutual harmony they hved 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
showed no dislike to his addresses. The day of
their intended nuptials was fixed, the previous cere-
monies were performed, and nothing now remain-
ed but her being conducted in triumph to the apart-
ment of the intended bridegroom.
An exultation in his own happiness, or his be-
ing unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making
his friend Septimius 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 love.
But this was an interview fatal to the peace of
both. Septimius no sooner saw her, but he was ^
smitten with an involuntary passion. He used
every effort, but in vain, to suppress desires at once
so imprudent and unjust. He retired to his apart-
ment in inexpressible agony ; and the emotions of
his mind in a short time became so strong, that
they brought on a iitver, which the physicians
judged incurable.
During this illness, Alcander watched him witU
all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mis.
tress to join in those amiable offices of friendsiuii.
^f
42d
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, soon
discovered the cause of their patient's disorder;
and Alcander, 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 virtue was
carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own
felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her
charms, to the young Roman. They were married
privately by his connivance; and this unlooked-for
change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change
in the constitution of the now happy Seplimius.
In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set
out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an
exertion of those talents of which he was so emi-
nently possessed, he in a few years arrived at the
highest dignities of the state, and was constituted
the city judge, or prsetor.
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
eloquence in his own defence, was able to with-
stand the influence of a powerful party. He was
cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine.
Unable to raise so large a sum at the time appoint-
ed, his possessions were confiscated, himself strip-
ped of the habit of freedom, exposed in the market-
place, and sold as a slave to the highest bidder.
A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser,
Alcander, with some other companions of distress,
was carried into the region of desolation and ste-
rility. 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 subsistence. Condemned to hopeless
servitude, every morning waked him to a renewal
of famine or toil, and every change of season serv-
ed but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. No-
thing but death or flight was left him, and almost
certain death was the consequence of his attempt-
ing to fly. After some years of bondage, however,
an opportunity 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 Rome. The day of Alcander's ar-
rival, Septimius sat in the forum administering
justice; and hither our wanderer came, expecting
to be instantly known, and publicly acknowledged.
Here he stood the whole day among the crowd,
watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to
lie taken notice of; but so much was he altered by
a long succession of hardships, that he passed en-
tirely without notice ; and in the evening, when he
was going up to the prstor's chair, he was bru-
tally repulsed by the attending lictors. The at-
tention of the poor is generally driven from one
ungrateful object to another. Night coming on,
he now found himself under a necessity of seeking
a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to ap-
ply. 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 attend-
ed with interruption or danger : in short, he was
obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs
without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty,
or despair.
In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon
an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while
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 their plunder, one of them
stabbed the other to the heart, and left him welter-
ing in blood at the entrance. In these circum-
stances he was found next morning, and this natu-
rally induced a further inquiry. The alarm was
spread, the cave was examined, Alcander was
found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and
accused of robbery and murder. The circum-
stances against him were strong, and the wretched-
ness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Mis-
fortune and he were now so long acquainted, that
he at last became regardless of life. He detested a
world where he had found only ingratitude, false-
hood, and cruelty, and was determined 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, therefore was proceeding to doom him to a
most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if illu-
mined by a ray from Heaven, he discovered,
through all his misery, the features, though dim
with sorrow, of his long-lost, loved Alcander. It ia
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 find-
ing him in such circumstances. Thus agitated by
contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and
falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst in-
to an agony of distress. The attention of the
multitude was soon, however, divided by another
object. The robber who had been really guilty,
was apprehended selling his plunder, and struck
with a panic, confessed his crime. He was brought
bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every
other person of any partnership in his guilt. Need
the sequel be related 1 Alcander was acquitted,
shared the friendship and the honours of his friend
Septimius, lived afterwards in happiness and ease,
THE BEE.
429
siiii IfP it to bo engraved on his tomb, " That no
circiuiistances arc so desperate which Providence
may not relieve."
A LETTER FROM A TRAVELLER.
Cracow, August 2, 1758.
My Dear Will,
You see by the date of my letter that I am arriv-
ed in Poland. When will my wanderings be at
an end? When 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 solicitude behind me
by going into Romelia; and now you find me
turning back, still expecting ease every where 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 all
the comforts of confidence, friendship, or society, I
feel the solitude of a hermit, but not his ease.
The prince of ♦♦* has taken me in his train, so
that I am in no danger of starving for this bout.
The prince's governor is a rude ignorant pedant,
and his tutor a battered rake; thus, between two
such characters, you may imagin* he is finely in-
structed. I made some attempts to display all the
little knowledge I had acquired by reading or ob-
servation ; but I find myself regarded as an igno-
rant 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 Roman empire, I
can hardly account for the present wretchedness
and pusillanimity of its inhabitants: a prey to
every invader; their cities plundered without an
enemy ; their magistrates seeking redress by com-
plaints, and not by 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 us 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 ec-
stacy, about twopence for her trouble. 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 ma-
chines, and all their thoughts were employed in
the care of their 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 different these from the common peo-
ple of England, whom a blow might induce to re
turn the affront seven fold! These poor people,
however, from being brought up to vile usage, lose
all the respect which they should have for them-
selves. They have contracted a 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 continuance of our
humanity might probably have rendered them in-
solent: 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 servitude, from which they had
for some moments fancied themselves disengaged.
The enthusiasm of liberty an Englishman feels
is never so strong, as when presented by such
prospects as these. I must own, in all my indi-
gence, it is one of my comforts (perhaps, indeed, it
is my only boast,) that I am of that happy coun-
try ; though I scorn to starve there ; though I do
not choose to lead a life of wretched dependence,
or be an object for my former acquaintance to point
at. While 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, etc.
A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE LATE
MR. MAUPERTUIS.
Mr. Maupertuis lately deceased, was the first
to whom the English philosophers owed their being
particularly admired by the rest of Europe. The
romantic system of Descartes was adapted to the
taste of the superficial and the indolent; the foreign
universities had embraced it with ardour, and such
are seldom convinced of their errors till all others give
up such false oj)inions as untenable. The philoso-
phy of Newton, and the metaphysics of Locke, ap-
peared ; but, like all new truths, they were at once
received with opjiosition and contempt. The En-
glish, it is true, studied, understood, and consto-
quently admired them ; it was very different on the
continent. Fontenelle, who seemed to preside over
* Tlie sequel of tliis correspomlence lo be coniinueu occa
sionally. I shall alter nothing either in tlie style or 5ubst^inc8
of thesti letters, and the reader may depend on their being
genuine.
43b
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the republic of letters, unwilling to acknowledge
that all his life had been spent in erroneous philo-
sophy, joined in the universal disapprobation, and
the English philosophers seemed entirely un-
known.
Maupertuis, however, made them his study; he
thought he might oppose the physics of his coun-
try, 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 a happy fortune, have united his
fame with that of our human prodigy.
The first of his performances, openly, in vindica-
tion of the Newtonian system, is his treatise, en-
titled, Sur la figure des Astres, if I remember
right ; a work at once expressive of a deep geometri-
cal knowledge, and the most happy manner of de-
livering abstruse science with ease. This met with
violent opposition from a people, though fond of
novelty in every thing else, yet, however, in mat-
ters of science, attached to ancient opinions with
bigotry. As the old and obstinate fell away, the I
youth 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 are
sometimes remarkable for, Maupertuis was not
entirely free from. If we can believe 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, he 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 in-
terruption. The character given of him by one
of Voltaire's antagonists, if it can be depended
upon, is much to his honour. " You,'' says this
writer to Mr. Voltaire, "were entertained by the
King of Prussia as a buffoon, but Maupertuis as a
philosojiher." 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 preferred before him as
president of the royal academy. His Micromcgas
was designed to ridicule Maupertuis ; and probably
it has brought more disgrace on the author than
the subject. Whatever absurdities men of letters
have indulged, and how fantastical soever the
niodes of science have been, their angef is still more
sub-pct to ridicule
THE BEE, No. II.
Saturday, October 13, 1759.
ON DRESS.
FoREiGNKRs observe, that there are no ladies in
the world more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than
those of England. Our countrywomen have been
compared to those pi(;tures, where the face is the
work of a Raphael, but the draperies thrown out
by some empty pretender, destitute of taste, and
entirely unacquainted with design.
If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occa-
sion, that so much beauty, set off with all the ad-
vantages of dress, would be too powerful an antago-
nist for the opposite sex, and therefore, it was wise-
ly 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 can not fancy,
that a shop-keeper's wife in Cheapside has a greater
tederness 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 ma-
demoiselle in a nunnery.
Although Paris may be accounted the soil in
which almost every fashion takes its rise, its in-
fluence 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 awk-
wardly dressed, by saying her clothes are made in
the mode. A French woman is a perfect architect
in dress ; she never, with Gothic ignorance, mixes
the orders ; she never tricks out a squabby Doric
shape with Corinthian finery; or, to speak without
metaphor, she conforms to general fashion, only
when it happens not to be repugnant to private
beauty.
Our ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no
other standard for grace but the run of the town.
If fashion gives the word, every distinction of
beauty, complexion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping
trains, Prussian bonnets, and trollopees, as like
each other as if cut from the same piece, level all
to one standard. The Mall, the gardens, and the
playhouses, are filled with ladies in uniform, and
their whole appearance shows as httle variety or
taste, as if their clothes were bespoke by the colo-
nel 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 com-
plexion, but of every age too, are possessed of this
unaccountable passion of dressing in the same
manner. A lady of no quality can be distinguished
THE BKfi.
4.n
from a Ia(?y of some quality, only by the redness of
her hands; and a woman of sixty, masked, might
easily pass for her grandaugliter. 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
beauty. I called up all my poetry on this occasion,
and fancied twenty Cupids prepared for execution
in every folding of her white negligee. I had pre-
pared 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 twelfth of next November.
After the transports of our first salute were over,
I could not avoid running my eye over her whole
appearance. Her gown was of cambric, cut short
before, in order to discover a high-heeled shoe,
which was buckled ahnost at the toe. Her cap, if
cap it might be called that cap v^-as none, consisted
of a few bits of cambric, and fiowers of painted
paper stuck on one side of her head. Her bosom,
that had felt no hand, but the hand of time, these
twenty years, rose suing, but in vain, to be press-
ed. I could, indeed, have wished her more than a
handkerchief of Paris net to shade iicr beauties ;
for, as Tasso says of the rose bud. Quanta si mos-
tra men tanto e piii bclla, I should think her's
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,
however, that I had on my best wig, she oflered,
if I would 'squire her there, to send home the foot-
man. Though I trembled for our reception in
public, yet I could not with any civility refuse; so,
to be as gallant as possible, I took her hand in my
arm, and thus we marched on together.
When we made our entry at the Park, two an-
tiquated figures, so polite and so tender as we seem-
ed to be, soon attracted the eyes of the company.
As we made our way among crowds who were
out to show their finery as well as we, wherever
we came, I perceived we brought good-humour in
our train. The polite could not forbear smiling,
and the vulgar burst out into a horse-laugh at our
grotesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was per-
fectly conscious of the rectitude of her own ap-
pearance, attributed ail this mirth to the oddity of
mine ; while I as cordially plased the whole to her
account. Thus, from being two of the best naturod
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 im-
pertinence of others upon ourselves. " I am amazed,
cousin Jeffery," says miss, " that I can never get
you to dress like a Christian. I knew we should
have the eyes of the Park upon us, with your great
wig so frizzed, and yet so beggarly, and your mon-
strous muft". 1 hate those odious muffs." 1 could
have patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of
my equipage; but as I had always a peculiar vene^
ration for my muli; I could not forbear being piqued
a little ; and, throwing my eyes with a spiteful air
on her bosom, " I could heartily wish, madam,"
replied I, "that for your sake my muff was cut in-
to 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 diiTerent speculations. I regard-
ed the whole company, now passing in review be-
fore 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, mere-
ly to please me. But quite different were the sen-
timents of cousin Hannah; she regarded every
well-dressed woman as a victorious rival, hated
every face that seemed dressed in good-humour, or
wore the appearance of greater happiness than her
own. I perceived her uneasiness, and attempted
to lessen it, by observing, that there was no com-
pany in the Park to-day. To this she readily as-
sented, "and yet," says she, "it is full enough of
scrubs of one kind or another." My smihng at
this observation gave her spirits to pursue the bent
of her inclination, and now she began to exhibit
her skill in secret history, as she found me disposed
to listen. "Observe," says she to me, "that old
woman in tawdry silk, and dressed out even be-
yond the fashion. That is Miss Biddy Evergreen,
Miss Biddy, it seems, has money and as she con-
siders that money was never so scarce as it is now,
she seems resolved to keep what she has to herself.
She is ugly enough you see ; yet I assure you she
has refused several offers to my own knowledge,
within this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentle-
men from Ireland, who study the law, two waiting
captains, a d()ctor, and a Scotch preacher, who had
like to have carried her ofl". All her time is passed
between sickness and finery. Thus she spends
the whole week in a close chamber, with no other
company but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat;
and comes dressed out to the Park every Sunday,
to show her airs, to get new lovers, to catch a new
cold, and to make new work for the doctor.
"There goes Mrs. Roundabout, I mean the (.it
lady in the lutestring tr<)llo[)ee. Between you
and I, she is but a cutler's wife. Sec how she'9
dressed, as fine as hands and pins can make her,
while her two marriageable daughters, like hun-
ters, in stufl' gowns, are now taking sixpenny-
worth of tea at the White-Conduit-Hoiue. Odioua
432
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
puss! how she waddles along, with her train two
yards behind her! She puts me in mind of my
liOrd Bantam's Indian sheep, which are obhged to
have their monstrous tails trundled along in a go-
cart. For all her airs, it goes to her husband's
heart to see four yards of good lutestring wearing
against the ground, like one of his knives on a
grmdstone. To speak 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 Prus-
sian bonnet. Miss, though so very fine, was bred
a milliner, and might have had some custom if she
had minded her business; but the girl was fond of
finer}', 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 how-
ever, went on improving her appearance, and les-
sening her little fortune, and is now, you see, be-
come a belle and a bankrupt."
My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which
were interrupted by the approach of the very lady
she had been so freely describing. Miss had per-
ceived her at a distance, and approached to salute
her. I found, by the warmth of the two ladies'
protestations, that they had been long intimate
esteemed friends and acquaintance. Both were so
pleased at this happy rencounter, that they were
resolved not to part for the day. So we all crossed
the Park together, and I saw them into a hackney-
coach at the gate of St. James's. I could not,
however, help observing, "That they are generally
most ridiculous themselves, who are apt to see most
ridicule in others."
SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO
CHARLES XII. NOT COMMONLY
KNOWN.
Stockholm.
Sir,
I CAN NOT resist your solicitations, though it is
possible I shall be unable to satisfy your curiosity.
The polite of every country seem to have but one
character. A gentleman of Sweden differs but
little, except in trifles, from one of another coun-
tiy. It is among the vulgar we are to find those
distinctions which characterise a people, and from
them it is that I take my picture of the Swedes.
Though the Swedes, in general, appear to lan-
guish under oppression, which often renders others
wicked, or of malignant dispositions, it has not, how-
ever, 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 gib-
bet or a gallows. They pay an infinite respect to
their ecclesiastics, whom they suppose to be the
privy counsellors of Providence, who, on their part,
turn this credulity to their own advantage, and
manage their parishioners as they please. In gene-
ral, however, they seldom abuse their sovereign
authority. Hearkened to as oracles, regarded as
the dispensers of eternal rewards and punish-
ments, they readily influence their hearers into
justice, and make them practical philosophers with-
out the pains of study.
As to their persons, they arc perfectly well
made, and the men particularly have a very en-
gaging 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 some-
thing open and entirely happy in their little chub-
by faces. The girls, on the contrary, have neither
such fair, nor such even complexions, and their
features are much less delicate, which is a circum-
stance different from that of almost every 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 have ever seen ; she had so fine a complexion,
that I could not avoid admiring it. But what was
my surprise, when she opened her bosom in order
to suckle her child, to perceive that seat of delight
all covered with this disagreeable temper. The
careless manner in which she exposed to our eyes
so disgusting an object, sufficiently testifies that
they regard it as no extraordinary malady, and
seem to take no pains to conceal it. Such are the
remarks, which propably you may think trifling
enough, I have made in my journey to Stockholm,
which, to take it all together, is a large, l)eautiful,
and even a populous city.
The arsenal appears to me one of its greatest cu-
riosities ; it is a handsome, spacious building, but
however, scantily supplied with the implements
of war. To recompense this defect, they have al-
most filled it with trophies, and other marks of their
former military glory. I saw there several cham-
bers filled with Danish, Saxon, Polish, and Rus-
sian 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 furniture, 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 pre-
cious spoils of the two greatest heroes the North
ever produced. What I mean are the clothes in
which the great Gustavus Adolphus, and the intre-
pid Charles XII., died, by a fate not unusual to
THE BEE.
433
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, wluch
I had from persons who knew him when a child,
and who now, by a fate not unusual to courtiers,
sjiend a life of poverty and retirement, and talk
over in raptures all the actions of their old victo-
rious king, companion, and master.
Courage and inflexible constancy formed the ba-
sis of this monarch's character. In his tenderest
years he gave instances of both. When he was
yet scarcely seven years old, bemg 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 greedily 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 wrap-
ped his bloody hand in the napkin. The queen,
perceiving that he did not eat, asked him the reason.
Hecontentedhimselfwithreplving, that he thanked
her, he was not hungry. 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 at-
tended at table at last perceived it ; for Charles
would sooner have died than betrayed his dog, who
ne knew intended no injury.
At another time, when in the 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 up close, received
from the patient a violent box on his ear. Some
hours after, observing the prince more calm, he
entreated to know how he had incurred his dis-
pleasure, or what he had done to have merited a
blow. A blow, replied Charles, I don't remember
anv thing of it ; I remember, indeed, that I thought
myself in the battle of Arbcla, fighting fur 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
proper 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
28
for some time in the school of affliction ; who
weigh happiness against glory, and teach their roy-
al pupils the real value of fame ; who are ever
showing the superior dignity of man to that of
royalty : that a peasant who does his duty is a no-
bler character than a king of even middling repu-
tation. Happy, I say, were princes, could such
men be found to instruct them ; but those to whom
such an education is generally intrusted, are men
who themselves have acted in a sphere too high to
know mankind. Puffed up themselves with the
ideas of false grandeur, and measuring merit by
adventitious circumstances of greatness, they gene-
rally communicate those fatal prejudices to their
puj)ils, confirm their pride by adulation, or increase
their ignorance by teaching them to despise that
wisdom which is found among the poor.
But not to moralize 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 greatest part of his king-
dom. At last none of his officers were found ca-
pable 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 subsistence but a bit of bread. In one
of these rapid courses he underwent an adventure
singular enough. Riding thus post one day, all
alone, he had the misfortune to have his horse fall
dead under him. This might have embarrassed
an ordinary man, but it gave Charles no sort of
uneasiness. Sure of finding another horse, but
not equally so of meeting with a good saddle and
pistols, he ungirds his horse, claps the whole equi-
page 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 found 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 was 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,
continued he, if I have none, 1 shall be obliged to
carry the saddle myself This answer did not
seem at all satisfactory to the gentleman, who in-
stantly 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 subject against his king.
Imagine whether the gentleman was less surpris-
ed than tiiey at his unpremeditated disobedience.
His astonishment, however, was soon dissipated by
m
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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. This pro-
mise was afterwards fulfilled, and 1 have been as-
sured 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 part of my life in the
country, I can not avoid feeling some pain in think-
ing that those happy days are never to return. In
that retreat all nature seemed capable of affording
pleasure : I then made no refinements on happi-
ness, but could be pleased with the most awkward
efforts of rustic mirth ; thought cross-purposes the
highest stretch of human wit, and questions and
commands the most rational amusement for spend-
ing the evening. Happy could so charming an
illusion still continue ! 1 find age and knowledge
only contribute to sour our dispitsitions. My pre-
sent enjoyments may be more refined, but they arc
infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure Garrick
gives can no way compare to that I have received
from a country wag, who imitated a quaker's ser-
mon. The music of Matei is dissonance to what
I felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears
with Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or
the cruelty of Barbara Allen.
Writers of every age have endeavoured to show
that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offer-
ed for our amusement. If the soul be happily dis-
posed, every thing becomes a subject of entertain-
ment, and distress will almost want a name.
Every occurrence passes in review like the figures
of a procession : some may be awkward, others
ill-dressed, but none but a fool is for this enraged
with the master of the ceremonies.
I remember to have once seen a slave in a forti-
fication in Flanders, who appeared no way touch-
ed with his situation. He was maimed, deformed,
and chained ; obliged to toil from the appearance
of day till nightfall, and condemned to this for life ;
yet, with all these circumstances of apparent
wretchedness, he sung, would have danced, but
that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest,
happiest man of all the garrison. What a prac-
tical philosopher was here ! a happy constitution
supplied philosophy, and though seemingly desti-
Vite of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading
or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy
land around him. Every thing 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 ap-
pears in a ridiculous or pleasing light; will find
something in every occurrence to excite their good
humour. The most calamitous events, either to
themselves or others, can bring no new afliiction ;
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 height-
en the absurdity of the scene, and make the hu-
mour more poignant. They feel, in short, as little
anguish at their own distress, or the complaints
of others, as the undertaker, though dressed in
black, feels sorrow at a funeral.
Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Car-
dinal de Retz possessed this happiness of temper
in the highest degree. As he was a man of gal-
lantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic ap-
pearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to
be sold he was generally foremost to raise the auc-
tion. Being a universal admirer of the fair sex,
when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell in
love with another, from whom he expected a more
favourable reception ; if she too rejected his ad-
dresses, he never thought of retiring into deserts,
or pining in hopeless distress : he persuaded him-
self, that instead of loving the lady, he only fan
cied 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 pri-
soner in the castle of Vincennes, he never attempt-
ed to support his distress by wisdom or ])hiloso-
phy, 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 amusements, and even the conve-
niences of life, teased every hour by the imperti-
nence 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 te
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 ex-
ample will instruct us to be merry in circumstances
of the highest affliction. It matters not whether
our good-humour be construed by others into in-
sensibility, or even idiotism ; it is happiness to our-
selves, and none but a fool would measure his satis-
faction by what the world thinks of it.
Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly
fellows I ever knew. He was of the num]>er 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 chairman, or his pocket
picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imi-
tating the Hibernian dialect of the one. or the
THE BEE.
.H'
435
more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came
iiiniss to Dick. His inattention to money matters
had incensed his father to such a degree, that all
the intercession of friends in his favour was fruit-
less. The old gentleman was on his death-bed.
The whole family, and Dick among the number,
gathered round him. " I leave my second son An-
drew," said the expiring miser, " my whole estate,
and desire him to be frugal." Andrew, in a sor-
rowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, " prayed
Heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it
himself." — "I recommend Simon, my third son,
to the care of his elder brother, and leave him be-
side four thousand pounds." — "Ah! father," cried
Simon (in great affliction to be sure), " may Hea-
ven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself!"
At last, turning to poor Dick, " As for you, you
have always been a sad dog, you'll never come to
good, you'll never be rich ; I'll leave you a shilling
to buy a halter." — " Ah ! flither," cries Dick, with-
out any emotion, " may Hea'.en 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. By struggling
with misfortunes, we are sure to receive some
-wounds in 'he conflict : the only method to come
cfl' victorious, is by running away.
ON OUR THEATRES.
Mademoiselle Claroin, 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 soul 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 com-
pany, as if &he 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 de-
grees, with enchanting diffidence, upon the spec-
tators. Her first speech, or at least the first part
of it, is delivered with scarcely 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 atti-
tude; 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
(Garrick only excepted) among us, that is not in
this particular apt to offend. By this simple be-
ginning, she gives herself a power of rising in the
passion of the scene. As she proceeds, every ges-
ture, every look, acquires new violence, till at last
transported, she tills the whole vehemence of the
part, and all the idea of the poet.
Her hands are not alternately stretched out, and
then drawn in again, as with the singing women
at Saddler's Wells ; they are employed with grace-
ful variety, and every moment please with new and
unexpected eloquence. Add to this, that their mo-
tion is generally from the shoulder ; she never
flourishes her hands while the upper part of her
arm is motionless, nor has she the ridiculous ap-
pearance, as if her elbows were pinned to her hips.
But of all the cautions to be given to our rising
actresses, I would particularly recommend it to
them never to take notice of the audience, upon
any occasion whatsoever ; let fche spectators applaud
never so loudly, their praises should pass, except
at the end of the epilogue, with seeming inatten-
tion. I can never pardon a lady on the stage, who,
when she draws the admiration of the whole au-
dience, turns about to make them a -low courtesy
for their applause. Such a figure no longer con-
tinues Belvidera, but at once drops into Mrs. Gib-
ber. Suppose a sober tradesman, who once a-year
takes his shilling's-worlh at Drury-Lane, in order
to be delighted w ith 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 the spectators, the first
figure that appears on the stage is the queen her-
self, courtesying and cringing to all the company:
how can he fancy her the haughty favourite of King
Solomon llie wise, who a{>pcars actually more sub-
missive than the wife of his bosom? We are all
tradesmen of a nicer relish in this respect, and such
conduct must disgust every spectator, who loves tft
have the illusion of nature strong upon him.
Yet, while I recommend to our actresses a skilful
attention to gesture, I would not have them study
it in the looking-glass. Thi.s, without some pre-
caution, will render their action formal ; by tw
4Sfi
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
great an intimacy with this, they become stilF and
aliecteil. People seldom improve when they have
no other model but themselves to copy after. I re-
member 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 looking-glasses, that he might see his person
twenty times reflected upon entering the room; and
I will make bold to say, he saw twenty very ugly
fellows whenever he did so.
THE BEE, No. III.
Saturday, October 20, 1759.
ON THE USE OF LANGUAGE.
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 his wants and necessities, so as to have
them relieved by society. Whatever we desire,
whatever we wish, it is but to clothe those desires or
wishes in words, in order to fruition ; the principal
use of language, therefore," say they, " is to eX'
press 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 show 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 conceal them.
When we reflect on the manner in which man-
kind generally confer their favours, we shall find,
that they who seem to want them least, are the
very persons 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 enor-
mous mass, as the miser, who owns it, sees happi-
ness in its increase. Nor is there any thing in this
repugnant to the laws of true morality. Seneca
himself allows, that in conferring benefits, the pre-
sent should always be suited to the dignity of the
receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents.
or to seem to have it, is the only vvay 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. Should he ask his friend to
lend him a hundred pounds, it is possible, from
the largeness of his 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 George's,
whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a
guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted
two hundred, and talked so familiarly of large sums,
that none could ever think he wanted a small one.
The same gentleman, whenever he wanted credit
for a new suit from his tailor, always made a pro-
posal 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.
There can be no inducement to reveal our wants,
except to find pity, and by this means relief; but
before a poor man opens his mind in such circum-
stances, he should first consider whether he is con-
tented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits,
and whether he is willing to give up friendshiponly
to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are pas-
sions incompatible with each other, and it is im-
possible that both can reside in any breast for
the smallest space, without impairing each other
Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure
pity is composed of sorrow and contempt ; the mind
may for some time fluctuate between them, but
it never can entertain both together.
Yet, let it not be thought that I would exclude
pity from the human mind. There are 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 impulse 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 for half an hour. But, how-
ever, last as it will, it generally produces but beg-
garly effects : and where, from this motive, we give
a halfpenny, from others we give always pounds.
In great distress, we sometimes, it is true, feel the
and are thanked for accepting them. Men of j influence of tenderness strongly ; when the same
middling stations are obliged to be content with distress solicits a second time, we then feel with
presents something less ; while the beggar, who diminished sensibility, but, like the repetition of an
may be truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a ! echo, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at
fcirthing rewards his warmest solicitations. last our sensations lose every mixture of sorrow,
Every man who has seen the world, and has and degenerate into downright contempt,
had his ups and downs in life, as the expression | Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance ; but
is, must have frequently experienced the truth of he's gone. Jack was bred in a couniing-house.
this doctrine, and must know, that to have much, and his father dying just as hs was out of his time,
THE BEE.
437
left him a 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 a habitual prudence, and
from such considerations, he had every day re-
peated offers of friendshij). Those who iiad mo-
ney were ready to offer him their assistance that
way; and they who had daughters, frequently in
the warmth of affection advised him to marry. Jack,
however, was in good circumstances ; he wanted
neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore
modestly declined their proposals.
Some errors in the manageme.it of his affairs,
and several los.'ies 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 formerly made him
frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time
when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have
been refused.
Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old
friend without any ceremony; and, as a man con-
fident 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 pray, Mr.
Spindle," replied the scrivener, " do you want all
this money T' — " Want it, sir," says the other, "il'
I did not want it, I should not have asked it.'' —
" I am sorry for that," says the friend ; " for those
who want money when they come to borrow, will
want money when they should come to pay. To
say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-
a-days. 1 believe 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 ad-
venturer 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 V — " If you
have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented."
— " Fifty to spare ! I do not say that, for I believe
I have but twenty about me." — "Then 1 must
borrow the other thirty from some other friend."
— "And pray," replied the friend, "would it not
be the Iiest 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 cere-
mony with me at any ti.iie; 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 treat-
ment, he was at last resolved to find that assist-
ance 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, "No bankrupt ever found the
fair one kind." Miss Jenny and Master Billy
Galloon were lately fallen dcejjly in love with each
other, and the whole neighbourhood thought, it
would soon be a match.
Every day now began to strip Jack of his for-
mer finery ; his clothes flew piece by piece to the
pawnbrokers ; and he seemed at length equipped
in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still
he thought himself secure from starving ; the num-
berless invitations he had received to dine, even
after his losses, were yet unanswered ; he was,
therefore, now resolved to accept of a dinner be-
cause he wanted one ; and in this manner he ac-
tually lived among liis friends a whole week with-
out being openly affronted. The last place I saw
poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr. Gosling'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 com-
pany, 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, however, pro-
cured the poor creature no invitation, and he was
not yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being
asked ; wherefore, finding the gentleman of the
house insensible to all his fetches, he thought pro-
per, at last, to retire, and mend his apfwtite by a
walk in the Park.
You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance,
whether in rags or lace ; whether 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 solicit. Apply to every passion
but pity for redress. You may find relief from
vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but sel-
dom from compassion. The very eloquence of a
])Oor man is disgusting ; and that mouth which is
opened even for flattery, is seldom expected to dose
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 Oflellus. If you be caught dining upon a
halfpenny porringer of peas soup and potatoes,
praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast.
You may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed
peas broth for the gravel ; hint that you are not one
of those who are always making a god of your belly.
If you are obliged to wear a flimsy stulf in the
428
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
niidst of winter, be the first to remark that stufl's
are very much worn at Paris. If there be found
some nreparable defects in any part of your equi-
page, wliich can not be concealed by all the arts
of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, say,
that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were ever
very fond of dress. Or if you be a philosopher,
hint that Plato and Seneca are the tailors you
choose to employ; assure the company, that men
ought to be content with a bare covering, since
what is now so much the pride of some, was for-
merly our shame. Horace will give you a Latin
sentence fit for the occasion,
Toga defendere frisus,
Quamvis crassa, queat.
In short, however caught, do not give up, but as-
cribe 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 ex-
OHse.
THE HISTORY OF HYPASIA.
M-iN, when secluded from society, is not a more
solitary being than the woman who leaves the du-
ties of her own sex to invade the privileges of ours.
She seems, in such circumstances, like one in ban-
ishment; she appears like a neutral being between
the sexes ; and, though she may have the admira-
tion of both, she finds true happiness from neither.
Of all the ladies of antiquity 1 have read of, none
was ever more justly celebrated than the beautiful
Hypasia, the daughter of Leon, the philosopher.
This most accomplished of women was born at
Alexandria, in the reign of Theodosius the young-
er. Nature was never more lavish of its gifts than
it had been to her, endued as she was with the
most exalted understanding, and the happiest turn
to science. Education completed what nature had
begun, and niade her the prodigy not only of her
age, but the glory of her sex.
From her father she learned geometry and as-
tronomy; she collected from the conversation and
schools of the other philosophers, for which Alex-
andria was at that time famous, the principles of
the rest of the sciences.
What can not be conquered by natural penetra-
tion, and a passion for study? The boundless
knowledge which, at that period of time, was re-
quired io form the character of a philosopher, no
way discouraged her ; she delivered herself up to
Ine study of Aristotle and Plato, and soon not one
in all Alexandria understood so perfectly as she all
the difficulties of these two philosophers.
But not their systems alone, but those of every
other sect were quite familiar to her; and to this
knowledge she added that of poUte learning, and
the art of oratory. All the learning which it was
possible for the human mind to contain, being join-
ed 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 Greece
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 as-
suming; and though 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 equal her in knowledge; 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 di-
vided between two factions, though visited by the
wits and the philosophers of the age, calumny never
dared to suspect her morals, or attempt her charac-
ter. 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 accounts of this prodigy of
perfection, that, in spite of the opposition of their
faith, we should never have been able to judge of
what religion was Hypasia, were we not informed,
from other circumstances, that she was a heathen.
Providence had taken so much pains in forming
her, that we are almost induced to complain of its
not having endeavoured to make her a Christian ;
but from this complaint we are deterred by a thou-
sand contrary observations, which lead us to rever-
ence 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 ill-
grounded zeal for the Christian religion, or, per-
haps, 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, seem-
ed to him a proper juncture for putting his ambi-
tious designs into execution. He found no difficul-
ty in exciting the people, naturally disposed to re
volt. The prefect, who at that time commanded
the city, interposed on this occasion, and thought
THE BEE.
439
tjust to put one of the chief creatures of the patri-
arch to the torture, in order to discover the first
promoter of the conspiracy. The patriarch, en-
raged at the injustice he thought offered to his
character and dignity, and piqued at the jirotection
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 tumults, in which several citizens had the mis-
fortune to fall. The patriarch could no longer con-
tain : at the head of a numerous body of Christians,
he flew to the synagogues, which he demohshed,
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 pre-
fect 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 em-
peror. The patriarch complained of the excesses
of the Jews, and the prefect of the outrages of the
patriarch. At this very juncture, five hundred
monks of mount Nitria, imagining the life of their
chief to be in danger, and that their religion was
threatened in his fall, flew into the city with un-
governable rage, attacked the prefect in the streets,
and, not content with loading him with reproaches,
wounded hiua in several places.
T'he citizens had, by this lime, notice of the fury
of the monks; they, therefore, assembled in a body,
put the monks to flight, seized on him who had
been found throwing a stone, and delivered him to
the prefect, who caused him to be put to death
without further 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 classed a seditious
monk among the martyrs. This conduct was by
no Qieans generally approved of; the most moder-
ate even among the Christians perceived and blamed
his indiscretion ; but he was now too far advanced
to retire. He had made several overtures towards a
reconciliation with the prefect, which not succeed-
ing, he bore all those an implacable hatred whom he
imagined to have any hand in traversing his de-
signs ; but Hypasia was particularly 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 incited against her.
Peter, a reader of the principal church, one of those
vile slaves by which men in power are too frequent-
ly attended, wretches ever ready to connnit any
crime which they hope may render them agreeable
to their employer; this fellow, I say, attended by a
crowd of villains, waited for Hypasia, 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 a
most inhuman manner, they exercised the most in-
human cruelties upon her, cut her into pieces, and
burnt her remains to ashes. Such was the end of
Hypasia, the glory of her own sex, and the aston-
ishment of ours. >
ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY.
Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the
whole world admires. His generosity is such, that
it prevents a demand, and saves the receiver the
trouble and the confusion of a request. His liber-
ality also does not oblige more by its greatness than
by his inimitable grace in giving. Sometimes he
even distributes his bounties to strangers, and has
been known to do good offices to those who pro-
fessed themselves his enemies. All the world are
unanimous in the praise of his generosity : there is
only one sort of people who complain of his con-
duct — Lysippus does not pay his debts.
It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct
so seemingly incompatible with itself There is
greatness in being generous, and there is only
simple justice in satisfying his creditors. Generosi-
ty is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar.
There is in it something of what we admire in he-
roes, 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? Generosi-
ty is a virtue of a very different complexion. It
is raised above duty, and from its elevation attracts
the attention, and the praises, of us httle 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 fre-
quently proceeds from an impetuosity of temper,
rather directed by vanity than reason. Lysippus
is told that his banker asks a debt of forty pounds,
and that a distressed acquaintance petitions for the
same sum. He gives it without hesitating to the
latter; for he demands as a favour what the former
requires as a debt.
Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquaint
ed with the import of the word justice : it is com-
monly believed to consist only in a performance of
those duties to which the laws of society can oblige
us. This I allow is sometimes the import of the
word, and in this sense justice is distinguished
440
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
from equity ; but there is a justice still more exten-
sive, and which can be shown 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 duty to our Maker,
to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered,
if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice,
properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all ihe
rest have their origin in it.
The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and
generosity, for instance, are not, in their own na-
ture, virtues ; and if ever they deserve the title, it
is owing only to justice, which impels and directs
them. Without such a moderator, candour might
become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity
imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion.
A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by
justice, is at best indiflerent in its nature, and not
unfrequently even turns to vice. The expenses of
society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other
helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely indifferent,
when not repugnant to a better method of disposing
of our superfluities ; but they become vicious when
they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more
virtuous disposition of our circumstances.
True generosity is a duty as indispensably ne-
cessary 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. But this
generosity does not consist in obeying every im-
pulse of humanity, in following blind passion for
our guide, and impairing our circumstances by
present benefactions, so as to render us incapable
of future ones.
Misers are generally characterized as men with-
out 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 abundance, banish every
pleasure, and make from imaginary wants real ne-
cessities. But few, very few, correspond to this
exaggerated picture ; and, perhaps, there is not one
in whom all these circumstances are found united.
Instead of this, we find the sober and the industri-
ous 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
fit last the true benefactors of society. With an
avaricious man we seldom lose in our dealings ;
but too frequently in our commerce with prodi-
gality.
A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went
for a long time by the name of the Griper. He re-
fused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness,
and, by a skilful management of his vineyard, had
the good fortune to acquire immense sums of money.
The inhabitants of Rheims, who were his fellow-
citizens, detested him, and the populace, who sel-
dom love a miser, wherever he went, received him
with contempt. He still, however, continued his
former simplicity of life, his amazing and unremit-
ted frugality. This good man had long perceived
the wants of the poor in the city, particularly in
having no water but what they were obliged to buy
at an advanced price; 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 distributed his
whole income in charity every day at his door.
Among men long conversant with IwOks, we too
frequently find those misplaced virtues of which I
have been now complaining. We find the studious
animated with a strong passion for the great vir-
tues, as they are mistakenly called, and utterly for-
getful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of
philosophy are generally rather exhausted on these
supererogatory duties, than on such as are indis-
pensably necessary. A man, therefore, who has
taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, gene-
rally comes into the world with a heart melting at
every fictitious distress. Thus he is induced, by
misplaced liberality, to put himself into the indigent
circumstances of the persons he relieves.
I shall conclude this paper with the advice of
one of the ancients, to a young man whom he saw
giving away all his substance to pretended distress.
" It is possible that the person you relieve may be
an honest man; and I know that you who relieve
him are such. You see, then, by your generosity,
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 your«elf."
SOME PARTICULARS RELATING TO
FATHER FREIJO.
Primiis mortales tollere contra
Est oculos ausus, primusque assurgere contra.
LucT.
Thfj Spanish nation has, for many centuries*
past, been remarkable for the grossest ignorance in
polite literature, especially in point of natural phi-
losophy ; a science so useful to mankind, that her
neighbours have ever esteemed it a matter of the
greatest importance to endeavour, by repeated ex-
periments, to strike a light out of the chaos in whicJt
truth seemed to be confounded. Their curiosity
in this respect was so indiiTerent, that though the|
THE BEE.
411
nail discovered new worlds, tlicy were at a loss to
ex[)lain the phenomena of their own, and their
pride so unaccountable, that they disdained to bor-
row from othersthat instruction which their natural
indolence permitted them not to acquire.
It gives me, however, a secret satisfaction to be-
hold an extraordinary genius, now existing in that
nation, whose studious endeavours seem calcu-
lated to undeceive the superstitious, and instruct
the ignorant ; I mean the celebrated Padre Freijo.
In unravelling the mysteries of nature and ex-
plaining physical experiments, he takes an oppor-
tunity of displaying the concurrence of second
causes in those very wonders, which the vulgar as-
cribe to supernatural influence.
An example of this kind happened a few years
ago in a small town of the kingdom of Valencia.
Passing through at the hour of mass, he alighted
from his mule, and proceeded to the parish church,,
which he found extremely crovvded, and there ap-
peared on the faces of the faithful a more tlian 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 in 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 ciied out, A miracle! a miracle !
whilst the priest at the altar, with seeming con-
sternation, continued his heavenly conversation.
Padre Freijo soon dissipated the charm, by tying
his handkerchief round the head of one of the stat-
ues, for which he was arraigned by the incjuisition ;
whose flames, however, he has had the good for-
tune hitherto to escape.
THE BEE No. IV.
Saturday, October 27, 1759.
MISCELLANEOUS. ■
WfiRE I to measure the merit of my present un-
dertaking by its success, or the ra[)idity of its sale,
I might be led to form conclusions by no means
favourable to the pride of an author. Should I es-
timate my fame by its extent, every newspaper and
magazine would leave me far behind. Their fame
is difl^used in a very wide circle, that of some as far
as Islington, and some yet farther still ; while jnine,
1 sincerely believe, has hardly travelled beyond the
sound of Bow-bell ; and while the works of others
fly like unpinioned swans, I find my own move as
heavily as a new plucked goose.
Still, however, 1 have as much pride as thev
who have ten tmies as many readers. It is im-
possible to repeat rdl the agreeable deluoions in
which a disappointed author is apt to find comfort.
I conclude, that what my reputation wants in ex-
tent, is madeup by its solidity. Minus jurat Gloria
lata quam magna. I have great satisfaction in
considering the delicacy and discernment of those ,
readers I have, and in ascribing my want of jiopu-
larity to the ignorance or inattention of tho.^e 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 show my indignation against
the public, by discontinuing my endeavours to
please; and was bravely resolved, like Raleigh, to
vex them by burning my manuscript in a passion.
Upon recollection, however, I considered what set
or body of people would be displeased at my rash-
ness. The sun, after so sad an accident, niight
shine next morning as bright as usual; men niight
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 entirely up with his ambition, he sent a mes-
senger to town, to see how the courtiers would bear
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 petitionintr
his majesty to be put in your place." In the same
manner, should I retire in indignation, instead of
having Apollo in mourning, or the Muses in a fit
of the spleen ; instead of having the learned \Yorld
apostrophizing at my untimely decease, perhaps all
Grub-street might laugh at my fall, and self-ap-
proving 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 gene-
ration will not hear my voice, hearken, O jiosteri-
ty, to you I call, and from you I expect redress !
What rapture will it not give to have the Scaligers,
Daciers, and Warburtons of future times connnent-
ing with admiration upon every line I now write,
working away those ignorant creatures wlio olfer
to arraign my merit, with all the virulence of learn-
ed 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 antjther to the
reputation of Homer. That, no doubt, was more
than poetical justice, and I shall be perfectly con-
tent if those who criticise me are only cla))ped in
tlie pillory, kept fifteen days upon bread and water
442
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
and obliged to run the gantlet through Paternoster-
row. The truth is, I can expect happiness from
posterity either way. If I write ill, happy in being
forgotten; if well, happy in being remembered with
respect. *
Yet, considering things in a prudential light,
perhaps I was mistaken in designing my paper as
an agreeable relaxation to the studious, or a help to
conversation among the gay ; instead of addressing
• It to such, I should have written down to the taste
and apprehension of the many, and sought for re-
putation on the broad road. Literary fame, I now
find, like religious, generally begins among the vul-
gar. 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 afiectation, tells you,
that fools may admire, but men of sense only ap-
prove. Thus, lest he should rise in rapture at e^ay
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
snuff. 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 keeps down that merit, which, but for his in-
fluence, might rise mto equal eminence : while
others, still worse, peruse old books for their amuse-
ment, and new books only to condemn ; so that
the public seem heartily sick of all but the busi-
ness of the day, and read every thing now with as
little attention as they examine the faces of the
passing crowd.
From these considerations, I was once deter-
mined to throw off all connexions with taste, and
fairly address my countrymen in the same engag-
ing style and manner with other periodical pam-
phlets, much more in vogue than probably mine
shall ever be. To effect this, I had thoughts of
changing the title into that of the Royal Bee, the
Anti-3allican Bee, or the Bee's Magazine. I
had laid in a proper stock of popular topics, such
as encomiums on the King of Prussia, invectives
against the CLueen of Hungary and the French,
the necessity of a militia, our undoubted sovereignty
of the seas, reflections upon the present state of af-
fairs, a dissertation upon liberty, some seasonable
thoughts upon the intended bridge of BlackfriarS;
and an address to Britons; the history of an old
woman, whose teeth grew three inches long, an
Ajde upon our victories, a rebus, an acrostic upon
Miss Peggy P., and a journal of the weather. All
this, together with four extraordinary pages oHet-
ler-press. a beautiful map of England, and two
prints curiously coloured from nature, I fancied
might touch their very souls. I was actually be-
gmuing an address to the people, when my pride
at last overcame my prudence, and determined me
to endeavour to please by the goodness of my en-
tertainment, 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 encouragements they met to inspire
them with ardour, and increase their eagerness to
please. I have received my letters as well as they;
but alas ! not congratulatory ones ; not assuring me
of success and favour ; but pregnant with bodings
that might shake even fortitude itself.
One gentleman assures me, he intends to throw
away no more threepences in purchasing the Bee ;
and, what is still more dismal, he will not recom-
mend me as a poor author wanting encouragement
to his neighbourhood, which, it seems, is very nu-
merous. Were my soul set upon threepences,
what anxiety might not such a denunciation pro-
duce ! But such does not happen to be the present
motive of publication ; I write partly to show my
good-nature, and partly to show 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 mistake in the one, and as-
sure me the other has been consigned to dulness
by anticipation. All this may be true ; b^it what
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 imagine them of any real
importance. We ought to depend upon intrinsic
merit, and not the slender helps of title. Nam
qucB nonfecimus ipsi, vix ca nostra voco.
For my part, I am ever ready to mistrust a pro-
mising title, and have, at some expense, been in-
structed not to hearken to the voice of an advertise
ment, let it plead never so loudly, or never so long.
A countryman coming one day to Smithficld, in
order to take a slice of Bartholomew-fair, found a
perfect show before every booth. The drummer,
the fire-eater, the wire-walker, and the salt-box,
were all employed to invite him in. " Just a-goinrr;
the court of the king of Prussia in all his glory :
pray, gentlemen, walk in and see." From peo])le
who generously gave so much away, the clown ex-
pected a monstrous bargain for his money when
he got in. He steps up, pays his sixpence;, the
curtain is drawn ; when, too late, he finds that he
had the best part of the show for notliinor at the
door.
A FLEMISH TRADITIOINT.
Every country has its traditions, which, either
too minute, or not sufficiently authentic to receive
THE BEE.
443
historical sanction, are handed down among the
vulgar, and serve at once to instruct and amuse
them. Of this number, the adventures of Robin
Hood, the hunting of Chevy-Chase, and the brave-
ry of Johnny Armstrong, among the EngUsh ;
of Kaul Dereg among the Irish ; and Crichton
among the Scots, are instances. Of all the tradi-
tions, however, I remember to have heard, I do not
recollect any more remarkable than one still current
in Flanders ; a story generally the first the peasants
tell their children, when they bid them behave like
Bidderman the wise. It is by no means, however,
a model to be set before a polite people for imita-
tion ; since if, on the one hand, we perceive in it
the steady influence of patriotism, we on the other
find as strong a desire of revenge. But, to wave
introduction, let us to the story.
When the Saracens overran Europe with their
armies, and penetrated as far even as Antwerp,
Bidderman was lord of a city, which time has since
swept into destruction. As the inhabitants of this
country were divided under separate leaders, the
Saracens found an easy conquest, and the city of
Bidderman, among the rest, became a prey to the
victors.
Thus dispossessed of his paternal city, our un-
fortunate governor was obliged to seek refuge from
the neighbouring princes, who were as yet unsub-
dued, and he for some time lived in a state of wretch-
ed dependence among them.
Soon, however, his love to his native country
brought him back to his own city, resolved to res-
cue it from the enemy, or fall in the attempt: thus,
in disguise, he went among the inhabitants, and
endeavoured, but in vain, to excite them to revolt.
Former misfortunes lay so heavily on their minds,
that they rather chose to sufTcr the most cruel
bondage than attempt to vindicate their former
freedom.
As he was thus one day employed, whether by
information or from suspicion 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 Sara-
cens knew not their prisoner, and as they had no
direct proofs against him, they were content with
condemning him to be publicly whipped as a vaga-
bond.
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 bribe for lenity. Whenever Bidderman
groaned under the scourge, the other, redoubling
his blows, cried out "Does the villain murmur?"
If Bidderman entreated but a moment's respite from
torture, the other only repeated his former excla-
mation, " 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 acquire some eminence
in the city, he laid himself out to oblige its new
masters, studied every art, and practised every
meanness, that serve to promote the needy, or ren-
der the poor pleasing; 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 gratify 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 informa-
tion of the theft. They who are any way acquaint-
ed 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 scaf-
fold in the public market-place. As there was no
executioner in the city but the very man who was
now to suffer, Bidderman himself undertook this,
to him a most agreeable office. The criminal was
conducted from the judgment-seat, hound 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 this extraordinary man, unless
it was aggravated with every circumstance of cru-
elty. Wherefore, coming up the scaffold, and dis
posing every thing in readiness for the intended
blow, with the sword in his hand he approached
the criminal, and whispering in a low voice, assur-
ed 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 cbnveyed
into the house of the other.
" O, my countrymen," cried the criminal, "do
you hear what this man says?" — " Does the villain
murmur?" replied Bidderman, and immediately at
one blow severed his head from his body.
Still, however, he was not content till he had
ample vengeance of the governors of the city, who
condemned him. To elfect this, he hired a small
house adjoining to the town-wall, under which he
every day dug, and carried out the earth in a basket.
In this unremitting labour he continued several
years, every day digging a little, and carrying the
earth unsuspected away. By this means he at last
made a secret communication from the country iii
444
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
to the city, and only wanted the appearance of an
enemy in order to betray it. This opportunity at
length offered; the French army came down into
the neighbourhood, but had no thoughts of sitting
down before a town which they considered as im-
pregnable. Bidderman, however, soon altered their
resolutions, and, upon communicating hi-s plan to
the general, he embraced it with ardour. Through
the private passage above mentioned, he introduced
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 SAGACITY OF SOME INSECTS.
To the author of the Bee.
Sir,
Animals in general are sagacious in proportion
as they cultivate society. The elephant and the
beaver show the greatest signs of this when united ;
but when man intrudes into their communities,
they lose all their spirit of industry, and testify but
a very small share of that sagacity for which, when
in a social state, they are so remarkable.
Among insects, the labours of the bee and the
ant have employed the attention and admiration
of the naturalist; 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
solitude, and soon dies.
Of all the solitary insects I have ever remarked,
the spider is the most sagacious ; 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 in-
Bects, 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. It? legs are terminated by strong claws,
not unhke those of a lobster ; and their vast length,
like spears, serve to keep every assailant at a
distance.
Not worse furnished for observation than for an
attack or a defence, it has several eyes, large, trans-
parent, and covered with a horny substance, which,
however, does not impede its vision. Besides this,
it is furnished with a forceps above the mouth,
which serves to kill or secure the prey already
caught in its claws or its net.
Such are the implements of war with which the
nodv is immediately furnished, but its net to en-
tingie 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 hquid, 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 thread 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 re-
ceding from its first point, as it recedes the thread
lengthens ; and when the spider has come to the
place where the 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 wal'
as before.
In this manner it spins and fixes several threads
parallel to each other, which, so to speak, serves
as the warp to the intended web. To form the
woof, it spins in the same manner its thread, trans-
versely fixing one end to the first thread that was
spun, and which is always the strongest of the
whole web, and the other to the wall. All these
threads being newly spun, are glutinous and there-
fore stick to each other wherever they, happen to
touch; and in those parts of the web most expos-
ed to be torn, our natural artist strengthens them,
by doubling the threads sometimes six-fold.
Thus far naturalists have gone in the descrip-
tion of this animal ; what follows is the result of
my own observation upon that species of the insect
called a 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 pre-
vent its destruction ; and I may say, it more than
paid me by the entertainment it afforded.
In three days the web was with incredible dili-
gence completed ; 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 lar-
ger 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 encoun-
ter 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 off, but quickly re-
turned ; and when he found all arts vain, began to
demolish the new web without mercy. This
brought on another battle, and, contrary to my ex-
pectations, the laborious spider became conqueror,
and fairly killed his antagonist.
Now, then, in peaceable possession of what was
THE BEE.
445
lustly its own, it waited three days with the ut-
most impatience, repairing the breaches of its web,
and taking no sustenance that I could perceive.
At last, however, a large blue fly fell into the snare,
and strugsicd 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
immediately 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 hampered in this manner, it was seized, and
dragged into the hole.
In this manner it lived, in a precarious state ;
and nature seemed to have fitted it for such a hfe,
for upon a single fly it subsisted for more than a
week. I once put a wasp into the net ; 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, it instantly broke all the bands that held
it fast, and contributed all that lay in its power to
to disengage so formidable an antagonist. When
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 irre-
parable : wherefore the cobweb was now entirely
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 furnish ; wherefore I destroyed
this, and the insect set about another. When I
destroyed the other also, its whole stock seemed en-
tirely exhausted, 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 sur-
prising. I have seen it roll up its legs like a ball,
and lie motionless for hours together, but cautious-
ly watching 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 grow
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 neighbour-
intf fortification with great vigour, and at first was
as vigorously repulsed. Not daunted, however,
with one defeat, in this manner it continued to lay
siege to another's web for three days, and at length,
having killed the defendant, actually took posses-
sion. When smaller flies happen to fall into the
snare, the spider does not sally out at once, but
very patiently waits till it is sure of them; for upon
his immediately apjjroaching, the terror of his ap-
pearance might give the captive strength sufiicient
to get loose : the manner then is to wait patiently,
till by ineffectual and impotent struggles, the cap-
tive has wasted all its strength, and then he be-
comes a 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 two 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 eithei
for a defence or an attack.
To complete this description, it may be observed,
that the male spiders are much less than the female,
and that the latter are oviparous. When they come
to lay, they spread a part of their web under the
eggs, and then roll them up carefully, as we roll up
things in a cloth, and thus hatch them in their bole.
If disturbed in their holes, they never att-empt to
escape without carrying 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 ar-
tificial covering, they begin to spin, and almost sen-
sibly seem to grow bigger. If they have the good
fortune, when even but a day old, to catch a fly,
they fall too with good appetites: but they live
sometimes three or four days without any sort of
sustenance, and yet still continue 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 CHARACTERISTICS OF GREAT-
NESS.
In every duty, in every science in which we
would wish to arrive at perfection, we should pro-
pose for the object of our pursuit some certain sta-
tion even beyond our abilities ; some imaginary ex-
cellence, which may amuse and serve to animate
our inquiry. In deviating from others, in follow-
ing an unbeaten road, though we perhaps 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 security, is not so amusing as the hopes
of great rewards, which inspire the adventurer.
Evenit nonnunquam, says Q,uintilian, ut aliquid
grande inveniat qui semper quarit quod nimium
est.
This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means
the character of the present age : every person who
should now leave received opinions, who should
attempt to be more than a commentator upon yh\-
losophy, or an imitator in polite learning, might be
regarded as a chimerical projector. Hundreds
would be ready not only to point out his ei rora,
446
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
but to load him with reproach. Our probable opin
ions are now regarded as certainties ; the difficul-
ties hitherto undiscovered as utterly inscrutable ;
and the last age inimitable, and therefore the pro-
perest models of imitation.
One might be almost induced to deplore the phi-
losoj)hic 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 acquisi-
tions, it must be owned, is the best method of se-
curing 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 sagacity, though
criticism lifts her feeble voice in his praise, will
seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The
way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the few-
ness 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 par-
don his mistaking ten times for once succeeding.
True genius walks along a line; and perhaps our
greatest pleasure is in seeing it so often near full-
ing, without being ever actually down.
Every science has its hitherto undiscovered mys-
teries, after which men should travel undiscouraged
by the failure of former adventurers. Every new
attempt serves perhaps to faciUtate its future in-
vention. We may not find the philosopher's
stone, but we shall probably hit upon new inven
tions 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 person, 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 off admiration, and, undazzled
with the 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{)rising
also ? What could not such qualities united pro-
duce ? But such is not the character of the Eng-
lish : 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.
Proiectors in a state are generally rewarded
above their deserts ; projectors in the republic of
letters, never. If wrong, every inferior dunce
thinks himself entitled to laugh at their disap-
pointment ; if right, men of superior talents think
their honour engaged to oppose, since every new
discovery is a tacit duninution of their.own pre-
eminence.
To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends,
and our all must be ventured ; by aiming only at
mediocrit}', we run no risk, and we do little service.
Prudence and greatness are ever persuading us to
contrary pursuits. The one instructs us to be
content with our station, and to find happiness in
bounding every wish : the other impels us to su-
periority, and calls nothing happiness but rapture.
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.
TaciL
The rewards of mediocrity are immediately
paid, these 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 eccentric, and scorn the
beaten road, from universal benevolence.
*** In this place our author introduces a paper,
entitled a City Night Piece, with the following
motto from Martial.
lUe 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 singular merit, we shall here pre-
serve.
But let me turn from a scene of such distress to
the sanctified hypocrite, who has been talking of
virtue till the time of bed, and now steals out to
give a loose to his vices under the protection of
midnight : vices more atrocious because he at-
tempts to conceal them. See how he pants down
the dark alley; and, with hastening steps, fears an
acquaintance in every face. He has passed the
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 ; villany, when detected, never gives up,
but boldly adds impudence to imposture.
THE BEE.
447
THE BEE, No. V
Saturday, November 3, 1759.
UPON POLITICAL FRUGALITY.
Frugality has ever been esteemed a virtue as
well among Pagans as Christians : there have been
even heroes who have practised it. However, we
must acknowledge, 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
Buch a height. Frugality agrees much better with
politics ; it seems to be the base, the sup[)ort, and,
in a word, seems to be the inseparable companion
of a just administration.
However this be, there is not perhaps in the
world a people less fond of this virtue than the
English ; and of consequence, there is not a na-
tion more restless, more exposed to the uneasiness
of hfe, 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 po-
litest institutions, is generally the person who is I of their wishes.
disinterested, and laborious members of society;
but does it not at present jwint out a aifferent path 1
It teaches us to multiply our wants, by which
means we become more eager to possess, in order
to dissipate, a greater charge to ourselves, and
more useless or obnoxious to society.
If a youth happens to be possessed of more ge-
nius 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
ills 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
liis fortune; that he should think of becoming
great : but he finds none to admonish him to be-
come frugal, to persevere in one single design, to
avoid every pleasure and all flattery which, how-
ever seeming to conciliate the favour of his supe-
riors, never conciliate their esteem. There are
none to teach him, that the best way of becoming
happy in himself, and useful to others, is to con-
tinue in the state in which fortune at first placed
him, without making too hasty strides to ad\ance-
ment; that greatness may be attained, but should
not be expected ; and that they wlio most impa-
tiently expect advancement, are seldom possessed
He has few, I say, to teach him
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 subject of our admiration and
applause. All this we see represented, not as the
end and recompense of labour and desert, but as
this lesson, or to moderate his youthful passions ;
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
certainly make, or considerably increase his for-
tune, and might indulge several of his favour-
the actual result of genius, as the mark of a noble, ile inclinations in manhood with the utmost se-
and exalted mind. curity.
In the midst of these praises bestowed on luxury. The efficaciousness of these means is sufficiently
for which elegance and taste are but another name, j known and acknowledged ; but as we arc apt to
perhaps it may be thought improper to plead the | connect a low idea with all our notions of frugality,
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 themselves, even with mechanic mean-
ness, to the simple necessaries of life. Such sort
of instructions may appear antiquated ; yet, how-
ever, they seem the foundations of all our virtues,
and the most eflicacious method of making man-
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 hu-
manity; but this is only an ideal picture, or the re-
semblance at least is found but in a few. In truth,
kind useful members of society. Unhappily, how- 1 they who are generally called misers, are some of
ever, such discourses are not fashionable among 'the very best members of society. The sober,
us, and tlie fashion seems every day growing still
more obsolete, since the press, and every other
method of exhortation, seems disposed to talk of
the luxuries of life as harmless enjoyments. I re-
member, 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
Httlc masters are taught to consider <lress betimes,
the laborious, the attentive, the frugal, are thus
styled by the gay, giddy, thoughtless, and extra-
vagant. 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 injure the fom-
monwealth ; those of the latter are the most in
juriousthat can be conceived.
The ancient Romans, more rational than we m
and they are regarded, even at school, with con- , this particular, were very far from thus misplacing
tempt, who do not appear as genteel as the rest. ! their admiration or praise ; instead of regarding
Education should teach us to become useful, sober, the practice of parsimony as low ^r vicious, they
448
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
made it synonymous'even with probity. They es-
teemed those virtues so inseparable, that the known
expression of Vir Frugi signified, at one and the
saijie tit.e, a sober and managing man, an honest
man, and a man of substance.
The Scriptures, in a thousand places, praise
economy ; and it is every where 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 fool-
ish 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. But if it be impossible to convert
the multitude, those who have received a more ex-
tended education, who are enlightened and judi-
cious, 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 un-
necessary expenses, which have no tendency to
promote happiness or virtue, and which might be
directed to better purposes. Our fire-works, our
public feasts and entertainments, our entries of am-
bassadors, etc. ; what mummery all this ! what
childish pageants ! what millions are sacrificed in
paying tribute to custom ! what an unnecessary
charge at times when we are pressed with real
want, which can not be satisfied without burdening
the poor!
Were such suppressed entirely, not a single
creature in the state would have the least cause to
mourn 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
Gazette 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 use-
ful to society. We should then quickly see many
useful monuments 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 those;
tumultuous preparations of feasts, entertainments,
and other rejoicings used upon such occasions."
The same proposal was long before confirmed by
a iJninese emperor, who lived in the last century,
who, upon an occasion of extraordinary joy, forbade
his subjecip to make the usual illuminations, either
with » design of sparing their substance, or of
turning them to some more durable indications of
joy, more glorious for him, and more advantageous
to his people.
After such instances of political frugality, 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
piiunds, "And why," cries he, " can not his majes-
ty keep the picture and give the money! " The
simplicity may be ridiculed at first ; but when we
come to examine it more closely, men of sense will
at once confess that he had reason in what he said,
and that a purse of two thousand guineas is much
more serviceable than a picture.
Should we follow the same method of state fru-
gality in other respects, what numberless savings
might not be the result ! How many possibilities
of saving in the administration of justice, which
now burdens the subject, and enriches some mem-
bero of society, who are useful only from its cor-
ruption !
It were to be wished, that they who govern king-
doms would imitate artisans. When at London a
new stuff has been invented, it is immediately
counterfeited in France. How happy were it for
society, if a first minister would be equally solicit-
ous to transplant the useful laws of other countries
into his own. We are arrived at a perfect imita-
tion of porcelain ; let us endeavour to imitate the
good to society that our 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 at-
tempt to raise those fruits which nature has adapt-
ed only to the sultry climates beneath the line. We
have at our very doors a thousand laws and cus-
toms infinitely useful : these are the fruits we should
endeavour to transplant; these the exotics that
wouldspeedily become naturalized tothe soil. They
might grow in every climate, and benefit every pos-
sessor.
The best and the most useful laws I have ever
seen, are generally practised in Holland. When
two men are determined to go to law with each
other, they are first obliged to go before the recon-
ciling judges, called the peace-makers. If the
parties come attended with an advocate, or a so-
licitor, they are obliged to retire, as we take fuel
from the fire we are desirous of extinguishing.
The peace-makers then begin advising the par-
ties, by assuring them, that it is the height of folly
to waste their substance, and make themselves
mutually miserable, by having recourse to the tri-
bunals of justice; follow but our direction, and we
will accommodate matters without any expense to
either. If the rage of debate is too strong upon
either party, they are reautted back for another
THE BEE.
449
day, in order that time may soften their tempers,
and produce a reconciliation. They are thus sent
tor twice or thrice: if their folly hapjjens to be in-
curable, they are permitted to go to law, and as
we give up to amputation such members as can
not be cured by art, justice is permitted to take its
course.
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 himself ridi-
culous. What ! mankind will be ajit to say, adopt
the customs of countries that have not so much real
(iberty as our own ! our present customs, what are
they to any man? we are very happy under them :
this must be a very pleasant fellow, who attempts
to make us happier than we already are ! Does he
not know that abuses are the patrimony of a great
part of the nation? Why deprive us of a malady
by which such numbers find their account? This,
I must own, is an argrment to which I have no-
thing to reply.
W^hat numberless savings might there not be
made in both arts and commerce, particularly in
the liberty of exercising trade, without the neces-
sary prerequisites of freedom! Such useless ob-
structions have crept into every state, from a spirit
of monopoly, a narrow selfish spirit of gain, with-
out the least attention to general society. Such a
clog upon industry frequently drives the poor from
labour, and reduces them by degrees to a state of
hopeless 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 administra-
tions.
Exclusive of the masters, there are numberless
faulty expenses among the workmen; clubs, garn-
ishes, 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 idle-
ness, and are the parent of all those outrages wliich
naturally fall upon the more useful part of society.
In the towns and countries I have seen, I never
saw a city or village yet, whose miseries were not
in proportion to the number of its public-houses.
In Rotterdam, you may go through eight or ten
streets without finding a public-house. In Ant-
werp, almost every second house seems an ale-
house. In the one city, all wears the appearance
of happiness and warm affluence ; in the other, the
young fellows walk about the streets in shabby
finery, their fathers sit at the door darning or knit-
ting stockings, while their ports are filled with
dunghills.
Alehouses are ever an occasion of debauchery
29 .
and excess, and, either in a religious or political
light, it would be our highest interest to have the
greatest part of them suppressed. They should be
put under laws of not continuing open beyond a
certain hour, and harbouring only proper persons.
These rules, it may be said, will diminish the ne-
cessary taxes; but tliis 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 workman's family,
spent at home ; and this cheaper to them, and with-
out loss of time. On the other hand, our alehouses
being ever open, interrupt business ; the workman
is never certain who frequents them, nor can the
master be sure of having what was begun, finished
at the convenient time.
A habit of frugality among the lower orders of
mankind, is much more beneficial to society than
the unreflecting might imagine. The pawnbroker,
the attorney, and other pests of society, might, by
proper management, be turned into serviceable
members ; and, were their trades abolished, it is
possible the same avarice that conducts the one, or
the same chicanery that characterizes the other,
might, by proper regulations, be converted into
frugality and commendable prudence.
But some, who have made the eulogium of lux-
ury, have represented it as the natural consequence
of every country that is become rich. Did we not
employ our extraordinary wealth in superfluities,.
say they, what other means would there be to em-
ploy it in? To which it may be answered, if fru-
gality 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 hap-
piness. The rich and the great would be better
able to satisfy their creditors; they would be better
able to marry their 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 our real felicity, would not
then be attended to, while the real calls of nature
might be always and universally supplied. Tho
diflerence of employment in the subject is what, in
reality, produces the good of society. If tne sub-
ject be engaged in providing only the luxuries, the
necessaries must be deficient in proportion. If,
neglecting the produce of our own country, our
minds are set upon the productions of another, we
increase our wants, but not our 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 cul-
tivate the necessaries, by which is always meant
every happiness our own country can produce;
and suppress all the luxuries, by which is meant,
450
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
on the other hand, every happiness imported from
abroad. Commerfce has therefore its bounds ; and
every new import, instead of receiving encourage-
ment, should be first examined whether it be con-
ducive to the interest of society.
Among the many pubhcations with which the
press is every day burdened, I have often wondered
why we never had, as in 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 journals serve
to amuse 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
60 1 call our warriors; or the idle world, for so may
the learned be called; they never trouble their
heads about the most useful part of mankind, our
peasants and our artisans ; — were such a work car-
ried into execution, with proper management, and
just direction, it might serve as a repository for
every useful improvement, and increase that know-
ledge which learning often serves to confound.
Sweden seems the only country where the sci-
ence of economy seems to have fixed its empire.
In other countri.es, it is cultivated oidy by a few
admirers, or by societies which have not received
sufficient sanction to become completely useful;
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 be prevented from
ruining or deceiving the public with pretended dis-
coveries or nostrums, and every real inventor would
not, by this means, suffer the inconveniencies 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 at-
tribute 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 proportion-
ed to our debauchery, and the greatest prodigal is
too frequently found to be the greatest miser; so
mat the vices which seem the most opposite, are
frequently fuuml to produce each other; and to
avoid botli, it is only necessary to be frugal.
A REVERIE.
Virtus est medium vitiorum at utrinque reductum.— Sbr.
Scarcely a day passes in which we do not hear
compliments paid to Dryden, Pope, and other
writers of the last age, while not a mouth comes
forward that is not loaded with invectives against
the 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 predecessors, it would be politic to
use them with ceremony. Every compliment paid
them would be more agreeable, in proportion a»
they least deserved it. Tell a lady with a hand-
some face that she is pretty, she only thinks it hej
due ; it is what she has heard a thousand times be
fore from others, and disregards the compliment
but assure a lady, the cut of whose visage is some
thing more plain, that she looks killing "to-da}', sha
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 given away,
Our gentlemen, however, who preside at the dis-
tribution of literary fame, seem resolved to part with
praise neither from motives of justice nor generosi-
ty: one would think, when they take pen in hand,
that it was only to blot reputations, and to put
their seals to the packet which consigns every new-
born effort to oblivion.
Yet, notwithstanding the republic of letters
hangs at present so feebly together ; though those
friendships which once promoted literary fame seem
now to be discontinued ; though every writer who
now draws the quill seems to aim at profit, as well
as applause; many among them are probably laying
in stores for immortality, and are provided with a
sufficient stock of reputation to last the whole
journey.
As I was indulging these reflections, in order to
eke out the jjresent page, I could not avoid pur-
suing the metaphor of going a journey in niy ima-
gination, and formed the following Reverie, too
wild for allegory and too regular for a dream.
I fancied myself placed in the yard of a large
inn, in which there were an infinite number of
wagons and stage-coaches, attended by fellows who
either invited the company to take their places, or
were busied in packing their baggage. Each vehicle
had its inscription, showing the place of its desti-
nation. On one I could read. The pleasure stage-
coach; on another. The wagon of industry ; on a
third, Tlie vanity whim ; and on a fourth, The
THE BEE.
451
landau of riches. I had some inclinatitm to step
in .0 each of these, one after another ; but I know
not by what means, I passed them hy, and at last
fixed my eye upon a small carriage, Berhn fashion,
which seemed the most convenient vehicle at a dis-
tance in the world ; and upon my nearer approach
found it to be The fame machine.
I instantly made up to the coachman, whom I
found to be an affable and seemingly good-natured
fellow. He informed me, that he had but a few
days ago returned from the Temple of Fame, to
which he had been carrying Addison, Swift, Pope,
Steele, Congreve, and Colley Gibber. That they
made but indifferent company by the way, that he
once or twice was going to empty his berlin of the
whole cargo : however, says he, I got them all
safe home, with no other damage than a black eye,
which Colley gave Mr. Pope, and am now return-
ed for another coachful. " If that be all, friend,"
said I, "and if you are in want of company, I'll
make one with all my heart. Open the door; I
hope the machine rides easy." " Oh, for that, sir,
extremely easy." But still keeping the door shut,
and measuring me with his eye, " Pray, sir, have
you no luggage? You seem to be a good-natured
sort of a gentleman ; but I don't find you have got
any luggage, and I never permit any to travel with
me but such as have something valuable to pay for
coach-hire." Examining my pockets, I own 1 was
not a little disconcerted at this unexpected rebuff;
but considering that I carried a number of the Bee
under my arm, I was resolved to open it in his
eyes, and dazzle him with the splendour of the
page. He read the title and contents, however,
without any emotion, and assured me he had
never heard of it before. " In short, friend," said
he, now losing all his former respect, "you must
not come in: I expect better passengers; but as
you seem a harmless creature, perhajis, if there be
room left, I may let you ride a while for charity."
I now took my stand by the coachman at the
door; and since I could not command a seat, was
resolved to be as useful as possible, and earn by my
assiduity what I could not by my merit.
The next that presented for a place was a most
whimsical figure indeed. He was hung round
with papers of his own composing, not unlike those
who sing ballads in the streets, and came dancing
uj) to the door with all the confidence of instant
admittance. The volubility of his motion and ad-
dress prevented my being able to read more of his
cargo than the word Inspector, which was written
in great letters at the top of some of the papers. He
opened the coach-door himself without any cere-
mony, and was just slipping in, when the coach-
man, with as little ceremony, pulled him back. Our
figure seemed perfectly angry at this repulse, and
demanded gentleman's satisfaction. " Lord, sir !"
replied the coachman, " instead of proper luggage,
by your bulk you seem loaded for a West India
voyage. You are big enough with all your papers
to crack twenty stage-coaches. Excuse me, in-
deed, sir, for you must not enter." Our figure now
began to expostulate: he assured the coachman,
that though his baggage seemed so bulky, it was
perfectly light, and that he would be contented
with the smallest corner of room. But Jehu was
inflexible, and the carrier of the Inspectors was
sent to dance back again with all his papers flut-
tering in the wind. We expected to have no more
trouble from this quarter, when in a few minutes
the same figure changed his appearance, like har-
lexiuin upon the stage, and with the same confi-
dence again made his approaches, dressed in lace,
and carrying nothing but a nosegay. Upon com-
ing nearer, he thrust the nosegay to the coach-
man's nose, grasped the brass, and seemed now re-
solved to enter by violence. I fjund the strutrcrle
soon begin to grow hot, and the coachman, who
was a little old, unable to continue the contest ; so,
in order to ingratiate myself, I stepped in to his
assistance, and our united efforts sent our literary
Proteus, though worsted, unconquered still, clear
off, dancing a rigadoon, and smelling to his own
nosegay.
The person wlio after him appeared as candidate
for a place in the stage, came up with an airnot quite
so confident, but somewhat however theatrical ;
and, instead of entering, made the coachman a very
low bow, which the other returned and desired to
see his baggage; upon which he instantly produced
some farces, a tragedy, and other miscellany pro-
ductions. The coachman, casting his eye upon
the cargo, assured him at present he could not pos-
sibly have a place, but hoped in time he micrht as-
pire to one, as he seemed to have read in the book
of nature, without a careful perusal of which, none
ever found entrace at the Temple of Fame.
" What !" replied the disappointed poet, " shall
my tragedy, in wliich I have vindicated the cause
of liberty and virtue — " "Follow nature," re-
turned the other, "and never expect to find lasting
fame by topics which only please from their popu-
larity. Had you been first in the cause of freedom
or praised in virtue more than an empty name, it
is possible you might have gained admittance ;
but at present I beg sir, you will stand aside for
another gentleman whom I see approachincr."
This was a very grave personage, whom at some
distance I took for one of the most reserved, and
even disagreeable figures I had seen ; but as he
approached, bis appearance improved, and whe.i I
could distinguish him thoroughly, I perceived that,
in spite of the severity of his brow, he had one of
the most good-natured countenances that could lie
imagined. Upon comiii,g to open tiie stage door,
he lifted a parcel of folios into the seat before him,
but our inquisitorial coachman at once shoved ihca
452
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
out again. " What ! not take in my Dictionary?"
exclaimed the other in a rage. " Be patient, sir,"
replied the coachman, " I have drove a coach, man
and boy, these two thousand years ; but I do not
remember to have carried above one dictionary
during the whole time. That little book which 1
perceive peeping from one of your pockets, may
I presume to ask what it contains?" "A mere
trifle," replied the author ; " it is called The Ram-
bler." " The Rambler !" says the coachman, " 1
beg, sir, you will take your place; I have heard our
ladies in the court of Apollo frequently mention
it with rapture : and Clio, who happens to be a
little grave, has been heard to prefer it to the Spec-
tator; though others have observed, that the re-
flections, by being refined, sometimes become mi-
nute."
This grave gentleman was scarcely seated, when
another, whose appearance was something more
modern, seemed willing to enter, yet afraid to ask.
He carried in his hand a bundle of essays, of
which the coachman was curious enough to inquire
the contents. " These," replied the gentleman,
" are rhapsodies against the religion of my coun-
try." And how can you expect to come into my
coach, after thus choosing the wrong side of the
question?" "Ay, but i am right," replied the
other; " and if you give me leave I shall in a few
minutes state the argument." " Right or wrong,"
said the coachman, " he who disturbs religion is a
blockhead, and he shall never travel in a coach of
mine." " If, then," said the gentleman, mustering
up all his courage, "if I am not to have admit-
tance as an essayist, 1 hope 1 shall not be repulsed
as an historian ; the last volume of my history met
with ajiplause." "Yes," rej)lied the coachman,
■' but I have heard only the first approved at the
Temple of Fame ; and as I see you have it about
you, enter without further ceremony." My atten-
tion was now diverted to a crowd who were push-
ing forward a person that seemed more inclined to
the stage-coach of riches ; but by their means he
Was driven forward to the same machine, which he,
however, seemed heartily to despise. Impelled,
however, by their solicitations, he steps up, flourish-
ing a voluminous history, and demanding admit-
tance. "Sir, I have formerly heard your name
mentioned," says the coachman, " but never as an
historian. Is there no other work upon which you
may claim a place ?" " None," replied the other,
" except a romance ; but this is a work of too tri-
fling a nature to claim future attention. "You
mistake," says the inquisitor, " a well-written ro-
mance is no such easy task as is generally imagin-
ed. I remember formerly to have carried Cervan-
tes and Segrais ; and, if you think fit, you may
enter
Upon our three literary travellers coming into
the same coach, I listened attentively to hear what
might be the conversation that passsed upon this ex-
traordinary occasion ; when. in«»/3a<J if agreeable
or entertaining dialogue, I found them grumbling
at each other, and each seemed discontented with
his companions. Strange! thought J to myself,
that they who are thus born to enlighten the worlds
should still preserve the narrow prejudices of child-
hood, and, by disagreeing, make even the highest
merit ridiculous. Were the learned and the wise
to unite against the dunces of society, instead of
sometimes siding into opposite parties with them,
they might throw a lustre upon each other's repu-
tation, and teach every rank of subordination me-
rit, if not to admire, at least not to avow dislike.
In the midst of these reflections, I perceived the
coachman, unmindful of me, had now mounted
the box. Several were approaching to be taken in,
whose pretensions, I was sensible, were very just ;
I therefore desired him to stop, and take in more
passengers ; but he replied, as he had now mount-
ed the box, it would be improper to come down ;
but that he should take them all, one after the
other, when he should return. So he drove
away ; and for myself, as I could not get in, I
mounted behind, in order to hear the conversation
on the way.
(To be continued.)
A WORD OR TWO ON THE LATE
FARCE, CALLED "HIGH LIFE BE-
LOW STAIRS."
Just as I had expected, before I saw this farce,
I found it formed on t oo narrow a plan to afford a
pleasing variety. The sameness of the humour in
every scene could not but at last fail of being disa-
greeable. The poor, affecting the manners of the
rich, might be carried on through one character, or
two at the most, with great propriety : but to have
almost every personage on the scene almost of the
same character, and reflecting the follies of each
other, was unartful in the poet to the last degree.
The scene was almost a continuation of the
same absurdity, and my Lord Duke and Sir Har-
ry (two footmen who assume these characters)
have nothing else to do but to talk like their mas-
ters, and are only introduced to speak, and to show
themselves. Thus, as there is a sameness of cha-
racter, there is a barrenness of incident, which, by
a very small share of address, the poet might have
easily avoided.
From a conformity to critic rules, which per-
haps on the whole have done more harm than
good, our author has sacrificed all the vivacity of
the dialogue to nature ; and though he makes his
characters talk like servants, they are seldom ab-
surd enough, or lively enough to make us merry.
Though he is always natural, he happens sekiom
to be humorous.
THE BEE.
453
The satire was well intended, if we regard it as
being masters ourselves ; but probably a philoso-
pner would rejoice in that liberty which English-
men give their dojnestics ; and, for my own part, I
can not-avoid being pleased at the happiness of those
poor creatures, who in some measure contribute to
mine. The Athenians, the politest and best-na-
tured people upon earth, were the kindest to their
slaves ; and if a person may judge, who has seen
the world, our English servants are the best treated,
because the generaUty of our English gentlemen
are the politest under the sun.
But not to lift my feeble voice among the pack
of critics, who probably have no other occupation
but that of cutting up every thing new, I must
own, there are one or two scenes that are fine satire,
and sufficiently humorous ; particularly the first in-
terview between the two footmen, which at once
ridicules the manners of the great, and the ab-
surdity of their imitators.
Whatever defects there might be in the composi-
tion, there were none in the action : in this the per-
formers showed more humour than I had fancied
them capable of. Mr. Palmer and Mr. King were
entirely what they desired to represent ; and Mrs.
Clive (but what need I talk of her, since, without
the least exaggeration, she has more true humour
than any actor or actress upon the English or any
other stage I have seen) — she, I say, did the part
all the justice it was capable of: and, upon the
whole, a farce, which has only this to recommend
it, that the author took his plan from the volume
of nature, by the sprightly manner in which it was
performed, was for one night a tolerable entertain-
ment. This much may be said in its vindication,
that people of fashion seemed more pleased in the
representation than the subordinate ranks of people.
UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT.
EvERV age seems to have its favourite pursuits,
which serve to amuse the idle, and to relieve the
attention of the industrious. Happy the man who
is born excellent in the pursuit in vogue, and whose
genius seems adapted to the times in which he
lives. How many do we see, who might have ex-
celled in arts or sciences, and who seem furnished
■with talents equal to the greatest discoveries, had
the road not been already beaten by their prede-
cessors, and nothing left for them except trifles to
discover, while others of very moderate abilities be-
come faiiious, because happening to be first in the
reigning pursuit.
Thus, at the renewal of letters in Europe, the
taste was not to compose new books, but to com-
ment on the old ones. It was not to be expected
that new books should be written, when there were
so many of the ancients either not known or not
understood. It was not reasonable to attempt new
conquests, while they had such an extensive region
lying waste for want of cultivation. At that pe-
riod, criticism and erudition were the reigning stu-
dies of the times ; and he who had only an inven-
tive genius, might have languished in hopeless ob-
scurity. When the writers of antiquity were suffi-
ciently explained and known, the learned set about
imitating them : hence proceeded the number of
Latin orators, poets, and historians, in the reigng
of Clement the Seventh and Alexander the Sixth.
This passion for antiquity lasted for many years,
to the utter exclusion of every other pursuit, till
some began to find, that those works which were
imitated from nature, were more like the writings
of antiquity, than even those written in express
imitation. It was then modern language began to
be cultivated with assiduity, and our poets and ora-
tors poured forth their wonders upon the world.
As writers become more numerous, it is natural
for readers to become more indolent ; whence must
necessarily arise a desire of attaining knowledge
with the greatest possible ease. No science or art
offers its instruction and amusement in so obvious
a manner as statuary and painting. Hence we
see, that a desire of cultivating those arts generally
attends the decline of science. Thus the finest
statues and the most beautiful paintings of an-
tiquity, preceded but a little the absolute decay of
every other science. The statues of Antoninus,
Commodus, and their contemporaries, are the finest
productions of the chisel, and appeared hut just be-
fore learning was destroyed by comment, criticism,
and barbarous invasions.
What happened in Rome may probably be the
case with us at home. Our nobility are now more
solicitous in patronizing painters and sculptors than
those of any other polite profession ; and from the
lord, who has his gallery, down to the 'prentice,
who has his twopenny copper-plate, all are ad-
mirers of this art. The great, by their caresses,
seem insensible to all other merit but that of the
pencil ; and the vulgar buy every book rather from
the excellence of the sculptor than the writer.
How happy were it now, if men of real excel-
lence in that profession were to arise ! Were the
painters of Italy now to appear, who once wander-
ed like beggars from one city to another, and pro-
duce their almost breathing figures, what rewards
might they not expect! But many of them lived
without rewards, and therefore rewards alone will
never produce their equals. We have often found
the great exert themselves not only without pro-
motion, but in spite of opposition. We have often
found them flourishing, like medicinal plants, m a
region of savageness and barbarity, their excellence
unknown, and their virtues unheeded.
They who have seen the paintings of Caravagio
454
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
are sensible of lae surprising impression they make ;
bold, swelliii<T, terrible to the last degree ; all seems
animated, and speaks him among the foremost of
his profession ; yet this man's fortune and his fame
seemed ever in opposition to each other.
Unknowing how to flatter the great, he was
driven from cjty to city in the utmost indigence,
and might truly be said to paint for his bread.
Having one day insulted a person of distinction,
who refused to pay him all the respect which he
thought his due, he was obliged to leave Rome,
and travel on foot, his usual method of going his
journeys down into the country, without either
money or friends to subsist him.
After he had travelled in this manner as long as
his strength would permit, faint with famine and
fatigue, he at last called at an obscure inn by the
way -side. The host knew, by the appearance of
his guest, his indifferent circumstances, and refused
to furnish him a dinner vdthout previous payment.
As Caravagio was entirely destitute of money,
he took down the innkeeper's sign, and painted it
anew for his dinner.
Thus refreshed, he proceeded on his journey,
■ and left, the innkeeper not quite satisfied with this
method of payment. Some company of distinc-
tion, however, coming soon after, and struck with
the beauty of the new sign, bought it at an ad-
vanced price, and astonished the innkeeper with
their generosity: he was resolved, therefore, to get
as many signs as possible drawn by the same artist,
as he found he could sell them to good advantage ;
and accordingly set out after Caravagio, in order
to bring him back. It was nightfall before he came
up to the place where the unfortunate Caravagio
. lay dead by the roadside, overcome by fatigue, re
sentment, and despair.
upon this subject, instead of indulging each his
THE BEE, No. VI.
Saturday, November 10, 1759.
ON EDUCATION.
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE BEE.
Sir,
As few subjects are more interesting to society,
so few have been more frequently written upon than
the education of youth. Yet is it not a little sur-
prising, that it should have been treated almost by
all in a declamatory manner? They have insisted
largely on the advantages that result from it, both
to the individual and to society, and have expatiated
in the praise of what none have ever been so hardy | might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all
as to call iii question. members of society, I do not know a more useful,
Instead of giving us fine but empty harangues I or a more honourable one, than a schoolmaster ,
particular and whimsical system, it had been much
better if the writers on this subject had treated it
in a more scientific manner, repressed all the sal-
lies of imagination, and given us the result of
their observations with didactic simplicity. Upon
this subject the smallest errors are of the most dan-
gerous consequence ; and the author should ven-
ture the imputation of stupidity upon a topic,
where his slightest deviations may tend to injure
the rising generation.
I shall therefore throw out a few thoughts upon
this subject, which have not been attended to by
others, and shall dismiss all attempts to please,
while I study only instruction.
The manner in which our youth of London are
at present educated is, some in free-schools in the
city, but the far greater number in boarding-schools
about town. The parent justly consults the
health of his child, and finds an education in the
country tends to promote this much more than a
continuance in the town. Thus far they are
right : if there were a possibility of having even
our free-schools kept a little out of town, it would
certainly conduce to the health and vigour of per-
haps 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.
But when I have said, that the boarding-schools
are preferable to free-schools, as being in the coun-
try, this is certainly the only advantage I can allow
them, otherwise it is impossible to conceive the
ignorance of those who take upon them the im-
portant trust of education. Is any man unfit for
any of the professions ? he finds his last resource
in setting up school. Do any become bankrupts in
trade? they still set up a boarding-school, and drive
a trade this way, when all others fail : nay, I have
been told of butchers and barbers, who have turn-
ed.schoolmasters ; and, more surprising still, made
fortunes in their new profession.
Could we think ourselves in a country of civil-
ized people ; could it be conceived that we have
any regard for posterity, when such are permitted
to take the charge of the morals, genius, and health
of those dear little pledges, who may one day be
the guardians 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 igno-
rant with the disposal of their children in this par-
ticular ? For the state to take the charge of all its
children, as in Persia and Sparta, might at present
be inconvenient; but surely with great ease' it
THE BEE.
455
at the same time that I do not see any more ge-
nerally despised, or whose talents are so ill re-
warded.
Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be aug-
mented from a diminution of useless sinecures,
how might it turn to the advantage of this people;
a people whom, without llattery, I may in other
respects term the wisest and greatest upon earth !
But while I would reward the deserving, I would
dismiss those utterly unqualified for their employ-
ment : in short, I would make the business of a
schoolmaster every way more respectable, by in-
creasing their salaries, and admitting only men of
proper abilities.
There are already schoolmasters appointed, and
they have some small salaries; but where at pre-
sent there is but one schoolmaster appointed, there
ehould at least be two ; and wherever the salary is
tX present twenty pounds, it should be a hundred.
Do we ffive immoderate benefices to those who
instruct ourselves,, and shall we deny even subsist-
ence to those who instruct our children 7 Every
member of society should be paid in proportion as
he is necessary ; and I will be bold enough to say,
that schoolmasters in a state are more necessary
than clergymen, as children stand in more need of
instruction than their parents.
But instead of this, as I have already observed,
we send them to board in the country to the most
ignorant set of men that can be imagined. But
lest the ignorance of the master be not sufficient,
the child is generally consigned to the usher.
This is 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 dispo-
sition, and making the children fond of him.
"You give your child to be educated to a slave,"
says a philosopher to a rich man ; " instead of one
slave, you will then have two."
It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing
their children in one of these houses, would ex-
amine the abihties of the usher as well as of 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 put-
ting 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
the school. Every trick is played upon the usher ;
the oddity of his manners, his dress, or his lan-
guage, 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 with
all the family. Tliis is a very proper person, is it
not, to give children a relish for learning? They
must esteem learning very much, when they see
its professors used with such ceremony ! If the
usher be despised, the father may be assured his
child will never be properly instructed.
But let me suppose, that there are some schoola
without these inconveniences ; where the master
and ushers are men of learning, reputation, and
assiduity. If there are to be found such, they
cannot be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy
will learn more true wisdom in a public school in
a year, than by a private education in five. It is not
from masters, but from their equals, youth learn
a knowledge of the world ; the little tricks they
play each other, the punishment that frequently
attends the commission, is a just picture of the
great world, and all the ways of men are practised
in a public school in miniature. It is true, a child
is early made acquainted with some vices in a school,
but it is better to know these when a boy, than be
first taught them when a man, for their novelty
then may have irresistible charms.
In a public education boys early learn tempe-
rance ; and if the parents and friends would give
them less money upon their usual visits, it would
be much to their advantage, since it may justly be
said, that a great part of their disorders arise from
surfeit, plus occidit gula quain gladius. And
now I am come to the article of health, it may not
be amiss to observe, that Mr. Locke and some
others have advised, that children should be inured
to cold, to fatigue, and hardship, from their youth;
but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent physician..
Habit, I grant, has gresit influence over our con-
stitutions, but we have ;iot precise ideas upon this
subject.
We know that among savages, and even among
our peasants, there are found children born with
such constitutions, that they cross rivers by swim-
ming, endure cold, thirst, hunger, and want of
sleep, to a surjjrising degree ; that when they hap-
pen to fall sick, they are cured without the help
of medicine, by nature alone. Such examples aie
adduced to persuade us to imitate their mar.ner of
education, and accustom ourselves betimes to sup-
port the same fotigues. 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 Ufe ; secondly, that the more
laborious the life is, the less populous is the coun-
try : had they considered, that what physicians
call the stamina titcc, by fatigue and laljour 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 Great, willing to inum
456
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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 la-
bours, yet still I would recommend temperance in
. he highest degree. No luxurious dishes with high
sea-wning, nothing given children to force an ap-
petite, as little sugared or salted provisions as pos-
sible, though never so pleasing ; but milk, morning
and night, should be their constant food. This diet
would make them more healthy than any of those
slops that are usually cooked by the mistress of a
boarding-school ; besides, it corrects any consump-
tive habits, not unfrequently found amongst the
children of city parents.
As boys should be educated with temperance,
so the first greatest lesson that should be taught
them is, to admire frugality. It is by the exercise
of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to be use-
ful members of society. It is true, lectures con-
tinually 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 among us. I know few
characters more useful in society; for a man's
having a larger or smaller share of money lying
useless by him no way injures the commonwealth ;
since, should every miser now exhaust his stores,
this might make gold more plenty, but it would not
increase the commodities or pleasures of life ; they
would still remain as they are at present : it mat-
ters not, therefore, whether men are misers or not,
if they be only frugal, laborious, and fill the station
they have chosen. If they deny themselves the
necessaries of life, society is no way injured by their
folly.
Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise
young men of spirit, who go through a variety of
adventures, and at last conclude a life of dissipa-
tion, folly, and extravagance, in riches and matri-
mony, there should be some men of wit employed
to compose books that might equally interest the
passions of our youth ; where such a one might be
praised for having resisted allurements when young,
and how he at last became lord mayor ; how he
was married to a lady of great sense, fortune, and
beauty : to be as explicit as possible, the old story
of Whittington, were his cat left out, might be
more serviceable to the tender mind, than either
Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or a hundred others,
where frugality is the only good quality the hero
is not possessed of. Were our schoolmasters, if
any of them had sense enough to draw up such a
work, thus emjiloyed, it would be much more
serviceable to their pupils than all the grammars
and dictionaries they may publish these ten years.
Children should early be instructed in the arts,
from which they would afterwards draw the great-
est advantages, Wlien the wonders of nature are
never exposed to our view, we have no great de-
sire to become acquainted with those parts of learn-
ing 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 con-
verse in the world, they fancy themselves transport-
ed into a new region. Ut cum in forum vevcrint
existiment se in aliam terrarum orbem delatos.
We should early therefore instruct them in the ex-
periments, if 1 may so express it, of knowledge,
and leave to maturer age the accounting for the
causes. But, instead of that, when boys begin
natural philosophy in colleges, they have not the
least curiosity for those i)arts of the science which
are proposed for their instruction ; they have never
before seen the phenomena, and consequently have
no curiosity to learn the reasons. Might natural
philosophy therefore be made their pastime in
school, by this means it would in coUege become
their amusement.
In several of the machines now in use, there
would be ample field both for instruction and
amusement : the different sorts of the phosphorus,
the artificial pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the ex-
periments 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 would be sufiTicient if the
instruments, and the eflects of their combination,
were only shown ; the causes should be defen-ed to
a maturer age, or to those times when natural curi-
osity prompts us to discover the wonders of nature,
Man is placed in this world as a spectator ; 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 won-
ders.
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 un-
til they seemed of themselves desirous of knowing
them. A mind thus leaving school stored with all
the simple experiences of science, would be the
fittest in the world for the college course; and
though such a youth might not aj)pear so bright,
or so talkative, as those who had learned the real
principles and causes of some of the sciences, yet
he would make a wiser man, and would retain a
more lasting passion for letters, than he who was
early burdened with the disagreeable institution of
effect and cause.
In history, such stories alone should be laid be-
fore them as might catch the imagination : instead
of this, they are too frequently obliged to toil through
the four empires, as they are called, where their
memories are burdened by a number of disgusting
names, that destroy all their future relish for oui
THE BEE.
45- •
Wsv hjsion»ns, wi;o iiaj he veu^tJ .'he truest
teachers of wisticni.
Every species of flattery should be caieluUy
avoided ; a boy, who happens to say a sprightly
thing, is generally applauded so much, that he hap-
pens to continue a coxcomb sometimes all his life
after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and be-
comes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, footmen,
and such, should therefore be driven away as much
as possible. I was even going to add, that the
mother herself should stifle her pleasure, or her
vanity, when little master happens to say a good
or smart thing. Those modest lubberly boys who
seem to want spirit, generally go through their
business with more ease to themselves, and more
satisfaction to their instructors.
There has of late a gentleman appeared, who
thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect
education. That bold male eloquence, which often
without pleasing convinces, is generally destroyed
by such institutions. . Convincing eloquence, how-
find me once more addressing schoolmasters on the
present method of teaching the learned languages,
which is commonly by hteral translations. 1 would
ask such, if they were to travel a journey, whether
those parts of the road in which they found the
greatest difficulties would not be most strongly xe-
memberedl Boys who, if I may continue the al-
lusion, gallop through one of the ancients with 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 beat the fatigue
of remembering, when his doubts are at once satis-
fied by a glance of the eye ; whereas, were every
word to be sought from a dictionar}', the learner
would atttempt 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 schoolmaster, of all the various grammars now
ever, is infinitely more serviceable to its possessor ; taught in the schools about town, I would recom
than the most florid harangue or the most pathetic
tones that can be imagined ; and the 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 our minds are destitute of convic-
tion.
It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the
decline of the Roman empire, when they had been
long instructed by rhetoricians, that their periods
were so harmonious, as that they could be sung as
well as spoken. What a ridiculous figure must
one of these gentlemen cut, thus measuring syl-
lables, and weighing words, when he should plead
the cause of his client ! Two architects were once
candidates for the building a certain temple at
Athens ; the first harangued the crowd very learn-
edly upon the different orders of architecture, and
showed 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 clnld, to wish him
a manor only in a bookseller's shop.
Another passion which the present age is apt to
run into, is to make children learn all things ; the
languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and
painting. Thus the child soon becomes a talker
in all, but a master in none. He thus acquires a
superficial fondness for every thing, and only
shows his ignorance when he attempts to exhibit
his skill.
As I deliver my thoughts without method or
connexion, so the reader must not be surprised to
mend only the old common one; I have forgot
whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The
others may be improvements; but such improve-
ments seem to me only mere grammatical niceties,
no way influencing the learner, but perhaps load-
ing him with trifling subtleties, which at a proper
acre he must be at some pains to forget.
Whatever pains a master may take to make the
learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he
may depend upon it, it will be at first extremely
unpleasant. The rudiments of every language,
therefore, must be given as a task, not as an amuse-
ment. Attempting to deceive children into' in-
struction of this kind, is only deceiving ourselves ;
and I know no passion capable of conquering a
child's natural laziness but fear. Solomon has said
it before me ; nor is there any more certain, though
perhaps more disagreeable truth, than the proverb
in verse, too well known to repeat on the present
occasion. It is very probable that parents are told
of some masters who never use the rod, and conse-
quently 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 terrible occasion ; but, I
know not how, there is a frailty attending human
nature, that few masters are able to keep their
temper whilst they correct. I knew a good-natur-
ed man, who was sensible of his own weakness in
this respect, and consequently had recourse to the
following expedient to prevent his passions from be-
incr engaged, yet at the same time administer jus-
tice with impartiality. AVhenever any of his pu-
pils committed a fault, he summoned a jury of his
peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next
453
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
classes to him ; his accusers stood forth ; he liad a
liberty of jjleaJing in his own defence, and one or
two more had a Hbcrty of pleading against him :
when found guilty by the panel, he was consigned
to the footman who attended in the house, who had
previous orders to punish, but with lenity. By
this means the master took off the odium of pun-
ishment 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, willing, by a well-timed
putf, to increase the reputation of his own school ;
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 those 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 a uni-
versity education, not with an intent to exhaust
the subject, but to amend some, few abuses. I am,
etc.
ON THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY
GRANDEUR.
An alehouse-keeper near Islington, who had
long lived at the sign of the French King, upon
the commencement of the last war with France
pulled down his old sign, and put up the Glueen
of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face
and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale till she
was no longer the favourite of his customers; he
changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the
King of Prussia, who may probably be changed in
turn for the next great man that shall be set up for
vulgar admiration.
Our publican in this imitates the great exactly,
who deal out their figures one after the other to
the gaping crowd beneath them. When we have
sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and
another exhibited in its room, which seldom holds
its station long ; for the mob are ever pleased with
variety.
I must own I have such an indifferent opinion
of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that
merit which raises their shout; at least I am cer-
tain to find those great, and sometimes good, men,
Tliis dissertaiion was tliiis far introduced into the volume
of Essays, afterwards published by Dr. Goldsmith, with tlie
following ol)servation :
"This treatise was published before Rousseau's Emiliiis:
if there be a yimililude in any one instance, it is lioped the au-
ttuu of the cvesent essay will not be termed a plagiarist."
who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made
worse by it; and history has too frequently taught
me, that the head which has grown this day giddy
with the roar of the million, has the very next been
fixed upon a pole.
As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in
the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just
evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen
busy in the market-place in pulling down from a
gibbet a figure, which had been designed to repre-
sent himself. There were also some knocking down
a neighbouring statue of one of the Orsini family,
with whom he was at war, in order to put Alexan-
der's effigy, when taken down, in its place. It is pos-
sible a man who knew less of the world would have
condemned the adulation of those bare-faced flat-
terers; but Alexander seemed pleased at their
zeal, and turning to Borgia his son, said with a
smile, Vides, mijili, quam leve discrimen patibu-
lum inter et statuam. "You see, my son, the
small difTefence between a gibbet and a statue."'
If the great could be taught any lesson, this might
serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation
their glory stands, which is built upon popular ap-
plause, for as such praise what seems like merit,
they as quickly condemn what has only the ap-
pearance of guilt.
Popular glory is a perfect coquette ; her lovers
must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every ca-
price, and perhaps at last be jilted into the bargain.
True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman
of sense; her admirers must play no tricks; they
feel no great anxiety ; for they are sure in the end
of being rewarded in proportion to their merit.
When Swift used to appear in public, he general-
ly had the mob shouting in his train. " Pox take
these fools," he would say, " how much joy might
all this bawUng give my Lord Mayor!"
We have seen those virtues which have, while
living, retired from the public eye, generally trans-
mitted 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. I 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 ap-
pearance of flattery, as I should to ofler it.
I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of
the beaten road of common-place, except by illus-
trating it, rather by the assistance of my memory
than my judgment, and instead of making reflec-
tions, by telling a story.
A Chinese, who had long studied the works
of Confucius, who knew the characters of fourteen
thousand words, and could read a great part ot
every book that came in his way, once took it L'it<>
THE BEE.
459
bis iiead to travel into Europe, and observe the
customs of a people whom he thought not very
much inferior even to liis own countrymen, in the
arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon his ar-
rival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally
led him to a bookseller's shop ; and, as he could
speak a Uttle Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller
for the works of the immortal llixofou. The book-
seller assured him he had never heard the book
mentioned before. " What ! have you never heard
of that immortal poet!" returned the other, much
surprised ; that light of the eyes, that favourite of
kings, that rose of perfection ! I suppose you
know nothing of the uumortal Fipsihihi, second
cousin to the moon ?" — " Nothing at all, indeed,
sir," returned the other. "Alas!" cries our tra-
veller, " to what purpose, then, has one of these
fasted to death, and the other offered himself up as
sacrifice to the Tartarean enemy, to gain a renown
which has never travelled beyond the precincts of
China !"
There is scarcely a village in Europe, and not
one university, that is not thus furnished with its
little great men. The head of a petty corporation,
who opposes the designs of a prince who would
tyrannically force his subjects to save their best
clothes for Sundays; the puny pedant who finds
one undiscovered property in the polype, describes
an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, and
whose mind, like his microscope, perceives nature
only in detail ; the rhymer who makes smooth
verses, and paints to our imagination when he
should only speak to our hearts ; all equally fancy
themselves walking forward to immortality, and
desire the crowd behind them to look on. The
crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philoso-
pher, and poet, are shouted in their train. Where
was there ever so much merit seen 1 no times so
important as our own ! ages yet unborn shall gaze
with wonder and applause ! To such music the
important pygmy moves forward, bustUng and
swelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a
storm.
I have lived to see generals, who once had crowds
hallooing after them wherever they went, who
were bepraised by newspapers and magazines,
those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they
have long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarce-
ly even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago,
the hernng fishery employed all Grub-street ; it
was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burden
ofever> ballad. We were to drag up oceans of
gold fiom the bottom of the sea ; we were to sup-
ply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms.
At present we hear no more of all this. We
have fished up very little gold that I can learn ; nor
do we furnish the world with herrings as was ex-
pected. Let us wail but a few years longer, and
we shalljind all our expectations a herringjlshcri/.
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE ACADE-
MIES OF ITALY.
There 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 num-
ber of academies instituted for its support. There is
scarcely a considerable town in the whole country,
wliich has not one or two institutions of this na-
ture, where the learned, as they are pleased to call
themselves, meet to harangue, to comphment each
other, and praise the utility of their mstitution.
Jarchius has taken the trouble to give us a Ust
of those clubs or academies, which amount to five
hundred and fifty, each distinguished by somewhat
whimsical in the name. The academies of Bo-
logna, for instance, are divided into the Abbando-
nati, the Ausiosi, Ociosio, Arcadi, Confusi. Dubbi-
osi, etc. 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 prccmcts
of the city in which they were written, except the
Cicalata Academia (or, as we might express it,
the Tickling Society) of Florence. I have just
now before me a manuscript oration, spoken by the
late Tomaso Crudeli at that society, which wdl at
once serve to give a better picture of the manner
in which men of wit amuse themselves in that
country, than any thing I could say upon the occa-
sion. The oration is this :
" The younger the nymph, my dear companions,
the more happy the lover. From fourteen to seven
teen, you are sure of finding love for love ; from
seventeen to twenty-one, there is always a mixture
of interest and afi'ection. But when 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, not a sigh without design ; the
lady, hke a skilful warrior, aims at the heart of
another, while she shields her own from danger.
" On the contrary, at fifteen you may expect
nothing but simplicity, innocence, and nature.
The passions are then sincere; the soul seems
seated in the lips ; the dear object feels present hap-
piness, without being anxious for the future ; her
eyes brighten if her lover approaches ; her smile;?
are borrowed from the Graces, and her very mis-
takes 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 much beauty and so much virtue seldom want
admirers. Orlandino, a youth of sense and ment,
was among the number. He had long languishea
46CI
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
for an opportunity of declaring his passion, when
Cupid, as if willing to indulge his happiness,
brought the charming young couple by mere acci-
dent 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-en-
gaged, and had long devoted to Heaven those
charms for which he sued. " My dear Orlandino,"
said she, "you know 1 have long been dedicated
to St. Catharine, and to her belongs all that lies
below my girdle ; all that is above, you may freely
possess, but farther I can not, must not comply.
The vow is passed ; I wish it were undone, but
now it is impossible." You may conceive, my
companions, the embarrassment our young lovers
felt upon this occasion. They kneeled to St. Ca-
tharine, and though both despaired, both implored
her assistance. Their tutelar saint was entreated
to show some expedient, by which both might con-
tinue to love, and yet both be happy. Their peti-
tion was sincere. St. Catharine was touched with
compassion ; for lo, a miracle ! Lucretia's girdle
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.
Saturday, November 17, 1739.
OF ELOaUENCE.
Of all kinds of success, that of an orator is the
most pleasing. Upon other occasions, the applause
we deserve is conferred in our absence, and we are
insensible of the pleasure we have given; but in
eloquence, the victory and the triumph are insepa-
rable. We read our own glory in the face of every
spectator ; the audience is moved ; the antagonist
IS defeated ; and the whole circle bursts into un-
solicited applause.
The rewards which attend excellence in this
way are so pleasing, that numbers have written
professed treatises to teach us the art; schools have
been established with no other intent ; rhetoric has
taken place among the institutions, and pedants
have ranged under proper heads, and distingnished
with long learned names, some of the strokes of na-
ture, or of passion, which orators have used. I say
only some; for a folio volume could not contain all
the figures which have been used by the truly elo-
quent ; 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. Na-
ture renders men eloquent in great interests, or
great passions. He that is sensibly toucned, 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 lo
it; he throws life into all, and inspires his audience
with a part of his own enthusiasm.
It has been remarked, that the lower parts of
mankind generally express themselves most figura-
tively, and that tropes are found in the most ordi-
nary forms of conversation. Thus, in every lan-
guage, the heart burns ; the courage is roused ; the
eyes sparkle ; the spirits are cast down ; passion in-
flames ; pride swells, and pity sinks the soul. Na-
ture every where speaks in those strong images,
which, from the frequency, pass unnoticed.
Nature it is which inspires those rapturous en-
thusiasms, those irresistible turns; a strong passion,
a pressing danger, calls up all the imagination, and
gives the orator irresistible force. Thus a captain
of the first caliphs, 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
God is still living. He regards the brave, and will
reward the courageous. Advance!"
A man, therefore, may he called eloquent, who
transfers the passion or sentiment with which he
is moved himself into the breast of another ; and
this definition appears the more just, as it compre-
hends the graces of silence and of action. An in-
timate persuasion of the truth to be proved, is the
sentiment and passion to be transferred ; and who
effects this, is truly possessed of the talent of elo-
quence.
I have called eloquence a talent, and not an art,
as so many rhetoricians have done, as art is ac-
quired by exercise and study, and eloquence is the
gift of nature. Rules will never make either a
work or a discourse eloquent ; they only serve t*
prevent faults, but not to introduce beauties ; U
prevent those passages which are truly eloquent
and dictated by nature, from being blended with
others which might disgust, or at least abate our
passion.
What we clearly conceive, says Boileau, we can
clearly express. I may add, that what is felt with
emotion is expressed also with the same move-
ments ; the words arise as readily to paint our emor
tions, as to express our thoughts with perspicuity.
The cool care an orator takes to express passions
which 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, pro-
perly so called, which I can offer. Examine a
writer of o-enius on the most beautiful parts of his
work, and he will always assure you, that such
passages are generally those which have given hiia
THE BEE.
461
the least trouble, for they came as if by inspiration.
To protend that cold and didactic precepts will
make a man eloquent, is only to prove that he is
incapable of eloquence.
But, as in being perspicuous it is necessary to
have a full idea of the subject, so 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 eflect 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 impossible to aflect the hear-
ers in any great degree without being affected our-
selves. 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 senti-
ments of virtue filled their minds at the time they
were writing. They felt the inspiration strongly,
while they praised justice, generosity, or good-na-
ture; but, unhappily for them, these passions might
have been discontinued, 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 de-
ceive our reason than ourselves ; a trifling defect in
reasoning may be overseen, and lead a man astray,
for it requires reason and time to detect the false-
hood ; but our passions are not easily imposed upon,
our eyes, our ears, and every sense, are watchful to
detect the imposture.
No discourse can be eloquent that does not ele-
Tate the mind. Pathetic eloquence, it is true, has
for its only object to affi^ct ; 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 possess one without
feeling the other. Hence it follows, that %ve 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. Elo-
quence 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 as-
sure us, in saying great things in a sublime style,
but in a simple style; for there is, properly speak-
ing, no such thing as a sublime 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 tlian the fol-
lowing extract from a celebrated 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 suppose that this was the
last hour of us all ; that the heavens were opening
over our heads ; that time was passed, and eternity
begun ; that Jesus Christ in all his glory, that man
of sorrows in all his glory, appeared on the tribunal,
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 be-
fore God, 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 great-
est 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 our works were
examined with justice, would we find ten just per-
sons in this great assembly? Monsters of ingrati-
tude ! would he find one? " Such passages as these
are sublime 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 constituter of eloquence.
Of what use then, will it be said, are all the pre-
cepts given us upon this head both by the ancients
and moderns? I answer, that they can not make
us eloquent, but they will certainly prevent us from
becoming ridiculous. They can seldom procure a
single beauty, but they may banish a thousand
faults. The true method of an orator is not to at-
tempt always to move, always to affect, to be con-
tinually sublime, but at proper intervals 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, proper-
ly speaking, is intended not to assist those parts
which are suljlime, but those which are naturally
mean and humble, which are composed with cool-
ness and caution, and where the orator rather en-
deavours 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 ad-
dress the vulgar, it seems strange that it should be
entirely laid aside.
The vulgar of England are, without exception,
the most barbarous and the most unknowing of
any in Europe. 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 in-
4G2
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
formed of the excellence of the Bangorian contro-
versy, and the absurdity of an intermediate 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 fee! 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 polite of every country have several motives
to induce them to a rectitude 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 pedant ; 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 pro-
priety ; but this goes but a very short way 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 dispassionate
hearers, they certainly use the properest methods
of address; but their auilience 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 disquisitions; not by the la-
bours of the head, but the honest spontaneous dic-
tates of the heart. Neither writing a sermon with
regular periods and all the harmony of elegant ex-
pression; neither reading it with emphasis, pro-
priety, and deliberation ; neither pleasing with
metaphor, simile, or rhetorical fustian ; neither
arguing coolly, and untying consequences united in
a priori, nor bundling up inductions a posteriori;
neither pedantic jargon, nor academical trifling,
can persuade the poor : writing a discourse coolly
in the closet, then getting it by memory, and de-
livering 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 intelligibly, and feeling-
ly except to understand the language. To be con-
vinced of the truth of the object, to be perfectly ac-
quainted with the subject in view, to prepossess
yourself with a low opinion of your audience, and
to do the rest extempore : by this means strong ex-
pressions, new thoughts, rising passions, and the
tiue 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 experi-
ence, 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 aflect
their hearers, I can not avoid saying within myself,
had these been bred gentlemen, and been endued
with even the meanest share of understanding,
what might they not eflfect ! Did our bishops, who
can add dignity to their expostulations, testify the
same fervour, and entreat their hearers, as well
as argue, what might not lie 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 the 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 bj
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, pos-
sessed of any degree of strength, have had their
enthusiasms, which ever serve as laws among the
people. The Greeks had their Kalokagathia, the
Romans 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 those whom the law has appointed
teachers of this religion, to enforce its obligations,
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 emendation; but how little can
they be improved by men, who get into the pulpit
rather to show their parts than convince us of the
truth of what they deliver; who are painfully cor
rect in their style, musical in their tones ; where
every sentiment, every expression seems the result
of meditation and deep study?
Tillotson has been commended as the model of
pulpit eloquence; thus far he should be imitated,
where he generally strives to convince rather than
to please ; but to adopt his long, dry, and some-
times tedious discussions, which sen'e to amuse
only divines, and are utterly neglected by the gene-
rality of mankind ; to praise the intricacy of bis
periods, which are too long to be spoken ; to con-
itinue his cool phlegmatic manner of enforcing
THE BEE.
every truth, is certainly erroneous. As I said be-
fore, the good preacher should adopt no model,
write no sermons, study no periods; let him but
understand his subject, the language he speaks,
and lie convinced of the truth he delivers. It is
amazing to what heights eloquence of this kind
may reach! This is that eloquence the ancients re-
presented as lightning, bearing down every op-
poser; this the power which has turned whole as-
semblies into astonishment, admiration, and awe ;
that is descrilied by the torrent, the flame, and
every other instance of irresistible impetuosity.
But to attempt such noble heights belongs only
to the truly great, or the truly good. To discard
the lazy manner of reading sermons, or speaking
sermons by rote ; to set up singly against the op-
position of men who are attached to their own er-
rors, 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 prefer-
ment, will seldom give up such substantial advan-
tages for the empty pleasure of improving society.
By his present method, he is liked by his friends,
admired by his dcjiendants, not displeasing to his
bishop; he lives as well, eats and sleeps as well, as
if a real orator, and an eager assertor of his mis-
sion : he will hardly, therefore, venture all tliis to
be called perhaps an enthusiast ; nor will he de-
part from customs established by the brotherhood,
when, by such a conduct, he only sijigles himself
out for their contempt.
CUSTOM AND LAWS COMPARED.
What, say some, can give us a more contempti
ble idea of a large state than to find it mostly gov
erned by custom ; to have few written laws, and no
boundaries to mark the jurisdiction between the
senate and the 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 dei?j)otic and arbitrary conduct in the pre-
sent king of Prussia, wlio has abridged the law.s
of his country into a very short compass.
As Tacitus and Montesquieu ha])pen 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 little
more minutely, and see whether a state which, like
England, is burdened with a multiplicity of written
laws; or wliich, like Switzerland, Geneva, and
some other republics, is governed by custom and
the determination of thcjudge, is Ixist.
And to prove the superiority of custom to writ-
ten law, we shall at least find history conspiring.
Custom, or the traditional observance of the practice
of their forefathers, was what directed the Romans
as well in their public. as private determinations.
Custom was appealed to in pronouncing sentence
againsta criminal, where part of the fornnilary waa
more majorum. So Sallust, spealdng of the expul-
sion of Tarquin, says, mutato more, and not lege
viulato; and Virgil, pacisque imponere morem. So
that, in those times of the empire in whicii the
people retained their liberty, they were governed by
custom; when they sunk into oppression and ty-
rann)', they were restrained by new laws, and the
laws of tradition abolished.
As getting the ancients on our side is half a vic-
tory, 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 free men by custom." Custom partakes 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 originallv 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 peo-
ple, a nation of slaves, must pretend to none of this
freedom, or these happy distinctions; having by
degeneracy lost all right to their brave forefathers'
free institutions, their masters will in a policy take
the forfeiture ; and the fixing a conquest must be
done by giving laws, which may every moment
serve to remind the people enslaved of their con-
querors ; nothing being more dangerous than to
trust a late subdued people with old customs, that
presently upbraid their degeneracy, and provoke
them to revolt.
The wisdom of the Roman republic in their
veneration for custom, and backwardness to intro--
duce a new law, was perhaps the cause of their
long continuance, and of the virtues of which they
have set the world so many examples. But to s^how
in what that wisdom consists, it may be proiier to
observe, that the benefit of new written laws is
merely confined to the consequences of their obser
vance ; but customary laws, keeping up a venera-
tion for the founders, engage men in the imitation
of their virtues as well as policy. To this may be
ascribed the religious regard the Romans paid to
their forefathers' memory, and their adhering fur
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 simplicity, conciseness, and antiquity of
custom, give an air of majesty and immutaliility
that inspires awe and veneration ; but new 'aws
arc too apt to be voluminous, perplexed, and inde-
terminate, whence must necessarily arise liCglect
contemjit, and ignorance.
464
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
As every human institution is subject to gross
imiierfections, so laws must necessarily be liable to'
ihe same inconveniencies, and their defects soon
discovered. Thus, through the weakness of one
part, all the rest are liable to be brought into con-
tempt But such weaknesses in a custom, for
ver\' obvious reasons, evade an examination ; be-
sides, 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
private motives, the disgust to the circumstances
disposes us, unreasonably indeed, to an irreverence
of the law itself; but we are indulgently Wind 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 do not know
how. It is thus the Roman lawyers speali : Non
omnium, que a inajmibus consiituta sunt, ratio
reddi protest, et ideo rationes eorum que constitu-
untur inquiri non oportet, alioquin multa ex his
qucB 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 necessari-
ly superior 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 fre-
quently 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 termed the acts of judges, are
every day becoming more voluminous, and loading
the subject with new penalties.
Laws ever increase in number and severity, un-
til they at length are strained so tight as to break
themselves. Such was the case of the latter em-
pire, whose laws were at length become so strict,
that the barbarous invaders did not bring servitude
but liberty.
OF THE PRIDE AND LUXURY OF THE
MIDDLING CLASS OF PEOPLE.
Of all the follies and absurdities under which
this great metropolis labours, there is not one, I
believe, that at present appears in a more glaring
and ridiculous light, than the pride and luxury of
the middling class of people. Their eager desire
of being seen in a sphere far above their capacities
suid circumstances, is daily, nay hourly instanced,
by the prodigious numbers of mechanics who flock
to the races, gaming-tables, brothels, and all pub
lie 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 industrious wife is selling a pennyworth
of sugar, or a pound of candles, to support her
fashionable spouse in his extravagances.
1 was led into this reflection by an odd adven-
ture which happened to me the other day at Epsom
races, whither I went, not through any desire, I do
assure you, of laying bets or winning thousands,
but at the earnest request of a friend, who 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 difl^erent objects that made up this
whimsical group, a figure suddenly darted by us,
mounted and dressed in all the elegance of those
polite gentry who come to show you they have a
little money, and, rather than pay their just debts
at home, generously come abroad to bestow it on
gamblers and pickpockets. As I had not an op-
portunity of viewing his face till his return, 1
gently walked after him, and met him as he came
back, when, to my no small surprise, I beheld in
this gay Narcissus the visage of Jack Varnish, a
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 that I was re-
solved never to lay out another penny with hlin.
And now, pray sir, let me beg of you to give
this a place in your paper, that Mr. Varnish may
understand he mistakes the thing quite, if he ima-
gines 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 indulgent wife), when he ought to be minding
his business, will never thrive in this world. He
will find himself soon mistaken, his finances de-
crease, his friends shun him, customers fall off, and
himself thrown into a gaol. I would earnestly
recommend this adage to every mechanic in Lon-
don, " 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 them
both, may never fear the critic's lash, or the sharp
cries of penury and want.
SABINUS AND OLINDA.
In a fair, rich, and flourishing country, whose
clifis are washed by the German Ocean, lived Sa
THE BEE. '.
465
binus, a youth formed by nature to make a con-
- quest wherever he thought proper ; but the con-
Btancy 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 be-
loved by her; and in a short time, by joining
hands publicly, they avowed the union of their
hearts. But, alas! none, however fortunate, how-
ever happy, are exempt from the shafts of envy,
and the malignant effects 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 ap-
prehension ! Ariana, a lady of many amiable
qualities, very nearly allied to Sabinus, and highly
esteemed by him, imagined herself slighted, and
injuriously treated, since his marriage with OUnda.
By incautiously 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 applauded. Causeless
Busfiicion and mistaken resentment betrayed her
into all the gloom of discontent ; she sighed with-
out ceasing ; the happiness of others gave her in-
tolerable pain; she thought of nothing but re-
venge. How unlike what she was, the cheerful,
the prudent, the compassionate Ariana !
She continually laboured to disturb a union so
firmly, so affectionately founded, and planned
every scheme which she thought most hkely to
disturb it.
Fortune seemed vdlling to promote her unjust
intentions ; the circumstances of Sabinus had been
long embarrassed by a tedious law-suit, and the
court determining the cause unexpectedly in favour
of his opponent, it sunk his fortune to the lowest
pitch of penury from the highest affluence. From
the nearness of relationship, Sabinus expected
from Ariana those assistances his present situation
required; but she was insensible to all his en-
treaties and the justice of every remonstrance, un-
less he first separated from Olinda, whom she re-
garded with detestation. Upon a compliance with
her desire 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 wdlh inexpressible tenderness,
and refused those offers with indignation which
were to be purchased at so Wgh a price. Ariana
was no less displeased to find her offers rejected,
and gave a loose to all that warmth which she had
lone endeavoured to suppress. Reproach generally
produces rex;rirnination ; the qiiarrel rose to such
a height, that Sabinus was marked for destruction,
and the very next day, upon the strength of an
old family debt, he was sent to gaol, with none but
30
Olinda to comfort him in his miseries. In this
mansion of distress they lived together with resig-
nation, and even with comfort. She provided tho
frugal meal, and he read to her while employed in
the little offices of domestic concern. Their fellow-
prisoners admired their contentment, and when-
ever they had a desire of relaxing into mirth, and
enjoying those little comforts that a prison affords,
Sabinus and Olinda were sure to be of the party.
Instead of reproaching each other for their mutual
wretchedness, they both lightened it, by bearing
each a share of the load imposed by Providence.
Whenever Sabinus showed 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 forever, not to discompose himself;
that so loi.g as his affection lasted, she defied all
the ills of fortune and every loss of fame or friend-
ship ; that nothing could make her miserable but
his seeming to want happiness ; nothing please
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 horrid
appearance ; yet still was neither found to mur-
mur : they both looked upon their httle boy, who,
insensible of their or his own distress, was play-
ing about the room, with inexpressible yet silent
anguish, when a messenger came to inform them
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 burnt ; in
wluch case all her large fortune would revert to
him, as being the next heir at law.
A proposal of so base a nature filled our un-
happy couple vnth horror ; they ordered the mes-
senger immediately out of the room, and falling
upon each other's neck, indulged an agony of sor-
row, 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 dispo-
sitions of a man she at once loved and persecuted.
This lady, though warped by viTong passions, wa3
naturally kind, judicious, and friendly. She found
that all her attempts to shake the constancy or the
integrity of Sabiims were ineffectual ; she had
therefore begun to reflect, and to wonder how she
could so long and so unprovokedly injure such un-
common fortitude and affection.
She had from the next room herself heard the
reception given to the messenger, and could not
avoid feeling all the force of superior virtue ; she
therefore reassumed 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 fir-st care in providing them all
the necessary supplies, and acluiowledged them as
the most deserving heirs of her fortune. From
this moment Sabinus enjoyed an uninterrupted
happiness with Olinda, and both were happy m
466
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
the friendship and assistance of Ariana, who, dy-
ing soon after, left tliem in possession of a large
estate, and in her last moments confessed, that
virtue was the only path to true glory ; and that
however innocence may for a time be depressed,
a steady perseverance will in time lead it to a cer-
tain victory.
THE SENTIMENTS OF A FRENCH-
MAN ON THE TEMPER OF THE
ENGLISH.
Nothing is so uncommon among the English
as that easy affability, that instant method of ac-
quaintance, or that cheerfulness of disposition,
which make in France the charm of every socie-
ty. Yet in this gloomy reserve they seem to pride
themselves, and think themselves less happy if
obliged to be more social. One may assert, with-
out wronging them, that they do not study the
method of going through life with pleasure and
tranquillity like the French. Might not this be a
proof that they are not so much philosophers as
they imagine 7 Philosophy is no more than the
art of making ourselves happy : that is in 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 al-
most for folly. But is their gloominess a greater
mark of their wisdom 1 and, folly against folly, is
not the most cheerful sort the best 1 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 English who
live among us are hurt by it. Several of their au-
thors 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 con-
tributes most to the pleasure of society and ha[)pi-
ness of life. 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
Borts of virtue, 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 has sound judg-
ment. All the difierence I find between them is,
that the last is constantly the most unhappy.
Those who speak against cheerfulness, prove no-
Ihinjr else but that they were born melancholic,
and that in their hearts they rather envy than con-
demn 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 princi-
ples, place cheerfulness among the most desirable
qualities ; and probably, whenever he contradicts
himself in this particular, it is only to conform to
the tempers of the people whom he 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 gene-
rally are, less subject to the foibles of love 1 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 differ-
ent objects, to give themselves up to all the ex-
cesses of this passion.
Mr. Hobbes, a celebrated philosopher of his na-
tion, maintains that laughing proceeds from our
pride alone. This is only a paradox if asserted of
laughing in general, and only argues that misan-
thropical disposition for which he was remarkable.
To bring the causes he assigns for laughing un-
der suspicion, it is sufficinnt to remark, that proud
people are commonly those who laugh least.
Gravity is the inseparable companion of pride. To
say that a man is vain, because the humour of a
writer, or the buffooneries of a 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
mahcious 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 ;
whereas the oUier sort has nothing in its princi-
ples or effects that deserves condemnation. We
find this amiable in others, and is it unhappiness
to feel a disposition towards it in ourselves 1
When I see an Englishman laugh, I fancy I
rather see him hunting after joy than having
caught it : and this is more particularly remarka-
ble in their women, whose tempers are inclined to
melancholy. A laugh leaves no more traces on
their countenance than a flash of hghtning on the
face of the heavens. The most laughing air is in-
stantly succeeded by the most gloomy. One
would 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 fol-
lowing one ; " The EngUsh, ' says he, " have too
THE BEE.
46t
much bravery to be derided, and too much virtue
and honour to mock others."
THE BEE, No. VIII.
Saturday, November 2-1, 1759.
ON DECEIT AND FALSEHOOD.
The follovfing account is so judiciously conceived
that I am convinced the reader will be more
pleased with it than with any thing of mine, so
I shall make no apology for this new pubUcation.
to the author 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 rea-
son of this, we shall find it in our own imagina-
tions, which are amused and entertained with the
perpetual novelty and variety that fiction affords,
but find no manner of delight in the uniform sim-
plicity of homely truth, which still sues them un-
der the same appearance.
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 them 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 mathe-
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 understanding is only made
a drudge to gratify our invention and curiosity, and
we are pleased, not so much because our discoveries
are certain, as because they are new.
I do not deny but the world is still pleased with
things that pleased it many years ago, but it should
at the same time be considered, that man is na-
turally so much of a logician, as to distinguish be-
tween 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 v/e are amazed, and no-
thing so much contents us as that which con-
founds 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 mean-
ing it was found convenient to put upon them :
what people ate, and drank, and saw, was not wnat
they ate, and drank, and saw, but something fur-
ther, which they were fond of because they were
ignorant of it. In short, nothing was itself, but
something beyond itself; and by these artifices and
amusements the heads of the world were so turned
and intoxicated, that at last there was scarcely a
sound set of brains left in it.
In this state of giddiness and infatuation it was
no very hard task to persuade the already deluded,
that there was an actual society and communion
between human creatures and spiritual demons.
And when they had thus put people into the power
and clutches 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 they of it, that to maintain it and
themselves in profitable repute, they literally sacri-
ficed for it, and made impious victims of number-
less 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
impossibililies, which produced cruel sentences,
and then inhuman executions.
Some of these wretched mortals, finding them-
selves either hateful or terrible to all, and befriend-
ed by none, and perhaps wanting the common ne-
cessaries of hfe, 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
j and anguish.
' Others of strong imaginations and little under-
standings were, by positive and repeated charges
' against them, of committing mischievous and su-
'pernatural facts and villanies, deluded to judge of
themselves by the judgment of their enemies, whose
I weakness or malice prompted them to be accusers.
I And many have been condemned as witches and
dealers with the devil, for no other reason but their
knowing more than those who accused, tried, and
passed sentence upon them.
In these cases, credulity is a much greater error
than infidelity, and it is safer to believe nothing
than too much. A man that beheves Httle or no
thing of witchcraft will destroy nobody for being
under the imputation of it; and so far he certainly
acts with humanity to others, and safety to him-
self: but he that credits all, or too much, upon
that article, is obliged, if he acts consistently with
his persuasion, 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, tha
he is for sjiaring them who are harmless of thai
tribe, since the received notion of their suf posed
46a
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
contract with the devil implies that they are en-
gaged, by covenant and inclination, to do all the
mischief they possibly can.
I have heard many stories of witches, and read
many accusations against them ; but I do not re-
member any that v?ould have induced me to have
consigned over to the halter or the flame any of
those deplorable wretches, who, as they share our
likeness and nature, ought to share our compas-
sion, as persons cruelly 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
example, when a dream or the hyp has given us
false terrors, 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 his sworn servants among us.
For this end an old woman is promoted to a seat
in Satan's privy-council, and appointed his execu-
tioner-inchief 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 choos-
ing our proper officers for Beelzebub, 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 eTdered for two reasons: first, the men
having the whole direction of this affair, are wise
enough to slip their own necks out of the collar ;
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 sa-
tire in it. And so far indeed we pay but an un-
courtly sort of respect to Satan, in sacrificing to
him nothing but dry sticks of human nature.
We have a meandering quality within us, which
finds huge gratification when we see strange feats
done, and can not at the same time see the doer or
the cause. Such actions are sure to be attributed
to some witch or demon; for if we come to find
they are slily performed by artists of our own spe-
cies, and by causes purely natural, our delight dies
■with our amazement.
It is, therefore, one of the most untliankful oflfi-
ces in the world, to go about to expose the mis-
taken notions of witchcraft and spirits ; it is robbing
mankind of a valuable imagination, and of the
privilege of being deceived. Those who at any
iime undertook the task, have always met with
rough treatment and ill language for their pains,
and seldom escaped the imputation of atheism, be-
cause they would not allow the devil to be too pow-
erful for the Almighty. For my part, I am so much
a heretic as to believe, that God Almighty, and not
tbe devil, governs the world.
If we inquire what are the common marks zni
symptoms by which witches are discovered to be
such, we shall see how reasonably and mercifully
those poor creatures were burnt and lianged who
unhappily fell under that name.
In the first place, the old woman must be pro-
digiously ugly ; her eyes hollow and red. her face
shriveled ; she goes double, and her voice trem-
bles. It frequently happens, that this rueful figure
frightens a child into the palpitation of the heart :
home he runs, and tells his mamma, that Goody
Such-a-one looked at him, and he is very ill. The
good woman cries out, her dear l>aby 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 les8
than a month's time, Sisly hears the voice of a
cat, and strains her ancles, which are certain signs
that she is bewitched.
A farmer sees his cattle die of the murrain, and
his sheep of the rot, and poor Goody is forced to
be the cause of their death, because she was seen
talking to herself the evenmg before such an ewe
departed, and had been gathering sticks at the side
of the wood where such a cow run mad.
The old woman has always for her companion
an old gray cat, which is a disguised devil too, and
confederate with Goody in works of darkness.
They frequently go journeys into Egypt upon a
broom-stafl' in half an hour's time, and now and
then Goody and her cat change shapes. The
neighbours often overhear them in deep and solemn
discourse together, plotting some dreadful mischief
you may be sure.
There is a famous way of trying witches, re-
commended 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 ; but if she is innocent, she sinks, and is
only drowned.
The witches are said to meet their master fre-
quently in churches and church-yards. I won-
der at the boldness of Satan and his congregation,
in revelling and playing mountebank farces on con-
secrated ground ; and I have so often wonderetl at
the oversight and ill policy of some people in al-
lowing 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 in-
deed it was made a tragedy m all its parts, and
thousands were sacrificed, or rather murdered, bv
THE BEE.
469
euch evidence and colours, as, God be thanked !
"ve are this day ashamed of. An old woman may
De miserable now, and not be hanged for it.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE AUGUSTAN
AGE OF ENGLAND.
The history of the rise of language and learn-
ing 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 Augustan age
with them. The French writers seem agreed to
give the same appellation to that of Louis XIV. ;
but the English are yet undetermined with respect
to themselves.
Some have looked upon the writers in the times
of Q,ueen 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 toofler an ojjinion upon this
subject, I should readily give my vote for the reign
Df Q,ueen 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 which they
lived, that their minutest transactions will be at-
tended to by posterity with a greater eagerness than
the most important occurrences of even empires
which have been transacted in greater obscurity.
At that period there seemed to be a j ust balance
between patronage and the [)ress. Before it, men
were little esteemed whose only merit was genius;
and since, men who can prudently be content tj
catch the public, are certain of living without de-
pendence. 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, conse-
quently, then was the truest road to happiness ; a
setlulous attention to the mechanical business of
the da}' makes the present never-failing resource.
The age of Charles II., which our countrymen
lerm the age of wit and immorality, produced
some writers that at once served to improve our
language and corrupt our hearts. The king him-
self 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 ex-
perience. 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 quaint) esses,
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 ia
party faction ; and having generally the worst side
of the argument, often had recourse to scolding,
pertness, and consequently a vulgarity that dis-
covers itself even in his more liberal compositions.
He was the first writer who regularly enlisted
himself under the banners of a party for pay. and
fought for it through right and wrong for upwards
of forty literary campaigns. This intrepidity
gained him the esteem of Cromwell himselt; and
the papers he wrote even just before the revolution,
almost with the rope about his neck, have his usual
characters of impudence and perseverance. That
he was a standard writer can not be disowned, be-
cause a great many very eminent authors formed
their style by his. But his standard was far from
being a just one ; though, when party considera-
tions are set aside, he certainly was possessed of
elegance, ease, and perspicuity.
Dryden, though a great and undisputed genius,
had the same cast as L'Estrange. Even his plays
discover him to be a party man, and the same prin-
ciple infects his style in subjects of the lightest
nature; but the English tongue, as it stands at
present, is greatly his debtor. He first gave it re-
gular harmony, and discovered its latent powers.
It was his pen that formed the C'ongreves, 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 confined 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 Shakspeare, the greatest genius
England ever produced in tragedy. His excellen-
cies lay in painting directly from nature, in catch
ing every emotion just as it rises from the soul, and
in all the powers of the moving and pathetic. He
a])pears to have had no learning, no critical know-
ledge, and to have lived in great distress. 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 advertise-
ment at the end of one of D'Estrange's pohtical
papers, offering a reward to any one who should
bring it to his shop. What an mvaluable treasure
was there in'etrievably lost, by the ignorsuice and
neglect of the age he hved in !
Lee had a great conunand of language, and vast
470
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
force' of expression, both which the best of our
succeeding dramatic poets thought proper to take
for their models. Rowe, in particular, seems to
have caught that manner, though in all other re-
spects inferior. The other poets of that reign con-
tributed but little towards impr»ving the English
tongue, and it is not certain whether they did not
injure rather than improve it. Immorality has its
cant as well as party, and many shocking expres-
sions now crept into the language, and became the
transient fashion of the day. The upper galleries,
by the prevalence of party-spirit, were courted with
great assiduity, and a horse-laugh following 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. This, though disregarded in
plays and party writings, still prevailed amongst
men of character and business. The dispatches of
Sir Richard Fanshaw, Sir William Godolphin,
Lord Arlington, and many other ministers of state,
are all of them, ""ith respect to diction, manly, bold,
and nervous. Sir William Temple, though a man
of no learning, had great knowledge and experience.
He wrote always like a man of sense and a gentle-
man ; and his style is the model by which the best
prose writers in the reign of dueen Anne formed
theirs. The beauties of Mr. Locke's style, 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 ob-
servation holds good of Dr. Samuel Clarke.
Mr. Locke was a philosopher; his antagonist,
Stillingflcet, bishop of Worcester, was a man of
learning ; and therefore the contest between them
was unequal. The clearness of Mr. Locke's head
renders his language perspicuous, the learning of
Stillingflcet' s clouds his. This is an instance of the
superiority of good sense over learning towards the
improvement of every language.
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 himself did not think and speak in that very
manner. The turn of his periods is agreeable,
though artless, and every thing he says seems to
flow spontaneously from inward conviction. Bar-
row, though greatly his superior in learning, falls
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,
writings ; and though his friend Dr. 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, something
that looks like eloquence. The style of Ids suc-
ffisoor, Atterbury, has been much commended by
his friends, which always happens when a man
distinguishes himself in party ; but there is in it no-
thing 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 suffered it to pass
unccnsured.
The philosophical manner of Lord Shaftesbury's
writing is nearer to that of Cicero than any Eng-
lish 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 such
beauty as, upon nearer inspection, carries with it
evident symptoms of affectation. This has been
attended with very disagreeable consequences. No-
thing is so easy to copy as affectation, and his lord-
ship's rank and fame have procured him more imi-
tators in Britain than any other writer I know; all
faithfully preserving his blemishes, but unhappily
not one of his beauties.
Mr. Trenchard and Mr. Davenant were politi-
cal writers of great abilities in diction, and their
pamphlets are now standards in that way of writing
They were followed by Dean Swift, who, though
in other respects far their superior, never could rise
to that manliness and clearness of diction in politi-
cal 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 virtue for the one, and of learn-
ing for the other. His writings against Sir Robert
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 up-
on some of his enemies. His idea of a Patriot
King, which I reckon (as indeed it was) amongst
his writings against Sir Robert 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 writes
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 honour to British literature. His
diction indeed wants strength, bnt it is equal to all
the subjects he undertakes to handle, as he never
(at least in his finished works) attempts any thing
cither in the argumentative or demonstrative way.
Though Sir Richard Steele's reputation as a
THE BEE.
471
public writer was owing to his connexions with
Mr. Addison, 3'et after their intimacy was formed,
Steele sunk in his merit as an author. This was
not owing so much to tiie 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 composi-
tions.
Whilst their writings engaged attention and the
favour of the public, reiterated but unsuccessful en-
deavours were made towards forming a grammar
of the English language. The authors of those
efibrts went upon wrong principles. Instead of
endeavouring to retrench the absurdities of our lan-
guage, and bringing it to a certain criterion, their
grammars were no other than a collection of rules
attempting to naturalize 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 great a design, the Glueen's death
hap[)ened 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 writers, who then swarmed, adopted
the very worst manner of L' Estrange, till not only
all decency, but all propriety 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, were imitated by Rid-
path, De Foe, Dunton, and others of the opposite
party, and Toland pleaded the cause of atheism
and immorality in much the same strain ; his sub-
ject seemed to debase his diction, and he ever
failed most in one when he grew most licentious in
the other.
Towards the end of dueen Anne's reign, some
of the greatest men in England devoted their time
to party, and then a much better manner obtained
in political writing. Mr. Walpolc, Mr. Addison,
Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Steele, and many members
of both houses of parliament, drew their pens for
the whigs ; but they seem to have been overmatch-
ed, though not in argument yet in writing, by Bo-
lingbroke. Prior, Swift, Arbulhnot, and the other
friends of the opposite jiarty. They who oppose a
ministry have always a better field for ridicule and
reproof than they who defend it.
Since that period, our writers 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 the age, perish-
ed by wsmt and neglect. More, Savage, and Am-
herst, were possessed of great abilities, yet they
were suffered to feel all the miseries that usually
attend the ingenious and the imprudent, that at-
tend men of strong passions, and no phlegmatic re-
serve 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. Perhaps 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 endeavours to affect : the
public, therefore, with justice, discard such empty
sound, which has nothing but a jingle, or, what is
worse, the unmusical flow of blank verse to recom-
mend it. The late method, also, into which our
newspapers have fallen, of giving an epitome of
every new publication, must greatly damp the
writer's genius. He finds himself, in this case, at
the mercy of men who have neither abilities nor
learning to distinguish his merit. He finds his
own composition mixed with the sordid trash of
every daily scribbler. There is a sufiicient speci-
men given of his work to abate curiosity, and yet
so mutilated as to render him contemptible. His
first, and perhaps his second work, by these means
sink, among the crudities of the age, into oblivion.
Fame he finds begins to turn her back : he there-
fore flies to profit which invites him, and he en-
rols himself in the lists of duLness and of avarice
for life.
Yet there are still among us men of the greatest
abilities, and who in some parts of learning have
surpassed their predecessors : justice and friendship
might here impel me to speak of names which will
shine out to all posterity, but prudence restrains
me from what I should otherwise eagerly embrace.
Envy might rise against every honoured name I
should mention, since scarcely one of them has not
those who are liis enemies, or those who despise
liim, etc. ,.
OF THE OPERA IN ENGLAND.
The rise and fall of our amusements pretty
much resemble that of empire. They this day
flourish withoLt any visible cause for such vigour;
the next, they decay without any reason that can
be assigned for their downfal. Some years ago the
Italian opera was the only fashionable amusement
among our nobility. The managers of the play^
472
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
houses dreaded it as a mortal enemy, and our very
poets listed themselves in the opposition : at present
the house seems deserted, the castrati sing to empty
benches, even Prince Vologese himself, a youth of
great expectations, sings himself out of breath, and
rattles his chain to no purpose.
To say the truth, the opera as it is conducted
among us, 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 entertaining ; the best poets com-
pose the words, and the best masters the music, but
with us it is otherwise ; the decorations are but tri-
fling and cheap ; the singers, Matei only excepted,
but indiflerent. Instead of interlude, we have those
sorts of skipping dances, which are calculated for
the galleries of the theatre. Every performer sings
his favourite song, and the music is only a medley of
old Italian airs, or some meagre modern Capriccio.
When such is the case, it is not much to be
wondered if the opera is pretty much neglected ;
the lower orders of people have neither taste nor
fortune to rehsh such an entertainment; they
would find more satisfaction in the' Roast Beef
of Old England than in the finest closes of a eu-
nuch; they sleep amidst all the agony of recita-
tive ; on the other hand, people of fortune or taste
can hardly be pleased, where there is a visible
poverty in the decorations, and an entire want of
taste in the composition.
Would it not surprise one, that when Metasta-
sio is so well known in England, and so universal-
ly admired, the manager or the composer should
have recourse to any other operas than those writ-
ten by himi I might venture to say, that written
hy Metastasio, put up in 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 enter-
tainment.
The performers also should be entreated 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 chooses a favourite
air, not from the excellency of the music, but from
difficulty ; such songs are generally chosen as sur-
prise rather than please, where the ])erformer may
show his compass, his breath, and his volubility.
Hence proceed those unnatural startings, those
unmusical closings, and shakes lengthened out to
a painful continuance ; such indeed may show a
voice, but it must give a truly delicate ear the ut-
moBi uneasiness. Such tricks are not music ; nei-
ther Corelli nor Pergolesi ever permitted them, and
they even begin 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
clifT have all the variety they can give it; let the
body of the music (if I may so express it) be as va-
rious as they please ; but let them avoid ornament-
ing a barren ground-work ; let them not attempt
by flourishing to cheat us of solid harmony.
The works of Mr. Rameau are never heard
without a surprising effect. 1 can attribute it only
to the simplicity he every where observes, insomuch
that some of his finest harmonies are only octave
and unison. This simple manner has greater
powers than is generally imagined ; and were not
such a demonstration misplaced, I think, from the
principles of music it might be 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 on with some success, since
they have all some merit, if not as actors, at least as
singers. Signora Matei is at xmce both a perfect
actress and a very fine singer. She is possessed
of a fine sensibility in her manner, and seldom in-
dulges those extravagant and unmusical flights of
voice complained of before. Cornacini, on the other
hand, is a very indifferent actor, has a most un-
meaning face, seems not to feel his part, is infected
with a passion of showing his compass; but to re-
compense all these defects, his voice is melodious,
he has vast compass and great volubility, his swell
and shake are perfectly fine, unless that he con-
tinues the latter too long. In short, whatever the
defects of his action may be, they are amply recom-
pensed by his excellency as a singer ; nor can I
avoid fancying that he might make a much great-
er figure in an oratorio than upon 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 unacquainted with the genius and
disposition of the people they would amuse, and
whose only motives are immediate gain. Whether
a discontinuance of such entertainments would be
more to the loss or 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 personae on the other.
[originally published in 1765.]
THE PREFACE.
Thp following Essays have already appeared at
different times, and in different publications. The
pamphlets in which they were inserted being gen-
erally unsuccessful, t'aese shared the common fate,
without assisting the bookseller's aims, or extend-
ing the writers reputation. The public were too
strenuously employed with their own follies to be
assiduous in estimating mine ; so that many of my
best attempts in this way have fallen victims to the
transient topic of the times — the Ghost in Cock-
lane, or the siege of Ticonderoga.
But though they have passed pretty silently in-
to the world, I can by no means complain of their
circulation. The magazines and papers of the
day have indeed been liberal enough in this re-
spect. Most of these essays have been regularly
reprinted twice or thrice a year, and conveyed to
the public through the kennel of some engaging
compilation.. If there be a pride in multiplied edi-
tions, 1 have seen some of my labours sixteen
times reprinted, and claimed by different parents
as their own. I have seen them flourished at the
beo-inning with praise, and signed at the end with
the names of Philautos, Philalethis, Phileleuthcros,
and Philanthropes. These gentlemen have kindly
stood sponsors to my productions, and, to flatter
me more, have always passed them as their own.
It is time, however, at last to vindicate my
claims ; and as these entertainers of the public, as
they call themselves, have partly lived upon me for
some vears. let me now try if I can not live a little
upon myself. 1 would desire, in this case, to imi-
tate that fat man whom I have somewhere heard
of in a shipwreck, who, when the sailors, pressed
by taniinc, were taking slices from his posteriors to
satisfy their hunger insisted, with great justice, on
having tiie first cut for himself.
Yet, after all, lean not be angry with any who have
taken it into their heads, to think that whatever 1
write is worth reprinting, particularly when I consid-
er how great a majority will think it scarcely worth
reading. Trijling and superficial are terms of re-
proach that are easily objected, and that carry an
air of penetration in the observer. These faults
have been objected to the following 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 1 would ask,
whether, in a short Essay, it is not necessary to be
superficial 7 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 tri-
fles, 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 stated here, have
been hunted down, and many of the thoughts
blown upon. In fact, these Essays were consider-
ed as quietly laid in the grave of oblivion ; and cur
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 for we are at least upon par, and until they
think fit to make me their humble debtor by praise,
1 am resolved not to lose a single inch of my self-
importance. Instead, therefore, of attempting t/3
estabUsh 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 pro-
tested at home, it may not be im))rudent, 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 thou-
sand pounds worth of praise, free from all deduc-
tions whatsoever, it being a commodity tliat will
then be very serviceable to him, and place it to tao
account of, etc. r* /
474
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ESSAY I.
I REMEMBER to have read in some philosopher
(I believe in Tom Brown's works), that, let a
man's character, sentiments, or complexion be
what they will, he can find company in London 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 pas-
6ionate, he may vent his rage among the old ora-
tors 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-
drujn club in Ivy-lane ; and, if actually mad, he
may find very good company in Moorfields, either
at Bedlam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a
nearer acquaintance.
But, although such as have a knowledge of the
town, may easily class themselves with tempers
congenial to their own, a countryman, who comes
to live in London, finds nothing more difficult.
With regard to myself, none ever tried with more
assiduity, or came off with such indifferent suc-
cess. I spent a whole season in the search, dur-
ing which time my name has been enrolled in so-
cieties, lodges, convocations, and meetings, with-
out number. To some I was introduced by a
friend, to others invited by an advertisement ; to
tlies'e I introduced myself, and to those I changed
my name to gain admittance. In short, no co-
quette was ever more solicitous to match her ri-
bands to her complexion, than I to suit my club to
my temper ; for I was too obstinate to bring my
temper to conform to it.
The first club I entered upon coming to town
Was that of the Choice Spirits. The name was
entirely suited to my taste ; I v^'as a lover of mirth,
good-humour, and even sometimes of fun, from
my childhood.
As no other passport was requisite but the pay-
ment of two shiUings at the door, I introduced my-
self without further ceremony to the members, who
were already assembled, and had for some time
begun upon business. The Grand, with a mallet
in his hand, presided at the head of the table. I
could not avoid, upon my entrance, making use of
all my skill in physiognomy, in order to discover
that superiority of genius in men, who had taken
a title so superior to the rest of mankind. I ex-
pected to see the Unes 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.
Mv speculations were soon interrupted by the
Grand, who had knocked down Mr. Sprigging for
a sons. 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. Sprig-
gins was going to give us Mad Tom ui all its glo-
ry. Mr. Spriggins endeavoured to excuse himself;
for as he was to act a madman and a king, it was
impossible to go through the part properly without
a crown and chains. His excuses vi'ere overruled
by a great majority, and with much vociferation.
The president ordered up the jack-chain, and in-
stead of a crown, our performer covered his brows
with an inverted jorden. After he had rattled his
chain, and shook his head, to the great delight of
the whole com[)any, he began his song. As '
have heard few young fellows offer to sing in com-
pany, that did not expose themselves, it was no
great disappointment to me to find Mr. Spriggins
among the number ; however, not to seem an odd
fish, I rose from my seat in rapture, cried out,
bravo ! encore ! and slapped the table as loud as
any of the rest.
The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly
pleased with my taste and the irdour of my ap-
probation ; and whispering told me that I had suf-
fered an immense loss, for had I come a few mi-
nutes sooner, I might have heard Gee ho Dobbin
sung in a tip-top manner by the pimple-nosed spi-
rit at the president's right elbow ; but he was evap-
orated before I came.
As I was expressing my uneasiness at this dis-
appointment, I found the attention of the compa-
ny 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 ad-
miration, to this succeeded a Welsh dialogue,
with the humours of Teague and Taffy : after that
came on Old Jackson, with a story between every
stanza ; next was sung the Dustcart, and then
Solomon's Song. The glass began now to circu-
late pretty freely : those who were silent when so-
ber would now be heard in their turn ; every man
had his song, and he saw no reason why he should
not be heard as well as any of the rest ; one begged to
be heard while he gave Death and the Lady in high
taste ; another sung to a plate which he kept
trundling on the edges ; nothing was now heard
but singing ; voice rose above voice ; and the whole
became one universal shout, when the landlord
came to acquaint the company that the reckoning
was drank out. Rabelais calls the moment in
which a reckoning is mentioned the most melan-
choly of our lives ; never was so much noise so
quickly quelled as by this short but pathetic ora-
tion of our landlord : drank out ! was echoed in a
tone of discontent round the table : drank out al-
ready ! that was very odd ! that so much punch
could be drank already — impossible! The land-
lord, however, seeming resolved not to retreat from
his first assurances, the company Was dissolvett
and a president chosen for the night ensuing.
ESSAYS.
475
A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining
Bome time after the entertainment I have been de-
scribing, proposed to bring me to the club that he
frequented, which he fancied would suit the gravity
of my temper exactly. " We have at the Muzzy
Club," says he, " no riotous mirth nor awkward
ribaldry ; no confusion or bawling ; all is conducted
with wisdom and decency: besides, some of our
members are worth forty thousand pounds ; men of
prudence and foresight every one of them : these are
the proper acquaintance, and to such I will to night
introduce you." I was charmed at the proposal :
to be acquainted with men worth forty thousand
pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were
offers that tlu'ew me into raptures.
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 insensi-
ble 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 so-
lemnity of the scene before me; the members kept
a profound silence, each with a pipe in his mouth,
and a pewter pot in his hand, and with faces that
might easily be construed into absolute wisdom.
Happy society, thought I to myself, where the
members think before they speak, deliver nothing
rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other
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 pi|)e
was laid down I expected it was to speak ; but it
was only to spit. At length resolving to break the
charm myself, and overcome their extreme diffi-
dence, for to this I imputed their silence, I rubbed
my^ hands, and, looking as wise as possible, ob-
served that the niglits began to grow a little coolish
at this time of the year. This, as it was directed
to none of the company in particular, none thought
himself obliged to answer, wherefore I continued
still to rub my hands and look wise. My next
effort was addressed to a gentleman who sat next
nie ; to whom I observed, that the beer was ex-
tremely good. My neighbour made no reply, but
by a large puff of tobacco-smoke.
I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society,
till one of them a little relieved me by observing
that bread had not risen these three weeks : " Aye,"
says another, still keeping the pipe in his mouth,
" that puts me in mind of a pleasant story about
that — hem — very well ; you must know — but. be-
fore I begin — sir, my service to you — where was
11"
My next club goes by the name of the Harmo-
nical Society ; probably from that love of order and
friendship which every person commends in insti-
tutions of this nature. The landlord was himself
the founder. The money spent is fourpence each ;
and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning.
To this club few recommendations are requisite,
except the introductory fourpence and my land-
lord's good word, which, as he gains by it, he never
refuses.
We all here talked and behaved as every body
else usually does on his club-night ; we discussed
the topic of the day, drank each other's healths,
snuffed the candles with our fingers, and filled our
pipes from the same plate of tobacco. The com-
pany saluted each other in the common manner;
Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Currycomb-maker
had not caught cold going home the last club-
night ; and he returned the compliment by hoping
that young Master Bellows-mender had got well
again of the chincough. Dr. 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 leather breeches at the other end of the
table, was engaged in a long narrative of the Ghost
in Cock-lane : he had read it in the papers of the
day, and was telling it to some that sat next him,
who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibbins was
disputing on the old subject of religion with a Jevf
pedler, over the table, while the president vainly
knocked down Mr. Leathersides for a song. Be-
sides the combinations of these voices, which I
could hear altogether, and which formed an upper
part to the concert, there were several others play-
ing under-parts by themselves, and endeavouring
to fasten on some luckless neighbour's ear, who was
himself bent upon the same design against some
other.
We have often heard of the speech of a corpora-
tion, and this induced me to transcribe a speech of
this club, taken in short-hand, word for word, as it
was spoken by every member of the company. It
may be necessary to observe, that the man who told
of the ghost had the loudest voice, and the longest
story to tell, so that his continuing narrative filled
every chasm in the conversation.
" So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three
loud raps at the bed-post — Says my Lord to me,
my dear Smokeum, you know there is no man
upon the face of the earth for whom I have so hio-h —
A damnable false heretical opinion of all sound
doctrine and good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud,
and spare not that — Silence for a song ; Mr. Leath-
ersides for a song — ' As I was walking upon the
highway, I met a young damsel' — Then what
brings you here ? says the parson to the ghost-—
Sanconiathan, 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 gentleman
than he — For murder will out one time or ano-
ther • and none but a ghost, you know, gentlemen,
476
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
can — Damme if I don't; for my friend, whom
you k,noW; gentlemen, and who is a parliament-
man, a man of consequence, a dear honest crea
ture, to be sure ; we were laughing last night at —
Death and damnation he upon all his posterity, by
simply barely tasting — Sour grapes, as the fox said
once when he could not reach them; and I'll, I'll
tell you a story about that, that will make you
burst your sides with laughing: A fox once — Will
nobody listen to the song — ' As I was walking upon
the highway, I met a young damsel both buxom
and gay' — No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ;
nor did I ever hear but of one ghost killed in all
my hfe, and that was stabbed in the belly with a —
My blood and soul if I don't — Mr. Bellows-mender,
I have the honour of drinking your very good
health — Blast me if I do — dam — blood — bugs — fire
— whiz — 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 J I have been a fool myself; and why should I
be angry with them for being something so natural
to every child of humanity ?
Fatigued with this society, I was introduced the
following night to a club of fashion. On taking
my place, I found the conversation sufficiently
easy, ajid tolerably good-natured ; for my lord and
Sir Paul were not yet arrived. I now thought
myself completely fitted, and resolving to seek no
further, determined to take up my residence here
for the winter ; while my temper began to open in-
sensibly 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 lord-
ship and Sir Paul were just arrived.
From this moment all our felicity was at an end ;
our new guests bustled into the room, and took
their seats at the head of the table. Adieu now all
confidence ; every creature strove who should most
recommend himself to our members of distinction.
Each seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but
our new guests ; and what before wore the ap-
pearance of friendship was now turned into rivalry.
Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flat-
tery and obsequious attention, our great men took
any notice of the rest of the company. Their
whole discourse was addressed to each other. Sir
Paul told his lordship a long story of Moravia the
Jew ; and his lordship gave Sir Paul a very long
account of his new method of managing silk-
worms: he led him, and consequently the rest of
the company, through all the stages of feeding,
sunning, and hatching ; with an episode on mul-
berry-trees, a digression upon grass seeds, and a
long parenthesis about his new postillion. In this
manner we travelled on, wishing every story to be
iho last ; but all in vain —
" Hi'iJ over hills, and Alps on Alps arose."
The last club in which I was enrolled a member,
was a society of moral philosophers, as they called
themselves, who assembled twice a-week, in order
to show the absurdity of the present mode of re-
ligion, and establish a new one in its stead.
I found the members very warmly disputing
when I arrived ; not indeed about religion or ethics,
but about who had neglected to lay down his pre-
liminary sixpence upon entering the room. The
president swore that he had laid his own down, and
so swore all the company.
During this contest I had an opportunity of ob-
serving the laws, and also the members of the so-
ciety. The president, who had been, as I wa«i
told, lately a bankrupt, was a tall pale figure with
a long black wig; the next to him was dressed in
a large white wig, and a black cravat ; a third by
the brownness of his complexion seemed a native
of Jamaica ; and a fourth by his hue appeared to
be a blacksmith. But their rules will give the
most just idea of their learning and principles.
I. We being a laudable society of moral phi-
losophers, intends to dispute twice a-week about
religion and priestcraft. Leaving behind us old
wives' tales, and following good learning and sound
sense: and if so be, that any other persons has a
mind to be of the society, they shall be entitled so
to do, upon paying the sum of three shiUings to be
spent by the company in punch.
II. That no member get drunk before nine of
the clock, upon pain of forfeiting threepence, to be
spent by the company in punch.
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 al-
ready put himself to a good deal of expense in
buying books for the club ; particularly the works
of TuUy, Socrates, and Cicero, wliich 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 he ad-
mitted to the freedom of the society, upon paying
sixpence only, to be spent in punch.
VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary
meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish
name in the newspapers.
Saunders Mac Wild, president,
Anthony Blewit, vice-presidenc,
his -|- mark.
William Turpin, secretary.
ESSAYS.
ESSAY II.
■\Ve essayists, who are allowed but one subject
at a time, are by no means so fortunate as the wri-
ters of magazi^ies, who write upon several. If a
nia^aziner be dull upon the Spanish war, he soon
has us up again with the Ghost in Cock-lane ; if
the reader begins to doze upon that, he is quickly
roused by an eastern tale ; tales prepare us for po-
etry, and poeti7 for the meteorological history of
the weather. It is the life and soul of a magazine
never to be long dull upon one subject ; and the
reader, like the sailor's horse, has at least the com-
fortable refreshment of having the spur often
changed.
As I see no reason why they should carry off
all the rewards of genius, I have some thoughts
for the future of making this Essay a magazine in
miniature : I shall hop from subject to subject, and,
if properly encouraged, I intend in time to adorn
my feuille volant with pictures. But to begin in
the usual form with
A MODEST ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC.
The public has been so often imposed upon by
the unperforming promises of others, that it is with
the utmost modesty we assure them of our invio-
lable design of giving the very best collection that
ever astonished society. The public we honour
and regard, and therefore to instruct and entertain
Ihem is our highest ambition, with labours calcu-
Hated as well for the head as the heart. If four
extraordinary pages of letter-press, be any recom-
inendation of our wit, we may at least boast the
Honour of vindicating our own abilities. To say
more in favour of the Infernal Magazine, would
ke unworthy the public ; to say less, would be inju-
;ious to ourselves. As we have no interested mo-
tives for this undertaking, being a society of gen-
llemen of distinction, we disdain to eat or write
Jike hirelings ; we are all gentlemen, resolved to
sell our sixpenny magazine merely for our own
imusement.
Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine.
DEDICATION TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OF ALL
PATRONS, THE TRIPOLINE AMBASSADOR.
May it -please your Excellency,
As your taste in the fine arts is universally al-
Howed and admired, permit the authors of the In-
^rnal Magazine to lay the following sheets hum-
bly at your Excellency's toe ; and should our la-
bours ever have the happiness of one day adorning
the courts of Fez, we doubt not that the influence
wherewith we are honoured, shall be ever retained
with the most warm ardour by,
May it please your Excellency,
Your most devoted humble servants,
The authors of the Infernal Magazine.
A SPEECH SPOKEN BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSO-
PHER, TO PERSUADE HIS CLUB AT CATEATON TO
DECLARE WAR AGAINST SPAIN.
My honest friends and brother politicians, I per- ,
ceive that the intended war with Spain makes ma-
ny 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 Funk, the Dutch Jew, be glad or sorry for
this ; but, my good Mr. Bellows-mender, what is
all this to you or me ? You must mend broken
bellows, and I write bad prose, as long as we live,
whether we like a Spanish war or not. BeUeve
me, my honest friends, whatever you may talk of
liberty and your own reason, both that liberty and
reason are conditionally resigned by every poor
man in every society ; and, as we 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 perhaps we may at
last get money ourselves, and set beggars at work
in our turn. I have a Latin sentence that is worth
its weight in gold, and which I sjiall beg leave to
translate for your instruction. An author, called
Lilly's Grammar, finely observes, that ".^s in
prassenti perfectum format ;" that is, " Ready mo-
ney makes a perfect man." Let us then get ready
money ; aiul let them that will spend theirs by go-
ing to war with Spain.
RULES FOR BEHAVIOUR, DRAWN UP BY THE INDI-
GENT PHILOSOPHER.
If you be a rich man, you may enter the room
with three loud hems, march deliberately up to
the chimney, and turn your back to the fire. If
you be a poor man, I would advise you to shrink
into the room as fast as you can, and place your
self as usual upon the corner of a chair in a re-'
mote corner.
When you are desired to sing in company, I
would advise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand to
one but that you torment us with affectation or a
bad voice.
If you be young, and live with an old man, I
would advise you not to like gravy ; I was disin-
herited myself for liking gravy.
Don't laugh much in public ; the spectators that
are not as merry as you will hate you, either be-
cause they envy your happiness, or fancy them-
selves the subject of your mirth. -
RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL. TRANSLATED
FROM THE LATIN OF DANiEUS DE SORTIARIIS,
A WRITER CONTEMPORARY WITH CALVIN, ANO
ONE OF THE REFORMERS OF OCR CHURCH.
The person who desires to raise the Devil, is to
478
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
sacrifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own
property, to Beelzebub. He is to swear an eternal
obedience, and then to receive a mark in some un-
seen place, either under the eye-lid, or in the roof
of the mouth inflicted by the devil himself. Upon
this he has power given him over three spirits ; one
for earth, another for air, and a third for the sea.
Upon certain times the devil holds an assembly of
magicians, in which each is to give an account
of what evil he has done, and what he wishes to
do. At this assembly he appears in the shape of an
old man, or often like a goat with large horns.
They upon this occasion renew their vows of obe-
dience ; and then form a grand dance in honour
of their false deity. The devil instructs them in
every method of injuring mankind, in gathering
poisons, and of riding upon occasion through the
air. He shows them the whole method, upon ex-
amination, of giving evasive answers ; his spirits
have power to assume the form of angels of light,
and there is but one method of detecting them,
viz. to ask them in proper form, what method is
the most certain to propagate the faith over all the
world? To this they are not permitted by the Su-
perior Power to make a false reply, nor are they
willing to give the true one, wherefore they con-
tinue silent, and are thus detected.
ESSAY III.
"Where Tauris lifts its head above the storm,
and presents nothing to the sight of the distant
traveller but a prospect of nodding rocks, falling
torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature;
on the bleak bosom of this frightful mountain, se-
cluded 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-creatures with the most ardent afl!ection ;
but from the tenderness of his disposition he ex-
hausted all his fortune in relieving the wants of the
distressed. The petitioner never sued in vain, the
weary traveller never passed his door ; he only •*».-
sisted from doing good when he had no longer le
power of relieving.
From a fortune thus spent in benevolence he
expected a grateful return from those he had for-
merly relieved, and made his application with con-
fidence of redress : the ungrateful world soon grew
weary of his importunity ; for pity is but a short-
lived passion. He soon therefore began to view
mankind in a very different light from that in which
he had before beheld them ; he perceived a thousand
vices he had never before suspected to exist ; where ■
ever he turned, ingratitude, dissimulation, and
treachery, contributed to mcrease his detestation of
them Resolved therefore to continue no longer
in a world which he hated, and which repaid hig
detestation with contempt, he retired to this region
of sterility, in order to brood over his resentment in
solitude, and converse with the only honest heart
he knew, namely, 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 head-
long torrent. In this manner he lived, sequestered
from society, passing the hours in meditation, and
sometimes exulting that he was able to live inde-
pendently of his fellow-creatures.
At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake
displayed its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad
surface the impending horrors of the mountain. To
this capacious mirror he would sometimes descend,
and rechning on its steep banks, cast an eager look
on the smooth expanse that lay before him. " How
beautiful," he often cried, " is Nature ! how lovely
even in her wildest scenes ! How finely contrasted
is the level plain that lies beneath me, with yon
awful pile that hides its tremendous head in clouds!
But the beauty of these scenes is no way compara-
ble with their utility; hence a hundred rivers are
supplied, which distribute health and verdure to
the various countries through which they flow.
Every part of the universe is beautiful, just, and
wise ; but man, vile man, is a solecism in nature,
the only monster in the creation. Tempests and
whirlwinds have their use ; but vicious ungrateful
man is a blot in the fair page of universal beauty.
Why was I born of that detested species, whose
vices are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the
divine Creator? Were men entirely free from vice,
all would he 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?"
Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going
to plunge into the lake beneath him, at once to sat-
isfy his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety ;
whert 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, contem-
plated, and fancied he saw something awful and
divine in his aspect.
" Son of Adam," cried the Genius, "stop thy
rash purpose ; the Father of the faithful has -seen
thy justice, thy integrity, thy miseries, and hath
sent me to afford and administer relief. Give ma
thine hand, and follow without trembling wherever
I shall lead : in me behold the Genius of Convic-
tion, kept by the Great Prophet, to turn from their
errors those who go astray, not from curiosity, but
a rectitude of intention. Follow me, and be vnse."
Asam immediately descended upon the lake, and
•■ ESSAYS.
his guide conducted him along the surface of the
water, till coming near the centre of the lake, they
both began to sink ; the waters closed over their
heads ; they descended several hundred fathoms,
till Ascm, just ready to give up his life as inevitably
lost, found himself with his celestial guide in ano-
ther world, at the bottom of the waters, where hu-
man foot had never trod before. His astonishment
was beyond description, when he saw a sun like
that he had left, a serene sky over his head, and
blooming verdure under his feet.
" I plainly perceive your amazement," said the
Genius ; " but suspend it for a while. This world
was formed by Alia, at the request, and under the
inspection, of our Great Prophet ; who once en-
tertained the same doubts which filled your mind
when I found you, and from the consequence 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 respects it resembles your earth, but dif-
fers from it in being wholly inhabited by men who
never do wrong. If you find this world more
^reeable than that you so lately left, you have
free permission to spend the remainder of your
days in it ; but permit me for some time to attend
you, that I may silence your doubts, and make
you better acquainted with your company and
your new habitation !"
" A world without vice ! Rational beings with-
out 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 immortality to spend
it among men who are incapable of ingratitude,
injustice, fraud, violence, and a thousand other
- crimes, that render society miserable."
" Cease thine exclamations," replied the Genius.
•'Look around thee; reflect on every object and
action before us, and communicate to me the re-
sult of thine observations. Lead wherever you
think proper, I shall be your attendant and in-
structor. Asem and his companion travelled on
in silence for some time, the forrner being entirely
lost in astonishment ; but at last recovering his
former serenity, he could not help obsening, that
the face of the country bore a near resemblance to
that he had left, except that this subterranean
world still seemed to retain its primeval wildness.
" Here," cried Asem, " I perceive animals of
prey, and others that seem only designed for their
subsistence ; it is the very same in the world over
our heads. But had I been permitted to instruct
our Prophet, I would have removed this defect,
and formed no voracious or destructive animals,
which oidy prey on the other parts of the creation."
•' Your tenderness for inferior animals is. I find,
remarkable," said the Genius smiling. Eat with
regard to meaner creatures tliis world extjctly re-
sembles the other, and indeed for obvious reasons ;
for the earth can support a more considerable num-
ber of animals, by their thus becoming food fol
each other, than if they had lived entirely on hef
vegetable productions. So that animals of differ-
ent natures thus formed, instead of lessening their
multitude, subsist in the greatest number possible.
But let us hasten on to the inhabited country be-
fore us, and see what that oflers for instruction."
They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest^
and entered the country inhabited by men without
vice ; and Asem anticipated in idea the rational de-
light he hoped to experience in such 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 counte-
nance, from an army of squirrels that closely pur-
sued him. " Heavens !" cried Asem, " why does
he fly 1 What can he fear from animals so con-
temptibleT' He had scarcely spoken when he
perceived two dogs pursuing another of the human
species, who with equal terror and haste attempted
to avoid them. " This," cried Asem to his guide,
" is truly surprising ; nor can I conceive the rea-
son 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 in-
creased, and now frequently ravage their harmless
frontiers." "But they should have been destroy-
ed," cried Ascm; "you see the consequence of
such neglect." "Where is then that tenderness
you so lately expressed for subordinate animals V
replied the Genius smiling; " you seem to have for-
got that branch of justice." " I must acknowledge
my mistake," returned Ascm ; " I am now con-
vinced that we must be guilty of tyranny and in-
justice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the
world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the
duty of man to these irrational creatures, but sur-
vey 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 cities, nor any mark of elegant design.
His conductor, perceiving his surprise, observed,
that the inhabitants of this new world were per-
fectly content with their ancient simplicity ; each
had a house, which, though homely, was sufficient
to lodge his little family ; they were too good to
build houses which could only increase their own
pride, and the envy of the spectator ; what they
built was for convenience, and not for show. " At
least, then," said Asem, "they have neither archi-
tects, painters, nor statuaries, in their society ; but
these are idle arts, and may be spared. However,
before I spend much more time, you should have
my thapks for introducing me into tlie society or
some of their wisest men ; there is scarcely any
480
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
pleasure to me equal to a refined conversation ;
there is nothing of which I am so much enamour-
ed as wisdom." "Wisdom!" replied his instruc-
tor, " 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 ot
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 specu-
lation, as such pleasures have their origin in vani-
ty, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue
them. " AH this may be right, " says Asem ; " but
methinks I observe a solitary disposition prevail
among the people ; each family keeps separately
within their own precincts, without society, or with-
out intercourse." " That indeed is true," replied
the other; "here is no established society; nor
should there be any ; all societies are made either
through fear or friendship: the people we are
among are too good to fear each other ; and there
are no motives to private friendship, where all are
equally meritorious." "Well, then," said the
sceptic, "as I aia to spend my time here, if 1
. am to have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor
friendship, in such a world, I should be glad at
least of an easy companion, who may tell me his
thoughts, and to whom I may communicate mine."
"And to what purpose should either do this?" says
the Genius : " flattery or curiosity are vicious mo-
tives, and never allowed of here ; and wisdom is
out of the question."
"Still, however," said Asem, "the inhabitants
must be happy ; each is contented with his own
possessions, nor avariciously 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 scarce-
ly spoken when his ears were assaulted with the
lamentations of a wretch who sat by the way-side,
and, in the most deplorable distress, seemed gently
to murmur at his own misery. Asem immediate-
ly ran to his relief, and found him in the last stage
of a consumption. "Strange," cried the son of
Adam, " that men who are free from vice should
thus suffer so much misery without relief! " " Be
not surprised," said the wretch who was dying:
"would it not be the utmost injustice for beings,
who have only just sufficient to support themselves,
and are content with a bare subsistence, to take it
from their own mouths to putitintominel They
never are possessed of a single meal more than is
necessary; and what is barely necessary can not be
dispensed with." " They should have been sup-
plied with more than is necessary," cried Asem ;
"and yet I contradict my own opinion but a mo-
ment before; — ah is doubt, perplexity, and con-
fusion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue
^lere, since they never received a favour. 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
Guardian, with a countenance not less severe than
beautiful, " nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wis-
dom : the same selfish motives by which we prefer
our own interest to that of others, induce us to re-
gard 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 tol There is scarcely a single virtue,
but that of temperance, which they practise ; and
in that they are no way superior to the very brute
creation. There is scarcely an amusement which
they enjoy ; fortitude, liberality, friendship, wisdom,
conversation, and love of country, all are virtues
entirely unknown here : thus it seems that to be
acquainted with vice is not to know virtue. Take
me, O my Genius, 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. Ingrati-
tude, contempt, and hatred, I can now suffer, for
perhaps I have deserved them. When I arraigned
the wisdom of Providence, I only showed my own
ignorance : henceforth let me keep from vice my-
self, and pity it in others."
He had scarcely ended, when the Genius, as-
suming an air of terrible complacency, called all
his thunders around him, and vanished in a wliirl-
wind. Asem, astonished at the terror of the scene,
looked for his imaginary world ; when, casting his
eyes around, he perceived himself in the very situa-
tion, and in the very place, where he first began to
repine and despair ; his right foot had been just ad-
vanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet
withdrawn ; so instantly did Providence strike the
series of truths just imprinted on his soul. He now
departed from the water-side in tranquillity, and
leaving his horrid mansion, travelled to Segestan,
his native city ; where he diligently applied himself
to commerce, and put in practice that wisdom he
had learned in solitude. The frugaUty of a few
years soon produced opulence; the number of
his domestics increased ; his friends came to him
from every part of the city ; nor did he receive them
with disdain : and a youth of misery was concluded
with an old age of elegance, affluence, and ease..
ESSAY IV.
It is allowed on all hands, that our English di-
vines receive a more liberal education, and improve
that education by frequent study, more than anV
others of this reverend profession in Europe. Iq
general also it may be observed, that a grsatos ja
ESSAYS.
4 # »^ •
481
grcc of gentility is affixed to the character of a
student in England than elsewhere ; hy which
means our clergy have an opportunity of seeing
better company while young, and of sooner wear-
intr ofi' those prejudices which they are apt to im-
bibe even in the best regulated universities, and
which may be justly termed the vulgar errors of
the wise.
Yet, with all these advantages, it is very obvious,
that the clergy are no where so little thought of by
the populace as here : and though our divines are
foremost with respect to abilities, yet they are found
last in the efi'ects of their ministry; the vulgar in
general appearing no way impressed with a sense
of religious duty. I am not for whining at thede-
pravit)' 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
me when I aver, that the lower orders of mankind,
in other countries, testify on every occasion the pro-
foundest awe of religion ; while in England they
are scarcely awakened into a sense of its duties,
even in circumstances of the greatest distress.
This dissolute and fearless conduct, foreigners
are apt to attribute to climate and constitution :
may not the vulgar, being pretty much neglected
in oiir 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 rehgious 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 precarious popularity ; and,
feariniT to outdo their duty, leave it half done.
Their discourses from the pulpit are generally dry,
methodical, and unaffecting; delivered with the
most insipid calmness ; insomuch, that should the
peaceful preacher lift his head over the cushion,
which alone he seems to address, he might discover
his audience, instead of being awakened to re-
morse, actually sleeping over his methodical and
lalwured composition.
This method of preaching is, however, by some
called an address to reason, aiid not to the passions ;
this is styled the making of converts from convic-
tion : but such are indifferently acquainted with
human nature, who are not sensible, that men sel-
dom reason about their debaucheries till they are
committed ; reason is but a weak antagonist when
heardlong passion dictates; in all such cases we
should arm one passion against another : it is with
31
the human mind as in nature, from the mixture of
two opposites the result is most frequently neutral
tranquillity. Those who attempt to reason us out
of our follies begin at the wrong end,. since the at-
tempt naturally presupposes us capable of reason;
but to be made capable of this, is one great point
of the cure. • .
There are but few talents requisite to become a
popular preacher, for the people are easily pleased
if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to
please them ; the meanest qualifications will work
this eflect, if the preacher sinceiely sets about it.
Perhaps little, indeed very little, more is required
than sincerity and assurance ; and a becoming sin-
cerity is always certain of producing a becoming
assurance. " Si vis mcjlere, dolendum est primum
tihi ipsi," is so trite a quotation, that it almost de-
mands an apology to repeat it ; yet, though all allow
the justice of the remark, how few do we find put
it in practice! Our orators, with the most faulty
bashfulness, seem impressed rather with an awe of
their audience, than with a just respect for the
truths they are about to deliver; they, of all pro-
fessions, seem the most bashful, who have the
greatest right to glory in their commission.
The French preachers generally assume all that
dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors
from Christ : the English divines, like erroneous
envoys, seem more solicitous not to oti'end the court
to which they are sent, than to drive home the in-
terests of their employer. Massilon, bishop of
Clermont, in the first sermon he ever preached,
found the whole audience, upon his getting into
the pulpit, in a disposition no way favourable to
his intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy be-
haviour, showed him that there was no great profit
to be expected from his sowing in a soil so improper;
however, he soon changed the disposition of his
audience by his manner of beginning: "If," says
he, "a cause, the most important that could be
conceived, were to be tried at the bar before quali-
fied judges; if this cause interested ourselves in
particular ; if the eyes of the whole kingdom were
fixed upon the event; if the most eminent counsel
were employed on both sides; and if we had heard
from our infancy of this yet undetermined trial ;
would you not all sit with due attention, and warm
expectation, to the pleadings on each side? Would
not all your hopes and fears be hinged upon the
final decision? And yet, let me tell you, you have
this moment a cause of much greater importance
' before you ; a cause where not one nation, but all
the world are spectators ; tried not before a fallilile
tribunal, but the awful throne of Heaven; where
! not your temporal and transitory interests are the
subject of debate, but your eternal happiness or
' misery, where the cause is still undetermined ; but
perhaps the very moment 1 am speaking may fix
I the irrevocable decree that shall last for ever ; au(i
483
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
yet, notwithstanding all this, you can hardly sit
with patience to hear the tidings of your own salva-
tion : I plead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am
scarcely attended to," &c.
The style, the abruptness of a beginning like
this, in the closet would appear absurd ; but in the
pulpit it is attended with the most lasting impres-
sions: that style which in the closet might justly
bewailed flimsy, seems the true mode of eloquence
here. I never read a fine com[)Osition under the
title of a sermon, that I do not think the author has
miscalled his piece ; for the talents to be used in
writing well, entirely differ from those of speaking
well. The qualifications for speaking, as has been
already observed, are easily acquired ; they are ac-
complishments which may be taken up by every
candidate who will be at the pains of stooping.
Impressed with the sense of the truths he is
about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause
or the contempt of his audience, and he insensibly
assumes a just and manly sincerity. With this
talent alone, Aye see what crowds are drawn around
enthusiasts, even destitute of common sense ; what
numbers are converted to Christianity. Folly may
sometimes set an example for wisdom to practise ;
and our regular divines may borrow instruction
from even methodists, who go their circuits and
preach prizes among the populace. Even Whit-
field may be placed as a model to some of our young
divines ; let them join to their own good sense his
earnest manner of delivery.
It will be perhaps objected, that by confining
the excellencies of a preacher to proper assurance,
earnestness, and openness of style, I make the
qualifications too trifling for estimation: there will
be something called oratory brought up on this oc-
casion ; action, attitude, grace, elocution, may be
repeated as absolutely necessary to complete the
character: but let us not be deceived; common
sense is seldom swayed by fine tones, musical pe-
riods, just attitudes, or the display of a white hand-
kerchief; oratorial behaviour except in very able
hands indeed, generally sinks into awkward and
paltry affectation.
It must be observed, however, that these rules
are calculated only for him who would instruct the
vulgar, who stand in most need of instruction ; to
address philosophers, and to obtain the character
of a polite preacher among the pohte — a much more
useless, though more sought for character — re-
quires a different method of proceeding. All 1
shall observe on this head is, to entreat 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 theiis, 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 dcclin
ing all controversy, than by exhibiting even the
profoundest skill in polemic disputes: their con-
tests with each other often turn on speculativd
trifles; and their disputes with the Deists are al-
most at an end, since they can have no more than
victory, and that they are already possessed of, as
their antagonists have been driven into a confes-
sion of the necessity of revelation, or an open
avowal of atheism. To continue the dispute longer
would only endanger it ; the sceptic is ever expert
at puzzling a debate which he finds himself unable
to continue, " and, like an Olympic boxer, gene-
rally fights best when undermost."
ESSAY V.
The improvements we make in mental acquire-
ments only render us each day more sensible of the
defects of our constitution : with this in view,
therefore, let us often recur to the amusements of
youth, endeavour to forget age and wisdom, and,
as far as innocence goes, be as much a boy as the
best of them.
Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy
of the age ; but in my opinion every age is the
same. This I am sure of, that man in every sea-
son is a poor fretful being, with no other means to
escape the calamities of the times but by endeavour-
ing to forget them ; for if he attempts to resist, he
is certainly undone. If I feel poverty and pain, I am
not so hardy as to quarrel with the executioner, even
while under correction : I find myself no way
disposed to making fine speeches while I am mak-
ing wry faces. In a word, let me drink when the
fit is on, to make me insensible ; and drink when
it is over, for joy that I feel pain no longer.
The character of old FalstafT, even with all his
faults, gives me more consolation than the most
studied efl^orts of wisdom : I here behold an agreea-
ble old fellow, forgetting age, and showing me the
way to be young at sixty -five. Sure I am well able
to be as merry, though not so comical as he — Is it
not in my power to have, though not so much wit,
at least as much vivacity? — Age, care, wisdom, re-
flection begone — I give you to the winds. Let's
have t'other bottle : here's to the memory of Shak-
speare, Falstaff", and all the merry men of East
cheap.
Such were the reflections that naturally arose
while I sat at the Boar's-Head Taverii, still kept
at Eastcheap. Here by a pleasant fire, in the very
room where old .Tohn Falstaff cracked his jokes, in
the very chair which was sometimes honoured by
ESSAYS.
483
Prince Henry, and sometimes polluted by his im-
moral merry companions, 1 sat and ruminated on
the follies of youth ; wished to be young again, but
was resolved to make the best of life while it lasted ;
and now and then compared past and present times
together. [ 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 de-
bauchery not disgusting. The room also conspired
to throw my reflections back into antiquity: the
oak floor, the Gothic windows, and the ponderous
chimney-piece, had long withstood the tooth of
time ; the watchman had gone twelve ; my com-
panions had all stolen off; and none now remained
with me but the landlord. From him I could have
wished to know the history of a tavern, that had
such a long succession of customers : 1 could not
help thinking that an account of this kind would
be a pleasing contrast of the manners of different
ages ; but my landlord could give me no informa-
tion. He continued to doze and sot, and tell a te-
dious 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: ho in-
sensibly began to alter his appearance ; his cravat
seemed quilled into a ruff", and his breeches swelled
out into a fardingale. I now fancied him chang-
ing sexes ; and as my eyes began to close in slum-
ber, I imagined my fat landlord actually converted
into as fat a landlady. However, sleep made but
few changes in my situation : the tavern, the apart-
ment, dnd the table, continued as before ; nothing
suffered mutation but my host, who was fairly al-
tered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be
Dame Cluickly, 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. Cluickly," cried I (for I knew
her perfectly well at first sight), " I am heartily
glad to see you. How have you left Falstaff, Pis-
•tol, and the rest of our friends below stairs'? Brave
and hearty, I hope V — " In good sooth," replied
she, " he did deserve to Uve for ever ; but he makcth
foul work on't where he hath flitted. Clueen Pro-
serjune 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
proiiable 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 cri-
ticism and dreaming, ghosts have been known to
'be guilty of even more than platonic affection :
wherefore, as I found her too much moved on such
a topic to proceed, I was resolved to change the
subject, and desiring she would pledge me in a
bumper, observed with a sigh, that our sack v^as
nothing now to what it was in former days : " Ah,
Mrs. Q,uickly, those were merry times when you
drew sack for Prince Henry : men were twice aa
strong, and twice as wise, and much braver, and
ten thousand times more charitable than now.
Those were the times ! The batUe of Agincourt
was a victory indeed ! Ever since that we have
only been degenerating ; and I have lived to see the
day when drinking is no longer fashionable, when
men wear clean shirts, and women show their .
necks and arms. All are degenerated, Mrs.Gluick-
ly; and we shall probably, in another century, be
frittered away into beaux or monkeys. Had you
been on earth to see what I have seen, it would
congeal all the blood in your body (your soul, I
mean). Why, our very nobility now have the in-
tolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day
remonstrated from the press ; our very nobility, I
say, have the assurance to frequent assemblies, and
presume to be as merry as the vulgar. See, my
very friends have scarcely manhood enough to sit
to it till eleven ; and I only am left to make a night
on't. Prithee do me the favour to console me a
little for their absence by the story of your own ad-
ventures, or the history of the tavern where we are
now sitting : I fancy the narrative may have some-
thing singular."
" Observe this apartment," interrupted my com-
panion; "of neat device, and excellent workman-
ship — In this room I have lived, child, woman, and
ghost, more than three hundred years : I am ordered
by Pluto to keep an annual register of every trans-
action that passeth here ; and I have whilom com-
piled three hundred tomes, which eftsoons may be
submitted to thy regards." "None of your whiloms
or eftsoons. Mrs. GLuickly, if you please," I replied :
" 1 know you can talk every whit as well 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 women should water their
clay a little now and then ; and now to your story."
" The story of my own adventures," replied the
vision, "is but short and unsatisfactory; for, be-
lieve me, Mr. Rigmarole, believe me, a woman
with a butt of sack at her elbow is never long-lived.
Sir John's death afflicted me to such a degree, that
1 sincerely beUeve, to drown sorrow, I drank more
liquor myself than I drew for my customers: my
grief was sincere, and the sack was excellent. The
prior of a neighbouring convent (for our priors then
had as much power as a Middlesex Justice now),
he, I say, it was who gave me a license for keep-
ing a disorderly house, upon condition that I should
never make hard bargains with the clergy, that ha
484
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
should have a bottle of sack every morniiiCT, and
the liberty of confessing which of my girls he
thought proper in private every night. I had con-
tinuedlbr several years to pay this tribute ; and he,
it must be confessed, continued as rigorously to
exact it. I grew old insensibly; my customers con-
tinued, however, to compliment my looks while 1
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 Dol Tearsheet and I were sent to
the house of correction, and accused of keeping a
low bawdy-house. In short, we were so well
purified there with stripes, mortification, and pen-
ance, that we 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 something comfortable, and fairly left
my body to the care of the beadle.
• " S uch is my own history ; but that of the tavern,
where I have ever since been stationed, affords
greater variety. In the history of this, which is
one of the oldest in London, you may view the
different manners, pleasures, and follies of men, at
dilferent periods. You will find mankind neither
better nor worse now than formerly ; the vices of an
uncivilized people are generally more detestable,
though not so frequent, as those in polite society.
It is the same luxury, which formerly stuffed your
alderman with plum-porridge, and now crams him
with turtle. It is the same low ambition, that for-
merly induced a courtier to give up his religion to
please his king, and now persuades him to give up
his conscience to please his minister. It is the
same vanity, that formerly stained our ladies' cheeks
and necks with woad, and now paints them with
carmine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered
his hair with red earth, Uke 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 folly, and the same vice,
only appearing different, as viewed through the
glass of fashion. In a word, all mankind are a — "
" Sure the woman is dreaming," interrupted I.
"None of your reflections, Mrs. GLuickly, if you
love, me ; they only give me the spleen. Tell me
your history at once. 1 love stories, but hate rea-
soning."
" If you please, then, sir," returned my com-
panion, I'll read you an abstract which I made of
tlie three hundred volumes I mentioned just now.
" JVLy body was no sooner laid in the dust than
the prior and several of his convent came to purify
the tavern from the pollutions with which they
saia 1 had filled it. Masses were said in every
room, reliques were exposed upon every piece of
furniture, and the whole house washed with a de-
luge of holy water. My habitation was soon con-
verted into a monastery ; instead of customers now
applying for sack and sugar, my rooms were crowd-
ed with images, reliques, saints, whores, and friars..
Instead of being a scene of occasional debaucheryj
it was now filled with continual lewdness. The
prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imi-
tated 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 con-
vent at that period was equally fond of pleasure,
and gave a boundless loose to appetite. The laws
allowed it ; each priest had a right to a favourite
companion, and a power of discarding her as often
as ho pleased. The laity grumbled, quarrelled
with their wives and daughters, hated their con-
fessors, and maintained them in opulence and ease.
These, these were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole ;
these were times of piety, bravery, and simplicity."
"Not so very happy, neither, good Madam; pretty
much like the present — those that labour starve,
and those that do nothing wear fine clothes, and
live in luxury."
" In this manner the fathers lived for some years
without molestation ; they transgressed, confessed
themselves to each other, and were forgiven. One
evening, however, our prior, keeping a lady of dis-
tinction somewhat too long at confession, her hus-
band unexpectedly came upon them, and testified
all the indignation which was natural upon such
an occasion. The prior assured the gentleman
that it was the devil who put it into his heart ; and
the lady was very certain that she was under the
influence of magic, or she could never have be-
haved 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 laro-e
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
impartiality and candour. What plea then do you
think the prior made to obviate this accusation 1
He denied the fact, and challenged the plaintiff
to try the merits of their cause by single combat.
It was a little hard, you may be sure, upon the
poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, but
to be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; yet
such was the justice of the times. The prior
threw down his glove, and the injured husband
was obliged to take it up, in token of his accept-
ing the challenge. Upon this the priest supplied
his champion, for it was not lawful for thr; clergy
to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, according
ESSAYS.
485
to custom, wert put in prison ; both ordered to
last and pray, every method being previously used
to induce both to a cotdession of the truth. After
a month's imprisonment, the liair of each was cut,
the bodies anointed v\'ith oil, the field of battle
appointed and guarded by soldiers, while his ma-
jesty 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 extraordi-
nary 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 olf, as jus-
tice ordained in such cases, he was hanged as a
terror to future oli'enders. These, these were the
timesj Mr. Rigmarole ; you see how much more
just, and wise, and valiant, our ancestors were than
Us." — " I rather fancy, madam, that the times then
were pretty much like our own ; where a multi-
plicity of laws gives a judge as much power as a
want of law, since he is ever sure to find among
the number some to countenance his partiality."
" Our convent, victorious over their enemies,
now gave a loose to every demonstration of joy.
The lady became a nun, the prior was made a
bishop, and three Wicklifiites were burned in the
illuminations and fire-works that were madeon the
present occasion. Our convent now began to en-
joy a very high degree of reputation. There was
not one in London that had the character of hating
heretics so much as ours : ladies of the first dis-
tinction chose from our convent their confessors.
Ill short, it flourished, and might have flourished
to this hour, but for a fatal accident which termi-
nated in its overthrow. The lady, whom the prior
had placed in a nunnery, and whom he continued
to visit for some time with great punctuality, be-
gan at last to perceive that she was quite forsaken.
Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now en-
tertained the visions of a devotee ; found herself
strangely disturbed ; but hesitated in determining
■whether she was possessed by an angel or a demon.
She was not long in suspense; for upon vomiting
a large quantity of crooked pins, and finding the
palms of her hands turned outwards, she quickly
concluded that she was possessed by the devil.
She soon lost entirely the use of speech ; and,
when she seemed to speak, every body that was
present perceived that her voice was not her own,
but that of the devil witlun her. In short, she was
bewitched ; and all the difficulty lay in determin-
ing who it could be that bewitched her. The
nuns and the monks all demanded the magician's
oame, but the devil made no reply ; for he knew
that they had no authority to ask questions. By
the rules of witchcraft, when an evil spirit has
taken possession, he may refuse to answer any
questions asked him, unless they are put by a
bishop, and to these he is obliged to reply. A
bishop therefore was sent fur, and now the whole
secret came out : the devil reluctantly owned that
he was a servant of the prior ; that by his com-
mand he resided in his present habitation, and that
without his command he was resolved to keep in
possession. The bishop w as an able exorcist ; he
drove the devil out by force of mystical arms ; 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; the prior was condemned;
and he who had assisted at so many burnings, was
burned himself in turn. These were times, Mr.
Rigmarole ; the people of those times were not in-
fidels, as now, but sincere believers !" — " Equally
faulty with ourselves ; they behoved what the devil
was pleased to tell them, and we seem resolved at
last to beheve neither God nor devil."
" After such a stain upon the convent, it was
not to be supposed it could subsist any longer; the
fathers were ordered to decamp, and the house was
once again converted into a tavern. The king
conferred it on one of his cast mistresses ; she was
constituted landlady by royal authority, and as
the tavern was in the neighbourhood of the court,
and the mistress a very polite woman, it began to
have more business than ever, and sometimes took
not less than four shilUngs a-day.
" But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what
were the peculiar qualifications of a woman of
fashion at that period ; and in a description of the
present landlady you will have a tolerable idea of all
the rest. This lady was the daughter of a noble-
man, and received such an education in the coun-
try as became her quality, beauty, and great ex-
pectations. She could make shifts and hose for
herself and all the servants of the family, when she
was twelve years old. She knew the names of the
four-and-twenty letters, so that it was impossible to
bewitch her ; and this was a greater piece of learn-
ing than any lady in the whole country could pre-
tend to. She was always up early, and saw break-
fast served in the great hall by six o'clock. At this
scene of festivity, she generally improved good-hu-
mour by telling her dreams, relating stories of spi-
rits, several of which 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 pastiy in the larder, and here she was follow-
ed by her sweethearts, who were much helped on
in conversation by struggling with her for kisses.
About ten, Miss generally went to play al hot-
cockles and blind-man's bufl' in the parlour • and
485
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
when the young folks (for they seldom played at
hot-cockles, when grown old) were tired of such
amusements, the gentleman entertained Miss with
the history of their greyhounds, bear-baitings, and
victories at cudgel-playing. If the weather was
fme, they ran at the ring, shot at butts, while Miss
held in her hand a riband, with which she adorned
the conqueror. Her mental qualifications were
•exactly fitted to her external accompHshments.
Before she was fifteen she could tell the story of
Jack the Giant Killer, could name every mountain
that was inhabited by fairies, knew a witch at first
sight, and could repeat four Latin prayers without
a prompter. Her dress was perfectly fashionable ;
her arms and her hair were completely covered ; a
monstrous 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,
her appearance was so very modest, that she dis-
covered little more than her nose. These were the
times, Mr. Rigmarole ; when every lady that had
a good nose might set up for a beauty ; when every
woman that could tell stories might be cried up for
a wit." — " I am as much displeased at those dresses
which conceal too much, as at those which discov-
er too much ; I am equally an enemy to a female
dunce or a female pedant."
" You may be sure that Miss chose a husband
\Tith qualifications resembhng her own ; she pitch-
ed upon a courtier, equally remarkable for hunting
and drinking, who had given several proofs of his
great virility among the daughters of his tenants
and domestics. They fell in love at first sight (for
such was the gallantry of the times), were married,
came to court, and Madam appeared with superior
qualifications. The king was struck with her
beauty. All property was at the king's command:
the husband was obliged to resign all pretensions
in his wife to the sovereign, whom God had anoint-
ed 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 re-
moved her from his levee to the bar of this tavern,
and took a new mistress in her stead. Let it not
surprise you to behold the mistress of a king de-
graded to so humble an office. As the ladies had
no mental accomplishments, a good face was
enough to raise them to the royal couch; and she
who was this day a royal mistress, might the next,
when her beauty palled upon enjoyment, be doom-
ed 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 off by drinking;
drunkenness is ever the vice of a barbarous, and
gaming of a luxurious age. They had not such
frequent entertainments as the moderns have, but
were more expensive and more luxurious in
those they had. AH their fooleries were m>iio
elaborate, and more admired by the great and the
vulgar than now. A courtier has been known
to spend his whole fortune at a single feast, a
king to mortgage 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 times was reputed a crime . Kings
themselves set the example; and I have seen mo-
narchs in this room drunk before tlie entertainment
was half concluded. These were the times, sir,
when kings kept mistresses, and got drunk in pub*-
lie ; they were too plain and simple in those happy
times, to hide their vices, and act the hypocrite
as now." — " Lord ! Mrs. Cluickly," interrupting
her, " 1 expected to have heard a story, and here you
are going to tell me 1 know not what of times and
vices; prithee let me entreat thee once more to
wave reflections, and give thy history . without de-
viation."
" 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 en-
gaging leer, the chuck under the chin, winked at
a double entendre, could nick the opportunity of
calling for something comfortable, and perfectly
understood the discreet moments when to with-
draw. 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 resem-
bled the common low-lived harridan of a modern
bagnio. Witness, ye powers of debauchery, how
often 1 have been present at the various appear-
ances of drunkenness, riot, guilt, and brutahty! A
tavern is the true picture of human infirmity : in
history we find only one side of the age exhibited
to our view ; but in the accounts of a tavern we sea
every age equally absurd and eqnjally vicious.
" Upon this lady's decease, the tavern was sue-
cessively occupied by adventures, bullies, pimps
and gamesters. Towards the conclusion of the
reign of Henry VII. gaming was more universal-
ly practised in England than even now. Kings
themselves have been known to play off at Prime-
ro, not only all the money and jewels they could
part with, but the very images in churches. The
last Henry played away, in this very room, not
only the four great bells of St. Paul's cathedral,
but the fine image of St. Paul which stood upon
the top of the spire, to Sir Miles Partridge, who
took them down the next day, and sold them by
auction. Have you then any cause to regret being
born in the times you now live in ; or do you stil!
lielieve that human nature continues to run on de-
chning every age ] If we observe the actionri ol
ESSAYS.
487
.he busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be
found infinitely more gross, servile, and even dis-
honest than you. If, forsaking history, we only
trace them in their hours of amusement and dissi-
pation, we shall find them more sensual, more
entirely devoted to pleasure, and infinitely more
selfish.
" The last hostess of note I find upon record was
Jane Rouse. She was born among the lower
ranks of the people ; and by frugality and extreme
complaisance, contrived to acquire a moderate for-
tune ; this she might have enjoyed for many years,
had she not unfortunately quarrelled with one of
her neighbours, a woman who was in high repute
for sanctity through the whole parish. In the
times of which I speak, two women seldom quar-
relled that one did not accuse the other of witch-
craft, and she who first contrived to vomit crooked
pins was sure to come off victorious. The scandal
of a modern tea-table diflers widely from the scan-
dal 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 witch-
craft ; and though she made the best defence she
could, it was all to no purpose ; she was taken from
her own bar to the bar of the Old Bailey, condemn-
ed, and executed accordingly. These were times
indeed, when even women could not scold in safetyl
" Since her time the tavern underwent several
revolutions, according to the spirit of the thnes, or
the disposition of the reigning monarch. It was
this day a brothel, and the next a conventicle of
enthusiasts. It was one year noted for harbouring
whiiTS, and the next infamous for a retreat to to-
nes. Some years ago it was in high vogue, but
at present it seems dechning. This only may be
remarked in general, that whenever taverns flourish
most, the times are then most extravagant and
luxurious." "Lord! Mrs. duickly," interrupted
I, "you have really deceived me; I expected a ro-
mance, and here you have been this half hour giv-
ing me only a description of the spirit of the times;
if you have nothing but tedious remarks to com-
municate, seek some other hearer; I am determin-
ed to hearken only to stories."
I had scarcely concluded, when my eyes and
ears seemed open to my landlord, who had been all
this while giving me an account of the repairs he
had made in the house ; and was now got into the
story of the cracked glass in the dining-room.
ESSAY VI.
I AM fond of amusement in whatever company
!t 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 wilUng to forget "
that they had an appetite than gain one. I sat
down on one of the benches, at the other end of
which was seated a man in very shabby clothes.
We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as
usual upon such occasions; and at last ventured upon
conversation. "I beg pardon, sir," cried I, "but I
think I have seen you before; your face is familiar to
me." " Yes, sir," replied 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 pup-
pet-show : last Bartholomew-fair my master and I
quarrelled, beat each other, and parted; he to sell
his puppets to the pincushion-makers in Rosemary-
lane, and I to starve in St. James's Park." -
" I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appear-
ance should labour under any difliculties." — " O
sir," returned he, " my appearance is very much .
at your service ; but, though I can not boast of eat-
ing much, yet there are few that are merrier : if I
had twenty thousand a-year I should be very mer-
ry ; and, thank the Fates, though not worth a
groat, I am very merry still. If I have threepence
in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three-half-
pence ; and if I have no money, I never scorn to bo
treated by any that are kind enough to pay my
reckoning. What think you, sir, of a steak and a
tankard? You shall treat me now ; and I will treat
you again when I find you in the Park in love with
eating, and without money to pay for a dinner."
As I never refuse a small expense for the sake
of a merry companion, we instantly adjourned to a
neighbouring ale-house, and in a few moments had
a frothing tankard and a smoking steak spread on
the table before us. It is impossible to express how
much the sight of such good cheer improved my
companion's vivacity. "I like this dinner, sir,"
says he, "for three reasons; first, because I am natu-
rally fond of beef; secondly, because 1 am hungry;
and thirdly and lastly, because I get it for nothing:
no meat eats as sweet as that for which we do not
pay."
He therefore now fell to, and his appetite seem-
ed to correspond with his inclination. After din-
ner was over, he observed that the steak was
tough; and yet, sir," returns he, "bad as it was, it
seemed a rump-steak to me. O the delights of
poverty and a good appetite ! We beggars are the
very fondlings of nature ; the rich she treats lik«
an arrant step-mother; they are pleased with no-
thing ; cut a steak from wMat part you will, and it
is insupportably tough ; dress it up with pickles,
and even pickles can not procure you an appetitR.
488
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
But the whole creation is filled with good things
for the beggar; Calvert's butt outtastes Cham-
pagne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels Tokay.
Joy, joy, my blood, though our estates lie nowhere,
we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inunda-
tion sweeps away half the grounds of Cornwall, I
am content; I have no lands there: if the stocks
sink, that gives me no uneasiness; 1 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 entreated that he would
indulge my desire. " That I will, sir," said he,
" and welcome ; only let us drink to prevent our
sleeping; let us have another tankard while we are
awake ; let us have another tankard ; for, ah, how
charming a tankard looks when full !
" You must know, then, that I am very well de-
scended ; my ancestors have made some noise in
the world ; for my mother cried oysters, and my
father beat a drum : I am told we have even had
some trumpeters in our family. Many a nobleman
can not show so respectable a genealogy ; but that
is neither here nor there ; as I was their only child,
my father designed to breed me up to his own em-
ployment, which was that of drummer to a pup-
pet-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
ibr 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 taste, for I was by nature fond of being a gen-
tleman: besides, I was obliged toobeymy captain;
he has his will, I have mine, and you have yours :
now I very reasonably concluded, that it was much
more comfortable for a man to obey his own will
than another's.
"The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me
the spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; but
as I was tall and strong, my captain thanked me
for my kind 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 drinking as I was
(sir, my service to you), and those who are fond
of drinking never pay for other people's discharges :
in short, he never answered my letter. What could
be done7 If I have not money, said I to myself,
to pay for my discharge, I must find an equivalent
some other way; and that must be by running
away. I deserted, and that answered my purpose
every bit as well as if I had bought my discharge.
" Well, I was now fairly rid of my military em-
ployment; I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse.
and in order not to be overtaken, tooktt^ most un-
frequented roads possible. One evening as I waa
entering a village, I perceived a man, wnom I after
wards found to be the curate of thepansh, thrown
from his horse in a miry road, and almost smother-
ed 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 ask-
ed a hundred questions; as whose son I was; from
whence I came; and whether I would be faithful?
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 ; I loved a pretty
girl, and the old woman, my fellow-servant, was
ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to
starve me between them, I made a pious resolution
to prevent their committing murder : I stole the
eggs as soon as they were laid ; I emptied every un-
finished bottle that I could lay my hands on; what-
ever eatable came in my way vvas sure to disap-
pear: in short, they found I would not do; so I
was discharged one morning, and paid three shil-
lings and sixpence for two months' wages.
"While my money was getting ready, I employ-
ed myself in making preparations for my departure :
two hens were hatching in an out-house ; I went
and took the eggs from habit, and not to separate
the parents from the children, I lodged hens and
all in my knapsack. After this piece of frugality,
I returned to receive my money, and with my knap-
sack on my back, and a staff in my hand, I bade
adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor,
I had not gone far from the house when I heard
behind me the cry of Stop thief! but this only in-
creased my dispatch : it would have been foolish to
stop, as I knew the voice could not be leveUed at
me. But hold, I think I passed those two months
at the curate's without drinking. Come, the times
are dry, and may this be my poison if ever I spent
two more pious, stupid months in all my life.
" Well, after travelling some days, whom should
I light upon but a company of strolling players.
The moment I saw them at a distance, my heart
warmed to them ; I had a sort of natural love for
everv thing of the vagabond order : they were em-
I ployed in settling their baggage, which had been
I overturned in a narrow way ; I offered my assist-
:ance, which they accepted ; and we soon became
so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant.
This was a paradise to me; they sung, danced,
drank, eat, and travelled, all at the same time. By
the blood of the Mirabels ! I thought 1 had nevel
ESSAYS.
4H9
lived till then ; 1 grew as merry as a grig, and laugh-
ed at every word that was spoken. They hked
me as much as I liked them : 1 was a very good
figure, as you see ; and, though I was poor, I was
not modest.
" 1 love a straggling life above all things in the
world ; sometimes good, sometimes bad ; to be warm
to-day, and cold to-morrow; to eat when one can
get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it
stands before me. We arrived that evening at
Tenterdcn, and took a large room at the Grey-
hound; where we resolved to exhibit Romeo and
Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave, and
the garden scene. Romeo was to be performed by
a gentleman from the Theatre Royal in Drury-
lane ; Juliet, by a lady who had never appeared on
any stage before ; and I was to snuff the candles :
all excellent in our way. We had figures enough,
but the difficulty was to dress them. The same
coat that served Romeo, turned with the blue lining
outwards, served for his friend Mercutio : a large
piece of crape sufficed at once for Juliet's petticoat
and pall : a pestle and mortar, from a neighbouring
apothecary's, answered all the purposes of a bell;
and our 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 universal satisfaction : the whole
audience were enchanted with our powers.
" There is one rule by which a strolling player
may be ever secure of success ; that is, in ourtheatri-
cal 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 c<ime to
see: natural speaking, like sweet wine, runs glibly
over the palate, and scarcely leaves any taste be-
hind it ; but being high in a part resembles vinegar,
which grates upon the taste, and one feels it while
he is drinking. To please in town or country, the
way is to cry, wring, cringe into attitudes, mark
the emphasis, slap the pockets, and labour like one
in the failing sickness ; that is the way to work for
applause ; that is the way to gain it.
" As we received much reputation for our skill
on this first exhibition, it was but natural for me
to ascribe jiart of the success to myself: I snuffed
the candles, and let me tell you, that, without a
candle-snuffer the piece would lose half its embel-
Hshments. In this manner we continued a fort-
night, and drew tolerable houses, but the evening
before our intended departure, we gave out our
very best piece, in which all our strength was to be
exerted. AVe 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 tlunuler to our little company:
they were resolved to go in a body, to scold the
man for falling sick at so inconvenient a time, and
that too of a disorder that threatened to be expen-
sive ; I seized the moment, and offered to act the
part myself in his stead. The case was desperate :
they accepted my ofier ; and I accordingly sat down,
with the part in my hand and a tankard before me
(sir, your health), and studied the character, which
was to be rehearsed the next daj', 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 rehearse ; and I informed my com-
panions, masters now no longer, of the surprising
change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said 1,
be under no uneasiness to get well again : I'll fill
his place to universal satisfaction ; he may even die
if he thinks proper; I'll engage that he shall never
be missed. I rehearsed before them, strutted, rant-
ed, and received applause. They soon gave out
that a new actor of eminence was to apjjear, and
immediately all the genteel places were bespoke.
Before I ascended the stage, however, I concluded
within myself, that as 1 brought money to the
house, I ought to have my share in the profits.
Gentlemen, said I, addressing our company, I don't
pretend to direct you ; far be it from me to treat
you with so much ingratitude: you have published
my name in the bills with the utmost good-nature,
and, as affairs stand, can not act without me : so,
gentlemen, to show you my gratitude, I expect to
be paid for my acting as much as any of you, other-
wise 1 declare off; I'll brandish my snuflers, and
clip candles as usual. This was a very disagree-
able proposal, but they found that it was impossible
to refuse it ; it was irresistible, it was adamant :
they consented, and I went on in king Bajazet ; my
frowning brows bound with a stockiii"- stuffed into
CD O
a turban, while on my captived arms I brandished
a jack-chain. Nature seemed to have fitted me for
the part ; I was tall, and had a loud voice ; my very
entrance excited universal applause ; I looked
round on the audience with a smile, and made a
most low and graceful bow, for that is the rule
among us. As it was a very passionate part, I in-
vigorated my spirits with three full glasses (the
tankard is almost out) of brandy. By Alia ! it ia
almost inconceivable how I went through it;
Tamerlane was but a fool to me ; though he was
sometimes loud enough too, yet I was still louder
than he : but then, besides, I had attitudes in
abundance ; in general I kept my arms folded up
thus, upon the pit of my stomach ; it is the way at
Drury-lane, and has always a fine cflect. Tho
tankard would sink to the liottoin before I could
get through the whole of my merits : in short, I
490
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
came off like a prodigy; and such was my success,
that I could ravish the laurels even from a sirloin
of beef. The principal gentlemen and ladies of the
town came to me, after the play was over, to com-
pliment me apon my success; one praised my voice,
another my person : upon my word, says the
'squire's lady, he will make one of the finest actors
in Europe; 1 say it, and I think 1 am something
of a judge. — Praise in the 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 1 was applauded even
more than before.
" At last we left the town, in order to be at a
horse-race at some distance from thence. 1 shall
never think of Tenterden without tears of grati-
tude and respect. The ladies and gentlemen
there, take my word for it, are very good judges of
plays and actors. Come, let us drink their healths,
if you please, sir. We quitted the town, I say ;
and there was a wide difierence between my com-
ing in and going out : I entered the town a candle-
snuffer, and ] quitted it a hero ! — Such is the world ;
little to-day, and great to-morrow. 1 could say a
great 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
our 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 first actor
jn Europe, had my growing merit been properly
cultivated; but there came an unkindly frost
which ni[)ped me in the bud, and levelled me once
more down to tiie common standard of humanity.
I played Sir Harry Wildair ; all the country ladies
were charmed : if I but drew out my snufi'-box,
the whole house was in a roar of rajjture ; 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 indisputable mistress of the ceremonies where-
6ver she came. She was informed of my merits ;
every body praised me, yet she refused at first
going to see me perform : she could not coriceive,
she said, any thing but stuff from a stroller; talked
something in praise of Garrick, and amazed the
ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones, and
cadences; she was at last, however, prevailed upon
til cTo ; and it was privately intimated to me what I
judge WIS to be present at my next exhibition. |
However, no' way intimidated, I came on in Sir
Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the
other in my bosom, as usual at Drury lane ; but
instead of looking at me, I perceived the whole
audience had their eyes turned upon the lady who
had been nine months in London : from her they
expected the decision which was to secure the ge-
neral's truncheon in my hand, or sink me down
into a theatrical letter-carrier. I opened my snuff-
box, and 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 at-
tempted, by laughing myself, to excite at least a
smile ; but the devil a cheek could 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,
while I pretended spirits, my eye showed the agony
of my heart : in short, the lady came with an in-
tention to be displeased, and displeased she was ;
my fame expired ; 1 am here, and — (the tankard
is ho more !)"
ESSAY VII.
When Catharina Alexowna, was made cm-
press of Russia, the women were in an actuatl state
of bondage ; but she undertook to introduce mixed
assemblies, as in other parts of Europe ; she alter-
ed 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 com-
modes instead of caps of sable. The wotnen now
found themselves no longer shut up in separate
apartments, but saw company, visited each other,
and were present at every entertainment.
But as the laws to this effect were directed to a
savage people, it is amusing enough to see the
manner in which the ordinances ran. Assemblies
were quite unknown among them; the czarina
was satisfied with introducing them, for she found
it impossible to render them polite. An ordinance
was therefore published according to their notions
of breeding, which, as it is a curiosity, and has
never before been printed that we know of, we
shall give our readers.
" I. The person at whose house the assembly is
to be kept, shall signify the same by hanging out
a bill, or by 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.
"111. The master of the house shall not bo
obliged to meet his guests, or conduct them out, oi
keep them company; but, though he is exempt
ESSAYS.
491
from all this, he is to find them chairs, candles,
liquors, and all other necessaries that company
may ask for : he is likewise to provide them with
cards, dice, and every necessary for gaming.
" IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming
or going away ; it is enough for a person to appear
in the assembly.
" V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game,
as he pleases ; nor shall any one go about to hin-
der him, or take exceptions at what he does, upon
pain of emptying the great eagle (a pint bowl full
of brandy) ; it shall likewise be sufficient, at en-
tering or retiring, to salute the company.
' ' VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, supe-
rior' officers, merchants and tradesmen of note,
head workmen (especially carpenters), and persons
employed in chancery, are to have liberty to enter
the assemblies; as likewise their wives and children.
"VII. A particular place shall be assigned the
footmen, except those of the house, that there may
be room enough in the apartments designed for the
assembly.
" Vlll. No ladies are to get drunk under any
pretence whatsoever; nor shall gentlemen be
drunk before nine.
IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions
and commands, etc. shall not be riotous : no gen-
tleman shall attempt to force a kiss, and no person
shall offer to strike a woman in the assembly,
und,er 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 coun-
try by degrees ; and these rules resemble the breed-
ing of a clown, awkward but sincere.
ESSAY VIII.
SaPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE ORDINARY OF
NEWGATE. ■'■
Man is a most frail being, incapable of direct-
ing his steps, unacquainted with what is to happen
in this life ; and perhaps no man is a more mani-
fest 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 per-
severing uniformity of conduct, appears in all that
happened in his short span, that the whole may be
looked upon as one regular confusion : every action
of his life was matter of wonder and surprise, and
his death vv-as an astonishment.
This gentleman was born of creditable parents,
who gave him a very good education, and a great
deal of £ood learning, so that he could read and
write before he was, sixteen. However, he 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 gentleman ;
fell out with his mother and laundress ; and even ■
in these early days his father was 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 wag-
once known to give three pounds for a plate of ,
green peas, which he had collected over-night a3
charity for a friend in distress : he ran into debt
with every body that would trust him, and none
could build a sconce better than he ; so that at last
his creditors swore with one accord that The. —
would be hanged.
But as getting into debt by a man who had no
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 getting into debt ; first,
by pushing a face ; as thus : "You, Mr. Lutestring,
send me home six yards of that paduasoy, damme ;
— but, harkee, don't think I ever intend to pay you
for it, damme." At this the mercer laughs heart-
ily, cuts off the paduasoy, and sends it home;
nor is he, till too late, surprised to find the gen-
tleman had said nothing but truth, and kept his
word.
The second method of running into debt is Ciilled
fineering ; which is getting goods made up in such
a fashion as to be unfit for every other purchaser ;
and if the tradesman refuses to give them 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 cus-
tomer : by tills 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 reflections was very expert ;
and could face, fineer, and bring custom to a shop
with any man in England : none of his compan-
ions could exceed him in this; and his very com-
panions at last said, that The. — would be hanged.
As he grew old he grew never the better : ho
loved ortolans and green peas as before ; he drank
gravy-soup when hecould get it, and always thought
his oysters tasted best when he got them for no-
thing, or which was just the same, when he boughl
■192
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
them upon tick ; thus the old man kept up the
vices of the youth, and what he wanted in power
he made up by inclination ; so that all the world
thought, that old The. — would be hanged.
And now, reader, I have brought ,him to his last
scene ; a scene where, perhaps, my duty should
have obliged me to assist. You expect, perhaps,
his dying words, and the tender farewell he took
of his wife and children ; you expect an account
of his coffin and white gloves, his pious ejacula-
tions, and the papers he left behind him. In this
I can not indulge your curiosity ; for, oh ! the mys-
teries of Fate, The. — was drowned !
" Reader," as Hervey saith, " pause and pon-
der ; and ponder and pause ; who knows what thy
own end may be !"
ESSAY IX.
■ I VAKE the liberty to communicate to the public
a few loose thoughts upon a subject, which, though
often handled, has not yet in my opinion been fully
discussed : 1 mean national concord, or unanimity,
which in this kingdom has been generally consider-
ed as a bare possibility, that existed no where but
in speculation. Such a union is perhaps neither
to be expected nor wished for in a country, whose
liberty depends rather upon the genius of the peo-
ple, than upon any precautions 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 administration, nor even a
private censure passed in his hearing upon the
misconduct of any person concerned in public af-
fairs, 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 deli-
cate 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
punished 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 tilne these thirty
jears ; 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 infaUibihty 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 whiti'
'}{ popular discontent. Were every British sub-
ject of the same tame and timid disposition, Mag-
na Charta (to use the coarse phrase of Oliver
Cromwell) would be no more regarded by an am-
bitious prince than Magna F — ta. and the liber-
ties of England expire without a groan. Opposi-
tion, when 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 va-
lours raised by tiie influence of ministerial artifice
and corruption, until the constitution, like a mighty
rock, stands full disclosed to the view of every in-
dividual who dwells within the shade of its protec-
tion. Even when this 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 cau-
tion, exerts his utmost skill, and, becoming ac-
quainted with the nature of the navigation, in a
little time learns to suit his canvass to the rough-
ness of the sea and the trim of the vessel. With-
out these intervening storms of opposition to exer-
cise his faculties, he would become enervate, negli-
gent, and presumptuous ; and in the wantonness
of his power, trusting to some deceitful calm, per-
haps hazard a step that would wreck the constitu-
tion. 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 vegeta-
bles ; 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 the bosom of the sea, while the
mariners are kept alert in duty and in spirits, if
converted to a hurricane, overwhelms 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 channels, 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, hke
that of Great Britain, is not at all incompatible
with that national concord which 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 candocr,
ESSAYS.
493
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 his-
tory and tradition annihilated, common sense would
plainly point out the mischiefs that must arise
from want of harmony and national union. Every
school-hoy can have recourse to the fable of the
roils, which, when united in a bundle, no strength
could bend ; but when separated into single twigs,
a child could break with ease.
ESSAY X.
, I HAVE spent the greater part of my life in mak-
ing observations on men and things, and in pro-
jecting schemes for the advantage of my country ;
and though my labours met with an ungrateful re-
turn, I will still persist in my endeavours for its
service, like that venerable, unshaken, and neglect-
ed patriot, Mr. Jacob Henriquez, who, though of
the Hebrew nation, hath exhibited a shining ex-
ample of Christian fortitude anil perseverance.*
And here my conscience urges me to confess, that
the hint upon which the following proposals are
built, was taken from an advertisement of the said
patriot Henriquez, in which he gave the public to
understand, that Heaven had indulged him with
" s6ven 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, 1 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
adults we shall find the balance on the female side.
If, in calculating the numbers of the people, we
take in the multitudes that emigrate to the planta-
tions, whence they never return ; 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 Ger-
man and Indian Oceans, in Old France, New
France, North America, the Leeward Islands,
Germany, 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 su-
perplus of the other sex, amounting to the same
number, and this superplus will consist of women
able to bear arms ; as 1 take for granted, that all
those who are fit to bear children are likewise
' A man well known at thisperiod (1702), as well as during
many preceding years, for the numerous schemes he was
daily offering to various miuislcrs lor the purpose of raising
money by loans, paying olf the national encumlirances, etc.
etc none of which, however, were ever known to have re-
seived the smallest notice. ^
fit to bear arms. Now, as we have seen the na
tion governed by old women, I hope to make it ap-
pear that it may be defended by young women •
and surely this scheme will not be rejected as un-
necessary at such a juncture,* when our armies
in the four quarters of the globe, are in want of
recruits ; when we find ourselves entangled in a
new war with Spain, on the eve of a rupture in
Italy, and indeed in a fair way of being obliged to
make head against all the great potentates of Eu-
rope.
But, before I unfold my design, it may be ne-
cessary to obviate, from experience as well as ar-
gument, the objections which may be made to the
delicate frame and tender disposition of the female
sex, rendering them incapable of the toils, and in-
superably averse to the horrors of war. All the
world has heard of the nation of Amazons, who
inhabited the banks of the river Thermodon in
Cappadocia ; who expelled their men by force of
arms, defended themselves by their own prowess,
managed the reigns of government, prosecuted the
operations in war, and held the other sex in the ut-
most contempt. We are informed by Homer, that
Penthesilca, queen of the Amazons, acted as aux-
iliary to Priam, and fell, valiantly fighting in his
cause, before the walls of Troy. CLuintius Curtius
tells us, that Thalestris brought one hundred armed
Amazons in a present to Alexander the Great.
Diodorus Siculus expressly says, there was a na-
tion of female warriors in Africa, who fought
against the Libyan Hercules. We read in the
voyages of Columbus, that one of the Caribbee
Islands was possessed by a tribe of female warriors,
who kept all the neighbouring Indians in awe ;
but we need not go forther 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 ac-
quainted with the exploits of two heroines, called
Mary Read and Anne Bonny. I myself have had
the honour to drink with Anne Gassier, alias mo-
ther Wade, who had distinguished herself among
the Buccaneers of America, and in her old age
kept a punch-house in Port-Rojal of Jamaica. I
have likewise conversed with Moll Davis, who had
served as a dragoon in all queen Anne's wars, and
was admitted on the pension of Chelsea. The lalo
war with Spain, and even the present, hath pro-
duced instances of females enlisting both in the land
and sea service, and behaving with remarkable
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 ex •
peditiuns, and headed their respective clans in a
* In the year 1702.
494
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
military character 7 That strength of body is often
equal to the courage of mind implanted in the fair
sex, will not be denied by those who have seen the
water-women of Plymouth ; the female drudges
of Ireland, Wales, and Scotland , the fish-women
of BUliiigsgate; the weeders, podders, and hoppers,
who swarm in the fields; and the hunters who
swagger in the streets of London : not to mention
the indefatigable 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 viragos, who discipline their
husbands and domineer over the whole neighbour-
hood. Many months are not elapsed since I was
witness to a pitched battle between two athletic fe-
males, who fought with equal skill and fury until
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
Bwathed 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 bystander assured me of the contrary, giv-
ing me to understand, that the conqueror 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 im-
precations, stop, and beat and plunder passengers,
I can not help wishing that such martial talents
were converted to the benefit of the public ; and
that those who are so loaded with temporal fire,
and so little afraid of eternal fire, should, instead
of ruining the souls and bodies of their fellow-citi-
zens, 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 would
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 thirty
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 de-
scended no farther than the knee ; 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 in-
convenience 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
behind and floating on their shoulders, and their
bats adorned with white feathers: they may be
armed with light carbines and long bayonets, with*
out the encumbrance of swords or shoulder-belts.
I make no doubt but many young ladies of figure
and fashion will undertake to raise companies at
their own expense, provided they like their colo-
nels; but I must insist upon it, if this scheme
should be embraced, that Mr. Henriqucz's seven
blessed daughters may be provided with commis-
sions, 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 Fishev*
shall have the command of a battahon, and the
nomination of her own ofiicers, provided she will
warrant them all sound, and be content to wear
proper badges of distinction.
A female brigade, properly disciplined and ac-
coutred, would not, I am persuaded, be afraid to
charge a numerous 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 de-
votion to the fair sex, would not act upon the of-
fensive against a band of female warriors, arrayed
in all the charms of youth and beauty.
ESSAY XI.
As I am one of that sauntering tribe of mortals,
who spend the greatest part of their time in taverns,
coflfee-houses, and other places of public resort, I
have thereby an opportunity of observing an in-
finite variety of characters, which, to a person of a
contemplative turn, is a much higher entertain-
ment than a view of all the curiosities of art or na-
ture. In one of these my late rambles, I accident-
ally fell into the company of half a dozen gentle
men, who were engaged in a warm dispute about
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 different 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
Germans were drunken sots, and beastly gluttons ;
and the Spaniards proud, haughty, and surly
tyrants ; but that in bravery, generosity, clemency,
and in every other virtue, the English excelled all
the rest of the world.
This very learned and judicioiis remark was
' A celebrated courtezan of that time.
ESSAYS.
435
received with a general smile of approbation by all
the company — all, I mean, but your humble ser-
vant ; 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 affect-
ed 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 necessity of explaining my-
selfj and thereby depriving the gentleman of his
imaginary 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 deter-
mined to have it ratified by the suffrage of every
one in the company ; for which purpose, addressing
himself to me with an air of inexpressible confi-
dence, he asked me if I was not of the same way
of thinking. As I am never forward in giving 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 s[ieak
my real sentiments. I therefore told him, that, for
my own part, 1 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
sevei'al nations with great care and accuracy ; that
perhaps a more impartial judge would not scruple
to affirm, that the Dutch were more frugal and in-
dustrious, the French more temperate and polite,
the Germans more hardy and patient of labour and
fatigue, and the Spaniards more staid and sedate,
than the English; who, though undoubtedly brave
and generous, were at the same time rash, head-
strong, and impetuous; too apt to be elated with
prosperity, and to despond in adversity.
I could easily perceive, that all the company be-
gan to regard me with a jealous eye before I had
finished my answer, which I had no sooner done,
than the patriotic gentleman observed, with a con-
temptuous sneer, that he was greatly surprised how
some people could have the conscience to live in a
country which 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 1 had,
forfeited the good opinion of my comiianions, and !
given them occasion to call my political principles
in question, and well knowing that it was in vain
to argue with men who were so very full of them-j
selves, I threw down my reckoning, and retired
to my own lodgings, reflecting on the absurd and
ridiculous nature of national prejudice and prepos-
session.
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 a generous and benevolent heart),
than that of the philosopher, who, being asked
what "countryman he was," replied, that hp was
"a citizen of the world." How few are there to
be found in modern times who can say the same,
or whose conduct is consistent with such a pro-
fession ! We are now become so much English-
men, 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 com-
prehends 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, oppor-
tunities of correcting them by reading, travelling,
or conversing with foreigners ; but the misfortune
is, that they infect the minds, and influence the
conduct, even of our gentlemen ; of those, I mean,
who have every title to this appellation but an ex-
emption from prejudice, which, however, in my
opinion, ought to be regarded as the characteristi-
cal mark of a gentleman; for let a man's birth be
ever so high, his station ever so exalted, or his for-
tune ever so large, yet if he is not free from nation-
al and other prejudices, I should make bold 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 are
most apt to boast of national merit, who have little
or no merit of their own to depend on ; than which,
to be sure, nothing is more natural : 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.
Should it be alleged in defence of national pre-
judice, that it is the natural and ncces.sary growth
of love to our country, and that therefore the form-
er can not be destroyed without hurting the latter,
I answer, that this is a gross fallacy and delusion.
That it is the growth of love to our country, I will
allow; but that it is the natural and necessary
growth of it, I absolutely deny. Superstition and
enthusiasm too are the growth of religion ; but who
ever took it in his head to affirm, that they are the
necessary growth of this noble principle? They
are, if you will, the bastard sprouts of this heavenly
plant, hut not its natural and genuine branches,
and may safely enough be lop|>ed off, without do-
ing any harm to the parent stock : nay, perhaps,
till once they are lopjied off, this goodly tree can
never flourish in perfect health and vigour.
Is it not very possiiJe that I may love my own
country, without hating the natives of oilier coun-
tries? that 1 may exert the most heroic bravery, the
most undaunted resolution, in defending its lawa
and liberty, without despising all the rest of the
world as cowards and poltroons'? Most certainly
it is; and if it were not — But why need 1 supposa
496
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
what is absolutely impossible? — But 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
aii Englishman, a Frenchman, a European, or to
any other appellation whatever.
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. With-
out assigning causes for this universal presumption,
we shall proceed to observe, that if it was attended
with no other inconvenience than that of exposing
the pretender to the ridicule of those few who can
sift his pretensions, it might be unnecessary to un-
deceive the public, or to endeavour at the reforma-
tion of innocent folly, productive of no evil to the
commonwealth. But in reality this folly is pro-
ductive of manifold evils to the community. If the
reputation of taste can be acquired, without the
least assistance of hterature, by reading modern
poems, and seeing modern plays, what person will
deny himself the pleasure of such an easy qualifi-
cation? Hence the youth of both sexes are de-
bauched 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 possession of the
public. The acquisition of learning, the study of
nature, is neglected as superfluous labour; and the
best faculties of the mind remain unexercised, and
indeed unopened, by the power of thought and re-
flection. False taste will not only diffuse itself
through all our amusements, but even influence
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 all doubt,
the principal ingredient in the composition of taste
IS a natural sensibility, without which it can not
exist ; hut it differs from the senses in this particu-
lar, that they are finished by nature, whereas taste
can not be brought to perfection without proper
cultivation ; for taste pretends to judge not only of
nature but also of art; and that judgment is found-
ed upon observation and comparison.
What Horace has said of genius is still more
applicable to taste.
Nee rude quid possit video ingenium : alterius sic
Altera poscit opera rea, et conjurat amico.
Hor. Ars. Poet.
'Tis long disputed, whether poets claim
From art or nature their best right to fame;
But art if not enrich'd by nature's vein,
And a rude genius of uncultured strain,
Are useless both ; but when in friendship joiu'd,
A mutual succour in each other find.
F'laneu,
Naturft fieret laudabile carmen, an arte,
ftuajsiii'm est. Ego nee studium sine divite rena,
We have seen genius shine without the help of
art, but taste must be cultivated by art, before it
will produce agreeable fruit. This, however, we
must still inculcate with auintilian, that study,
precept, and observation, will nought avail, without
the assistance of nature : Illud tamen imprimis
testandurn est, nihil prcecepta atque artes valere,
nisi adjuvante naiu-d.
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 his delicate perception; store his
mind with proper ideas ; point out the different
channels of observation ; teach him to compare ob-
jects, to establish the limits of right and wrong, of
truth and falsehood; 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 feeUng and sa-
gacity which constitute the faculty called taste, and
enable the professor to enjoy the delights of the
Belles Lettres.
We can not agree in opinion with those who
imagine, that nature has been equally favourable
to all men, in conferring upon them a fundamental
capacity, which may be improved to all the refine-
ment 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 with the same as-
siduity, one shall not only comprehend, but even
anticipate the lessons of his master, by dint of na-
tural discernment, while the other toils in vain to
imbibe the least tincture of instruction. Such in-
deed is the distinction between genius and stu
pidity, which every man has an opportunity of see-
ing among his friends and acquaintance. Not that
we ought too hastily to decide upon the natural ca-
pacities of children, before we have maturely con-
sidered the peculiarity of disposition, and the bias
by which genius may be strangely warped from
the common path of education. A youth incapa-
ble of retaining one rule of grammar, or of acquiring
the least knowledge of the classics, may neverthe-
less make great progress in mathematics ; nay, he
may have a strong genius for the mathematita
ESSAYS.
497
without being able to comprehend a demon-
stration of Euclid; because his mind conceives in
a peculiar manner, and is so intent upon contem-
plating the object in one particular point of view,
that it can not perceive it in any other. We have
known an instance of a boy, who, while his mas-
ter complained that he had not capacity to com-
prehend the properties of a right-angled triangle,
had actually, in private, by the power of his ge-
nius, 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 capa-
cities are like the pyra prcBcocia ; 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 ri-
pening. 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-concocted juice and excellent flavour. We
have known a boy of five years of age sur-
prise every body by playing on the violin in such
a manner as seemed to promise a prodigy in niu-
Bic. He had all the assistance that art could
afford ; by the age of ten his genius was at the
acme : yet, after that period, notwithstanding the
most intense apphcation, 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 incor-
rigible dunce, and did not obtain his degree at the
University but ex speciali gratia ; yet, when his
powers began to unfold, he signalized 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
instruction, 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
lencrth of time to set its juices in fermentation.
These observations, however, relate to capacity In
general, which we ought carefully to distinguish
from taste. Capacity implies the power of retain-
ing what is received ; taste is the power of relish-
ing or rejecting whatever is offered for the enter-
tainment of the imagination. A man may have
capacity to acquire what is called learning and
philosophy ; but he must have also sensibility, be-
fore he feels those emotions with which taste re-
ceives the impressions of beauty.
Natural taste is apt to be seduced and debauched
by vicious precept and bad example. There is a
wary mind and young imagination are often fasci- '
natcd. Nothing has been so often explained, ana
yet so little understood, as simplicity in writing.
Simplicity in this acceptation has a larger signifi-
cation than either the awAoov of the Greeks, or the
simplex of the Latins ; for it implies beauty. Il
is the aVMoy km mS'w of Demetrius Phalereus, the
simplex munditiis of Horace, and expressed by
one word, naivete, in the French language. It is,
in fact, no other than beautiful nature, without af-
fectation or extraneous ornament. In statuary, it
is the Venus of Medicis ; in architecture, the Pan-
theon. It would be an endless task to enumerate
all the instances of this natural simplicity that oc-
cur in poetry and painting, among the ancients
and moderns. We shall only mention two exam-
ples of it, the beauty of which consists in the pa-
thetic.
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, consoled himself with a reflection couched
in three words, JitTa/r Svdtouc ytymma>(, " I knew
they were mortal." The other instance we select
from the tragedy of Macbeth. The gallant Mac-
duff, being informed that his wife and children
were murdered by order of the tyrant, pulls his
hat over his eyes, and his internal agony bursts out
into an exclamation of four words, the most ex-
pressive perhaps that ever were uttered : " He has
no children." This is the energetic language of
simple nature, which is now grown into disrepute.
By the present mode of education, we are forci-
bly warped from the bias of nature, and all sim-
plif^ity in manners is rejected. We are taught to
disguise and distort our sentiments, until the
faculty of thinking is diverted into an unnatural
channel; and we not only relinquish and forget,
luit also become incapable of our original disposi-
tions. We are totally changed into creatures of
art and affectation. Our perception is abused, and
even our senses are perverted. Our minds lose
their native force and flavour. The imagination,
sweated by artificial fire, produces nought but vapid
bloom. The genius, instead of growing like a
vi<Torous tree, extending its branches on every side,
and bearing delicious fruit, resembles a stunted
yew, tortured into some wretched form, projecting
no shade, displaying no flower, diffusing no frag-
rance, yielding no fruit, and affording nothing but
a barren conceit for the amusement of the idle
spectator.
Thus debauched from nature, how can we rel-
ish her genuine productions'? As well might a
man distinguish objects through a prism, that pre-
sents nothing but a variety of colours to the eye ;
or a maid pining in the green sickness prefer a
biscuit to a cinder. It has been often alleged, that
dangerous tinsel in false taste, bv which the un-lltc passions can never be wholly deposited; and
32
498
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
that, by appealing to these, a good writer will al
ways be able to force himself into the hearts of his
readers: but even the strongest passions are weak-
ened, nay, sometimes totally extinguished, by mu-
tual opposition, dissipation and acquired insensi-
bility. How often at the theatre is the tear of
sympathy and the burst of laughter repressed by
a ridiculous species of pride, refusing approbation
to the author and actor, and renouncing 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 distract-
ed 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 dis-
cords.
If so little regard is paid to nature when she
knocks so powerfully at the breast, she must be al-
together neglected and despised in her calmer mood
©f serene tranquillity, when nothing appears to
recommend her but simplicity, propriety, and in-
nocence. A person must have delicate feelings
that can taste the celebrated repartee in Terence :
Homo sum; nihil humani a me alienum puto :
"1 am a man ; therefore think I have an interest
in every thing 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,
60 gorgeously adorned with buds and foliage, flow-
ers and blossoms, to contemplate a gaudy silken
robe, striped and intersected with unfriendly tints,
that fritter the masses of light, and distract the vi-
sion, pinked into the most fantastic forms, flounced,
and furbelowed, and fringed with all the littleness
of art unknown to elegance.
Those ear-s that are offended by the notes of the
thrush, the blackbird, and the nightingale, will be
regaled and ravished by the squeaking fiddle touch-
ed by a musician, who has no other genius than
that which lies in his fingers ; they will even be
entertained with the rattling of coaches, and the
alarming knock, by which the doors of fashionable
people are so loudly distinguished. The sense of
smelling, that delights in the scent of excrementi-
tious animal juices, such as musk, civet, and uri-
nous salts, will loath the fragrance of new-mown
hay, the sweet-brier, 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-apples without fla-
vour, will certainly nauseate the native, genuine,
and salutary taste of Welsh beef, Banstead mut-
ton, and barn-door fowls, whose juices are con-
cocted by a natural digestion, and whose flesh is
consolidated by free air and exercise. In such a
total perversion of the senses, the ideas must be
misrepresented ; the powers of the imagination
disordered ; and the judgment, of consequence, un-
sound. The disease is attended with a false appe-
tite, which the natural food of the mind will not
satisfy. It will prefer Ovid to Tibullus, and the
rant of Lee to the tenderness of Otway. The
soul sinks into a kind of sleepy idiatism, and is di-
verted by toys and baubles, which can only be
pleasing to the most superficial curiosity. It is en-
livened by a quick succession of trivial objects, that
glisten and dance before the eye ; and, like an in-
fant, is kept awake and inspirited by the sound of
a rattle. It must not only be dazzled and aroused,
but also cheated, hurried, and perplexed, by the
artifice of deception, business, intricacy, and in-
trigue ; a kind of low juggle, which may be termed
the legerdemain of genius.
In this state of depravity the mind can not 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 chari-
ties, 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 de-
spised, detested, scorned, and ridiculed, as ignorance,
rudeness, rusticity, and superstition. Thus we
see how moral and natural beauty are connected ;
and of what importance it is, even to the forma-
tion of taste, that the manners should be severely
superintended. 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 can not be disjoined
without offering violence to both. But virtue must
be informed, and taste instructed, otherwise they
will both remain imperfect and ineffectual :
Qui didkit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis.
Quo sit aniore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospe%
Quod sit Conscripti, quod judicisofficium, qu;8
Partes in belluni missi ducis; ille prifecto
Reddere personee scit convenientia cuique.
Horace.
The critic, who witli nice discernment knows,
Wliat to his country and his friends he owes;
How various nature warms the human breast,
To love the parent, brother, friend, or guest;
What the great lunclions of our judges are,
Of senators, and generals sent to war;
He can distinguish, with unerring art,
The strokes peculiar to each differeilt part.
Thus we see taste is composed of nature im-
proved by art ; of feeling tutored by instruction.
ESSAYS.
499
ESSAY XIII.
Having explained what we conceive to be true
taste, and in some measure accounted for the pre-
valence 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 judg-
ment, and an intimate acquaintance with the Bel-
les Lettrcs. We shall take it for granted, that
proper means have been used to form the manners,
and attach the mind to virtue. The heart, culti-
vated 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 respon-
sive, 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 generosity, compassion, and
greatness of soul. Is there any man so dead to
sentiment, so lost to humanity, as to read unmov-
ed the generous behaviour of the Romans to the
states of Greece, as it is recounted by Livy, or em-
bellished by Thomson in his poem of Liberty 7
Speaking of Greece 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 youth innumerous swami'd,
On a tribunal raised Flaminius* sat ;
A victor he from the deep phalanx pierced
Of iron-coated Maccdon, and back
The Grecian tyrant to his bounds repell'd :
In the high thoughtless gaiety of game,
While sport alone their unambitious hearts
Possess'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, unconfined, restore
Their countries, cities, liberties, and laws ;
Taxes remit, and garrisoas withdraw." ^
The crowd, astonish'd half, and half inform'd.
Stared dubious round, some questiori'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 !'
Loud and distinct it was again proclaim'd;
And still as midnight in the rural shade,
When the gale slumbers, they the words devour'd.
Awhile severe amazement held them mute.
Then bursting broad, the boundless shout to heaven
From many a thousand heans ecstatic sprung !
On every hand rebellowed to them joy ;
The swelling sea, the rocks and vocal hills-
Like Bacchaiials they flew,
Each other straining in a strict embrace.
Nor strain'd a slave ; and loud exclaims, till night,
Round the proconsul's tent repeated rung.
To one acquainted with the genius of Greece, the
character and disposition of that polished people, ad-
' His real name was Quintus Flaminius.
mired for science, renowned for unextinguishable
love of freedom, nothing can be more affecting than
this instance of generous magnanimity of the Ro-
man people, in restoring them unasked to the full
fruition of those Uberties which they had so un-
fortunately lost.
The mind of sensibility is equally struck by the
generous confidence of Alexander, who drinks
without hesitation the potion presented by his phy-
sician Philip, even after he had received intima-
tion that poison was contained in the cup ; a noble
and pathetic scene ! which hath acquired new dig-
nity and expression under the inimitable pencil of
a Le Sueur. Humanity is melted into tears of
tender admiration, by the deportment of Henry
IV. of France, while his rebellious subjects com-
pelled him to form the blockade of his capital. In
chastising his enemies, he could not but remem •
her 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 sjiot,
and giving them all the money that was in his
purse, "Henry of Bearne is poor,-' said he, "had
he more money to afford, you should have it— go
home to your families in peace ; and remember
your duty to God, and your allegiance to your sove-
reign." Innumerable examples 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, which in its place we will
explain ; but as the formation of the heart is of
the first consequence, and should precede the cul-
tivation of the understanding, such striking in-
stances of superior virtue ought to be culled for the
perusal of the young pupil, who will read them
with eagerness, and revolve 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 different
species will go hand in hand with the advances of
morality, and the understanding be gradually ex-
tended. Virtue and sentiment reciprocally assist
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 observa-
tion, to direct his powers of discernment, to point '
out the distinguishing marks of character, and
dwell upon the charms of moral and intellectual
500
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
beauty, as they may chance to occur in the classics
that are used for his instruction. In reading Cor-
nelius Nepos, and Plutarch's Lives, even with a
view to grammatical improvement only, he will in-
sensibly 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 corruption. The perusal of
the Roman story in the works of Florus, Sallust,
Livy, and Tacitus, will irresistibly engage his at-
tention, expand his conception, cherish his memo-
ry, exercise his judgment, and warm him with a
noble spirit of emulation. He will contemplate
with love and admiration the disinterested can-
dour of Aristides, surnamed the Just, whom the
guilty cabals of his rival Themistocles exiled from
his ungrateful country, by a sentence of Ostracism.
He will be surprised to learn, that one of his fellow-
citizens, an illiterate artisan, bribed by his enemies,
chancing to meet him in the street without know-
ing his person, desired he would write Aristides on
his shell (which was the method those plebeians
used to vote against delinquents), when the inno-
cent patriot wrote his own name without com-
plaint or expostulation. He will with equal as-
tonishment applaud the inflexible integrity of Fa-
bricius, who preferred the poverty of innocence to
all the pomp of affluence, with which Pyrrhus
endeavoured to seduce him from the arms of his
country. He will approve with transport the no-
ble generosity 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 bound
to his sovereign, whom he would have so basely
and cruelly betrayed.
In reading the ancient authors, even for the pur-
poses of school education, the unformed 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 TibuUus ; the elegance and propriety
of Terence ; the grace, vivacity, satire, and senti-
ment of Horace.
Nothing will more conduce to the improvement
of the scholar in his knowledge of the languages,
as well as in taste and morality, than his being
obliged to translate choice parts and passages of
the most approved classics, both poetry and prose,
especially the latter ; such as the orations of De-
mosthenes and Isocrates, the treatise of Longinus
on the Sublime, the Commentaries of Csesar, the
Epistles of Cicero and the younger Pliny, and the
two celebrated speeches in the Catilinarian con-
spiracy by Sallust. By this practice he will be-
come more intimate with the beauties of the writ-
ing, and the idioms of the language, from which he
translates ; at the same time it will form his style,
and by exercising his talent of expression, make
Jim a more perfect master of his mother tongue.
Cicero tells us, that in translating two orations>
which the most celebrated orators of Greece pro-
nounced against each other, he performed this task,
not as a servile interpreter, but as an orator, pre-
serving the sentiments, forms, and figures of the
original, but adapting the expression to the taste
and manners of the Romans : In quibus non xer-
bum pro verba necesse habui reddere, sed genua
omnium vevborum vimque servavi; "in which I
did not think it was necessary to translate literally
word for word, but I preserved the natural and full
scope of the whole." Of the same opinion was
Horace, who says, in his Art of Poetry,
Nee verbum verbo curabis reddere fidua
Interpres
Nor word for word translate with painful care —
Nevertheless, in taking the liberty here granted, we
are apt to run into the other extreme, and substi-
tute equivalent thoughts and phrases, till hardly
any features of the original remain. The meta-
phors of figures, especially in poetry, ought to be
as religiously preserved as the images of painting,
which we can not alter or exchange without de-
stroying, or injuring at least, the character and
style of the original.
In this manner the preceptor will sow the seeda
of that taste, which will soon germinate, rise, blos-
som, and produce perfect fruit by dint of future care
and cultivation. In order to restrain the luxu-
riancy of the young imagination, 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 geometry, which Plato recommends for
strengthening the mind, and enabling it to think
with precision. He must be made acquainted with
geography and chronology, and trace philosophy
through all her branches. Without geography and
chronology, he will not be able to acquire a distinct
idea of history ; nor judge of the propriety of many
interesting scenes, and a thousand allusions, that
present themselves in the works of genius. No-
thing opens the mind so much as the researches
of philosophy ; they inspire us with sublime con-
ceptions of the Creator, and subject, as it were, all
nature to our 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 inexhaustible source from which ho
will derive his most useful knowledge respecting
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 m.ag-
nificent and interesting scenes of battle and adven-
ESSAYS.
501
turc. Not that the poet or painter ought to be re-
strained to the letter of historical truth. History
represents what has really happened in nature ; the
other arts exhibit what might have happened, with
such exaggeration of circumstance and feature as
may be deemed an improvement on nature : but
this exaggeration must not be carried beyond the
bounds of probability; and these, generally speak-
ing, 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 distin-
guished 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 Venus
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 ; and every judging eye must be-
hold, them with admiration, as improvements on
the lines and lineaments of nature. The truth is,
the sculptor or statuary composed the various pro-
portions in nature from a great number of different
{ subjects, every individual of which he found im-
perfect or defective in some one particular, though
beautiful in all the rest ; and from these observa-
tions, corroborated by taste and judgment, he form-
an ideal pattern, according to which his idea was
modelled, and produced in execution.
Every body knows the story of Zeuxis, the fa-
mous painter of Heraclea, who, according to Pliny,
invented the chiaro oscuro, or disposition of light
and shade, among the ancients, and excelled all
his 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, com-
bined them in one picture according to the predis-
- position of his fancy, so that it shone forth an
amazing model of perfection.* In like manner
every man of genius, regulated by true taste, en-
tertains in his imagination an ideal beauty, con-
ceived and cultivated as an improvement upon na-
ture : 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, which are beautiful and en-
gaging. With this view, we must avoid all dis-
agreeable prospects of nature which excite the
* Praebete igitur mihi quaeso, inquit, ex istis virginibus
Ibrmosissimas, dum pingo id quod pollicitus sum vobis, ut
niutuiii in simulacrum ex animali exemplo Veritas transfera-
tur. —lUe autem quinque delegit. — Neque enim puUivit om-
nia, quae quajreretad vemistatem, uno In coiiiorc se reperire
posse ; ideo quod niliil simplici in genere omnibus ex partibus
perrectuni natura expolivjt.— Cic. lib, ii. de Inv. cap. i.
ideas of abhorrence and disgust. For example, a
painter would not find his account in exhibiting
the resemblance of a dead carcass 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 ever so naturally,
and all the world must allow that the scenes were
taken from nature, because the merit of the imita-
tion would be greatly overbalanced by the vile
choice of the artist. There are nevertheless many
scenes of horror, which please in the representa
tion, 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 rigor-
ous rules of nature, we should reject the Iliad of
Homer, the ^Eneid of Virgil, and every celebrated
tragedy of antiquity and the present times, because
there is no such thing in nature as a Hector or
Turnus talking in hexameter, or an Othello in
blank verse ; we should condemn the Hercules of
Sophocles, and the Miser of Moliere, 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 dehghtful
vehicle for conveying the noblest sentiments of he-
roism and patriot virtue, 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 ecstasy, we must allow that
poetry is a perfection to which nature would glad-
ly aspire ; and that though it surpasses, it docs not
deviate from her, provided the characters are mark-
ed with propriety and sustained by genius. Charac
ters therefore, both in poetry and painting, may b*
a little overcharged or exaggerated without ofier-
ing violence to nature ; nay, they must be exag-
gerated in order to be striking, and to preserve the
idea of imitation, whence the reader and spectator
derive in many instances their chief delight. 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 pleasure
arises entirely from the imitation. We every day
hear unmoved the natives of Ireland and Scotland
speaking their own dialects ; but should an Eng ■
lish 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 can not but allow that the imitation is imperfect.
We are more affected by reading Shakspeare's de
scription of Dover Cliff, and Otway's picture 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 read-
ing these descriptions we refer to our own experi-
ence, and perceive with surprise the justness of the
imitations. But if it is so close as to be mistaken
502
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
for nature, the pleasure then will cease, because
the (jiifAWii or imitation no longer appears.
Aristotle says, that all poetry and music is imi-
tation,* whether epic, tragic, or comic, whether
vocal or instrumental, from the pipe or the lyre
He observes, that in man there is a propensity to
imitate even from his infancy ; that the first per-
ceptions of the mind are acquired by imitation ; and
seems to think, that the pleasure derived from imi-
tation is the gratification of an appetite implanted
by nature. We should rather think the pleasure
it gives arises from the mind's contemplating that
excellency of art which thus rivals nature, and
seems to vie with her in creating such a striking
resemblance of her works. Thus the arts may be
justly termed imitative, even in the article of in-
vention : 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 produc-
tion will be destitute of truth and probability,
without which the beauties of imitation can not
subsist. It will be a monster of incongruity, such
as Horace alludes to, in the beginning of his Epistle
to the Pisos :
HurrKino capiti cervicem pictor equinam
Jungere si velit, el variaa inducere plumaa
Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
Desinat in piscem, mulier formosa superne:
Spectatum admissi risum teneatiSj amici'?
Suppose a painter to a human head
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread
The various plumage of the feather'd kind
O'er limbs of different beasts, absiu'dly 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
\vhich 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 ^mi, which is that gift
of Heaven we call genius, and finally produces
such a whole as commands admiration and ap-
plause.
ESSAY XIV,
Ths study of polite literature is generally sup-
posed to include all the liberal arts of poetry, paint-
KUUmSlcl KM » Mvfutf^CoTroiH'TIX.H, KM TMi AVKITlKti; I:
TTKiid'ti K-xi Kibujii7TiK>ii Tro.o'aj cToyyAvovo'iv wattt
ftlfXHC ilC TO VVVOKOV.
ing, sculpture, music, eloquence, and architecture.
All these are founded on imitation ; and all of them
mutually assist and illustrate each other. But as
painting, sculpture, music, and architecture, can
not be perfectly attained without long practice of
manual operation, we shall distinguish them from
poetry and eloquence, which depend entirely on
the faculties of the mind; and on these last, as on
the arts which immediately constitute the Belles
Lettres, employ our attention in the present in-
quiry : or if it should 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 pleasure ; whereas eloquence arose from neces-
sity, 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 properlj'^ belonged to the culture
of religion. In the first ages of mankind, and even
in the original state of nature, the unlettered mind
must have been struck with sublime conceptions,
with admiration and awe, by those great phenome-
na, which, though every day repeated, can never
be viewed without internal emotion. Those
would break forth in exclamations expressive of
the passion produced, whether surprise or grati-
tude, terror or exultation. The rising, the ap-
parent course, the setting, and seeming renova-
tion 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 morning with renovated lustre, and never
fading glory? Art not thou the ruler, the Creator,
the god, of all I behold? I adore thee, as thy child,
thy slave, thy suppliant ! I crave thy protection,
and the continuance of thy goodness! Leave mc
not to perish with cold, or to wander solitary in
utter darkness! Return, 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 corres-
ponding gesticulations of the body. They vvoi Jd
ESSAYS.
503
be improved by practice, and grow regular from
repetition. The sounds and gestures would natu-
rally fall into measured cadence. Thus the song
and dance will be produced ; and, a system of
worship being formed, the muse would be conse-
crated to the purposes of religion.
Hence those forms of thanksgivings, and lita-
nies of supplication, with which the religious rites
of all nations, even the most barbarous, are at this
day celebrated 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, man-
ners, and religion. The ancient Egyptians cele-
brated the festivals of their god Apis with hymns
and dances. The superstition of the Greeks, part-
ly derived from the Egyptians, abounded with po-
etical 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 cer-
tain festivals sung and danced through the streets
of Rome. The Israelites were famous for this kind
of exultation : " 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
with dances, and Miriam answered them, Sing ye
to the Lord," etc. — "And David danced before the
Lord with all his might." — The psalms composed
by this monarch, the songs of Deborah and Isaiah,
are further con firmations of what we have ad vanced.
From the Phoenicians the Greeks borrowed the
cursed Orthyan song, when they sacrificed their
children to Diana. The poetry of the bards con-
stituted 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 Dervise dances
to the sound of the flute, and whirls himself round
until he grows giddy, and fiiUs into a trance. The
Marabous compose hymns in praise of Allah. The
Chinese celebrate their grand festivals with pro-
cessions of idols, songs, and instrumental music.
The Tartars, Samoiedes, Laplanders, Negroes,
even the Caffres called Hottentots, solemnize their
worship (such as it is) with songs and dancing ;
so that we may venture to say, poetry is the uni-
versal 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 establish-
ed system of legislation. When certain individuals,
by dint of superior prowess or understanding, had
acquired the veneration of their fellow -savages, and
erected themselvss into divinities on the ignorance
and superstition of mankind ; then mythology took
place, and such a swarm of deities arose as pro-
duced a religion replete with the most shocking ab-
surdities. Those whom their superior talents had
deified, were found to be still actuated by the most
brutal passions of human nature ; and in all proba-
bility their votaries were glad to find such exam-
ples, 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 was patronized
by Mercury ; drunkenness by Bacchus ; and cru-
elty by Diana. The same heroes and legislators,
those who delivered their country, founded cities,
established societies, invented useful arts, or con-
tributed in any eminent degree to the security and
happiness of their fellow-creatures were inspired by
the same lusts and appetites which domineered
among the inferior classes of mankind ; therefore
every vice incident to human nature was celebrat-
ed in the worship of one or other of these divini-
ties, and every infirmity 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 ad-
ventures 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 human sacrifices to Moloch and
Diana. Hence the theogony of Hesiod ; the
theology of Homer ; and those innumerable max-
ims scattered through the ancient poets, invit-
ing 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 hiscommonwealth on account
of the infamous characters by which he has distin-
guished 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 multa ahsurdiora
sunt ca, qucB, poetarumvocibiis Jusa, ipsa suavitate
nocuerunt: qui, et ira inflammatos, et libidinefu-
rentes, induxerunt Deos, feceruntque ut eorum
bella, pugnas, prcelia, vulnera videremus: odia
prcEterea, dissidia, discordias, cntus, inierritus,
querelas, lamentationes, effusas in omni intem-
pcrantid libidines, adulteria, vincula, cum huma-
no genere concubitus, morlalesque ex immortali
procreatos. " Nor are those things much more ab-
surd, which, flowing from the poet's tongue, have
done mischief, even by the sweetness of his expres-
sion. The poets have introduced gods inflamed
with anger, and enraged with lust ; and even pro-
duced before our eyes their wars, their wranglings,
their duels, and their wounds. They have ex-
posed, besides, their antipathies, animosities, and
dissensions ; their origin and death ; their com-
plaints and lamentations; their appetites, indulge*
to all manner of excess, their adulteries, their fet-
ters, their amorous commerce with the human spe-
504
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
cies, and from immortal parents derived a mortal
offspring."
As the festivals of the gods necessarily produced
good cheer, which often carried to riot and de-
bauchery, mirth of consequence prevailed ; and
this was always attended with buffoonery. Taunts
and jokes, and raillery and repartee, would neces-
sarily ensue ; and individuals would 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 prize would be decreed to him who was
judged to excel his rivals. The candidates for
fame and profit, being thus stimulated, would task
their talents, and naturally recommend these alter-
nate recriminations to the audience, by clothing
them with a kind of poetical measure, which
should bear a near resemblance to prose. Thus,
as the solemn service of the day was composed in
the most sublime 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 Stagirite, that the highest species of poetry
was employed in celebrating great 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 pre-
tended to iambics only.
To these rude beginnings we not only owe the
birth of satire, but likewise the origin of dramatic
poetry. Tragedy herself, which afterwards at-
tained to such dignity as to rival the epic muse,
was at first no other than a trial of crambo, or iam-
bics, between two peasants, and a goat was the
prize, as Horace calls it, vile certamen oh hircum,
" a mean contest for a he-goat." Hence the name
rpcLyaifia, signifying the goat-song, from Tfnyo!
hircus, and axTo carmen.
Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit ob hircum,
Mox etiam agrestes satyroe nudavit, et asper
Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit, eo quod
Elecebris erat et grata novitate morandus
Spectator, functusque sacris, et potus et exlex.
ffurat.
The tragic bard, a goat his humble prize,
Bade satyrs naked and uncouth arise;
His muse severe, secure and undismay'd,
Tlie rustic joke in solemn strain convey'd ;
for novelty alone lie 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, who 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 Romans also
had their Atellance or interludes of the same na-
ture, so called from the city of Atella, where they
were first acted ; but these were highly polished
in comparison of the original entertainment, which
was altogether rude and innocent. Indeed, the
Cyclop itself, though composed by the accomplish-
ed Euripides, abounds with such impurity as ought
not to appear on the stage of any civilized nation.
It is very remarkable, that the Atellance, which
were in effect tragi-comedies, grew into such esteem
among the Romans, that the performers in these
pieces enjoyed several privileges which were re-
fused to the ordinary actors. They were not obliged
to unmask, like the other players, when their ac-
tion was disagreeable 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 Cffisar to act a part in his
own performance, 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 some rural altar of Bac-
chus, assumed the appellation of comedy when it
was transferred into cities, and represented with a
little more decorum in a cart or wagon that strol-
led from street to street, as the name xm/j-'jc^io. im-
plies, being derived from naifAii a street, and <jof» a
poem. To this origin Horace alludes in these hnes s
Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis,
Quc-e canerent agerentque peruncti fsBcibus era.
Thespis, inventor of dramatic art,
Convey'd his vagrant actors in a cart :
High o'er ilie crowd the mimic art appear'd,
And play'd and sung, with lees of wine besmear'd.
Thespis is called the inventor of the dramatic
art, because he raised the subject from clownish
altercation to the character and exploits of some
hero ; he improved the language and versification,
and relieved 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
Oi yM«v yeif trt/uiVO'Tipot, Tac xa.KU( i/utuouvTO '^pn^tt;
MVTCC.
* Cum artem ludicram, scenamque totam probro ducerent
genus id hominum non modo honore civium reliquorum ca-
rere, sed etiam tribu mover! notatione censoria voluerunt. —
Cic. apud. S. Aug. da Civit. Dei.
ESSAYS.
505
great improver was ^schjlus, of whom the same
eritic says,
Post hunc personse palltefiue reperlor honestao
iEschylus, et motlicis insU-avit pulpita tignis;
Et liocuit magnumque loqui, nitiqiie cothurno.
Then iEschylus a decent vizard used ,
Built a low stage; the flowing robe diffused.
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 was an addition to
the former subject, namely, the praises of Bac-
chus ; so that now tragedy consisted of two dis-
tinct parts, independent of each other ; the old re-
citative, which was the chorus, sung in honour of
the gods ; and the episode, which turned upon the
adventures of some hero. This episode being
found very agreeable to the people, jEschylus, who
lived about half a century after Thespis, still im-
proved 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 theatie- so that
Sophocles, who succeeded yEschylus, had tut one
step to surmount in order to hring the drama to
perfection. Thus tragedy was gradually detached
from its original institution, which was entirely
religious. The priests of Bacchus loudly com-
plained 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 Dyomjsi-
um, "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, notwithstanding all opposition, the new tra-
gedy succeeded to admiration; because it was found
the most pleasing vehicle of conveying moral
truths, of meliorating the heart, and extending the
interests of humanity.
Comedy, according to Aristotle, is the younger
sister of tragedy. As the 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 ac-
quired the name of comedy, in contradistinction to
the tragic mustj ; for in the beginning they were the
same. The foundation upon which comedy was
built, we have already explained to be the practice
of satirical repartee or altercation, in which indi-
viduals 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 idle-
ness and folly of a worthless character ; but of this
performance we have no remains. That division
which is termed tie ancient coincdy, belongs to
the labours of Eupolis, Cratiiius, and Aristopha-
nes, who were contemporaries, and flourished at
Athens about four hundred and thirty j'ears be-
fore the Christian era. Such was the license of
the muse at this period, that far from lashing vice
in general characters, she boldly exhibited the ex-
act 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 appearance, his very attire^
air, manner, and even his name ; according to the
observation of Horace,
-PoefoB
quorum comoedia prisca virorumest:
Si quis erat dignus describi, quod mains, aut fur,
Quod moschus foret, aut sicarius, aut alioqui
Famosus, multa cumlibertate notabant.
The comic poet-s, in its earliest age,
Who formed the manners of tlie Grecian stage-
Was there a villain who miglit justly claim
A better right of being damn'd to fame,
Rjike, cut-tlu'oat, thief, whatever was his crime,
They boldly stigmatized the wretch in rhyme.
Eupolis is said to have satirized Alcibiades in this
manner, and to have fallen a sacrifice to the re
sentment of that powerful Athenian ; but others
say he was drowned in the Hellespont, during a
war against the Lacedemonians; and that in con-
sequence of this accident the Athenians passed a
decree, that no poet should ever bear arms.
The comedies of Cratinus are recommended by
Cluintilian for their eloqence ; and Plutarch tells us
that even Pericles himself could not escape the
censure of this poet.
Aristophanes, of whom there are eleven come-
dies still extant, enjoyed such a pre-eminence of
reputation, that the Athenians by a public decree
honoured him with a crown made of consecrated
olive-tree, which grew in the citadel, for his care
and success in detecting and exposing the vices of
those who governed the commonwealth. Yet this
poet, whether impelled by mere wantonness of
genius, or actuated by malice and envy, could not
refrain from employing the shafts of his ridicule
against Socrates, the most venerable character of
Pagan antiquity. In the comedy of the Clouds,
this virtuous philosopher was exhibited on the
stage under his own name, in a cloak exactly re-
sembling that which Socrates wore, in a mask mo-
delled from his features, disputing publicly on the
nature of right and wrong. This was undoubted-
ly an instance of the most flagrant licentiousness ;
and what renders it the more extraordinary, the
audience received it with great applause, even
while Socrates himself sat publicly in the theatre.
The truth is, the Athenians were so fond of ridi-
cule, that they relished it even when emjiloyed
against the gods themselves, some of whose cha-
racters were very roughly handled by Aristophak-
nes and his rivals in reputation.
We might here draw a parallel between the in-
habitants of Athens and the natives of England^
506
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
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 um-
pire in the disputes that arose among its neigh-
bours. The people of Athens, like those of Eng-
land, were remarkably ingenious, and made great
progress in the arts and sciences. They excelled
ill poetry, history, philosophy, mechanics, and
manufactures; they were acute, discerning, dis-
putatious, fickle, wavering, rash, and combustible,
and, above all other nations in Europe, addicted to
ridicule ; a character which the English inherit in
a very remarkable degree.
If we may judge from the writings of Aristo-
phanes, 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 uninformed by
taste, and altogether ignorant of decorum ; for his
pieces are replete with the most extravagant ab-
surdities, virulent slander, impiety, impurities, and
low buffoonery. The comic muse, not contented
with being allowed to make free with the gods and
philosophers, applied her scourge so severely to the
maifistrates 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 si-
lenced. 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 ex-
hibited 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 comedy, which was but of short
duration ; for the legislature, perceiving that the first
law had not removed the grievance against which
it was provided, issued a second ordinance, forbid-
ding, under severe penalties, any real or family oc-
currences to be represented. This restriction was
the immediate cause of improving comedy into a
general mirror, held forth to reflect the various fol-
lies 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 XV.
Having communicated our sentiments touching
the origin of poetry, by tracing tragedy and comedy
to their common source, we shall now endeavour
lo ponit out the criteria by which poetry is distin-
guished from every other species of writing. In
common with other arts, such as statuary and paint-
ing, it comprehends imitation, invention, composi-
tion, and enthusiasm. Imitation is indeed the ba
sis of all the liberal arts ; invention and enthusiasm
constitute genius, in whatever manner it may be
displayed. Eloquence of all sorts admits of enthu-
siasm. TuUy says, an orator should be vehemena
ut procella, excitatus ut torrens, inccnsus ut Jui-
men ; tonat, fulgurat, et rapidis eloquentice fiuc-
tibus cuncta proruit et proturbat. " Violent as a
tempest, impetuous as a torrent, and glowing in-
tense like the red bolt of heaven, he thunders,
lightens, overthrows, and bears down all before
him, by the irresistible tide of eloquence." This
is the mens divinior atque as magna sonaturum
of Horace. This is the talent,
Meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Irrital, mulcet, falsis lerroribus Implet,
Ut magus.
With passions not my own who firea my heart;
Who with unreal terrors fills my breast
As with a magic influence possess'A
We are told, that Michael Angelo Buonaroti used
to work at his statues in a tit of enthusiasm, during
which he made the fragments of the stone fly about
him with surprising violence. The celebrated
Lully being one day blamed for setting nothing to
music but the languid verses of Cluinault, was ani-
mated with the reproach, and running in a fit of
enthusiasm to his harpsichord, sung in recitative,
and accompanied four pathetic lines from the Iphi-
genia of Racine, with such expression as filled the
hearers with astonishment and horror.
Though versiiication 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 ; because they would be desti-
tute of those figures, embellishments, and flights
of imagination, which display the poet's art and
invention. On the other hand, we have many pro-
ductions that justly lay claim to the title of poetry,
without having the advantage of versification; wit-
ness the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon,
with many beautiful hymns, descriptions, and
rhapsodies, to be found in different parts of the
Old Testament, some of them the immediate pro-
duction of divine inspiration ; witness the Celtic
fragments which have lately appeared in the Eng-
hsh 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 remler disgustful the sub-
limest sentiments and finest flowers of imagination.
This humiliatuig power of bad verse appears in
many translations of the ancient poets ; in Ogilby's
Homer, Trapp's Virgil, 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,
ESSAYS.
507
— Mediocribus eese poetis
Hon homines, non Di, non concesere columnae.
But God and man, and letter'd post denies,
That poets ever are of middling siza
How is that beautiful ode, beginning with Jus-
tum et tenacem propositi virum, chilled and tamed
by the following translation : i
He who by principle is sway'd,
In truth and justice still the same,
Is neither of the crowd afraid,
Though civil broils the slate inflame ;
Nor to a haughty tyrant's frown will stoop.
Nor to a raging storm, when all the winds are up.
Should nature with convulsions shake, ^
Struck with the fiery bolts of Jove,
The final doom and dreadful crack
Can not his constant courage move.
That long Alexandrine— " Nor to a raging
storm, when all the winds are up," is drawUng,
feeble, swoln with a pleonasm or tautology, as well
as deficient in the rhyme ; and as for the "dread-
ful crack," in the next stanza, instead of exciting
terror, it conveys a low and ludicrous idea. How
much more elegant and energetic is this paraphrase
of the same ode, inserted in one of the volumes of
Hume's History of England. •-• .-
Tlie man whose mind, on virtue bent,
Pursues some greatly good intent
With undiverted aim,
Serene beholds the angiy crowd ;
Nor can their clamours fierce and loud
His stubborn honour tame.
Nor the proud tyrant's fiercest threat,
Nor storms that from their dai'k retreat
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 primeval sway.
His courage chance and fate defies,
Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies
Obstruct its destined way. , . ■
If poetry exists independent of versification, it
will naturally be asked, how then is it to be dis-
tinguished? Undoubtedly by its own peculiar
expression ; it has a language of its own, which
speaks so feelingly to the heart, and so pleasingly
Co the imagination, that its meaning can not pos-
sibly be misunderstood by any person of delicate
sensations. It is a species of painting with words,
in which the figures are happily conceived, ingeni-
ously arranged, affectingly expressed, and recom-
mended with all the warmth and harmony of
colouring: it consists of imagery, descrijtion, meta-
phors, similes, and sentiments, adapted with pro-
priety to the subject, so contrived and executed as
to soothe the ear, surprise and delight the fancy,
mend and melt the heart, elevate the mind, and
please the understanding. According to Flaccus :
Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetae ;
Aut simu^et jucunda et idonea dicere vitse.
Poets would profit or delight mankind,
And with th' amusing show th' instructive join'd.
Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci,
Lectorem delectemdo, pariterque monendo.
Profit and pleasure mingled thus With art,
To soothe the fancy and improve the heart.
Tropes and figures are likewise liberally used in
rhetoric : and some of the most celebrated orators
have owned themselves much indebted to the poets.
Theophrastus expressly recommends the poets for
this purpose. From their source, the sj)irit and
energy of the pathetic, the sublime, and the beauti-
ful, are derived.* But these figures must be more
sparingly used in rhetoric than in poetry, and even
then mingled with argumentation, and a detail of
facts altogether different from poetical narration.
The poet, instead of simply relating the incident,
strikes off a glowing picture of the scene, and ex-
hibits it in the most lively colours to the eye of the
imagination. "It is reported that Homer was
bhnd," says Tully in his Tusculan Gtuestions,
"yet his poetry is no other than painting. What
country, what climate, what ideas, battles, commo-
tions, and contests of men, as well as of wild beasts,
has he not painted in such a manner as to bring
before our eyes those very scenes, which he him-
self could not behold!" t "We cannot therefore
subscribe to the opinion of some ingenious 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 Grecian 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 devia-
tion, 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 descrip-
tion, even in situations where the action seems to
'require haste. Neptune, observing from Samo-
thrace the discomfiture of the Grecians before Troy,
j flies to their assistance, and might have been waft-
'ed thither in half a line: but the bard describes
I him, first, descending the mountain on which he
sat; secondly, striding towards his palace at ^gae,
and yoking his horses ; thirdly, he describes him
• Namque ab his (scilicet poetis) et in rebus spiritus, et in
verbis sublimitas, et in afTeclibus motus omnis, et in personiB
decor peMut.— Q.uinlilian, 1. x.
t Quaj regio, qua; ora, qute species formi', qua; pugta, qui
motus hominum, qui ferarum, non ita expictus e.°t, ut qu«
\ ipse non viderit.. nos ui videramus, elTeceril!
608
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
putting on his armour ; and lastly, ascending his
car, and driving along the surface of the sea. Far
from being disgusted by these delays, we are de-
lighted with the particulars of the description.
Nothing can be more sublime than the circum-
stance of the mountain's trembling beneath the
footsteps of an immortal :
Yloacii 1)71 atflavaTO/o-/ noa-swaoivoc /ovtoc.
But his passage to the Grecian fleet is altogether
transporting.
BjicT' sxststv CTi M) (Jt-ttr, etc.
He mounts the car, the golden scourge applies^
He sits superior, and the cliariot flies ;
His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep:
Th' enormous monsters, rolling o'er the deep,
Gambol around him on the watery way.
And heavy whales in awkward measures play :
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain.
Exults and crowns the monarch of the main ;
The parting waves before his coursers fly;
The wondering waters leave his axle dry.
With great veneration for the memory of Mr.
Pope, we can not help objecting to some lines of
this translation. We have no idea of the sea's ex-
ulting and crowning Neptune, after it had sub-
sided into a level plain. There is no such image
in the original. Homer says, the whales exulted,
and knew or owned their king ; and that the sea
parted with joy: ^»9s<ruv« Si ^uKa<7c-a. SinTTctTo.
Neither is there a word of the wondering waters :
we therefore think the lines might be thus altered
to advantage :
They 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 a^e dry.
Besides the metaphors, similes, and allusions of
poetry, there is an infinite variety of tropes, or turns
of expression, occasionally disseminated through
works of genius, which serve to animate the whole,
and distinguish the glowing effusions of real in-
spiration from 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 prosopo-
poeia, which is a kind of magic, by which the poet
gives life and motion to every inanimate part of
mature. Homer, describing the wrath of Agamem-
non, in the first book of the Iliad, strikes off a
glowing image in two words :
. . . 07(Ti S" U TTVpl Xtt/UTriT'.VVTl ilKTHV.
—And from liis-eyeballs^asA'd the living fire.
This indeed is a figure, which has been copied
by Virgil, and almost all the poets of every ag^—
oculis micat acribus ignis — ignescunt irse : auria
dolor ossibus ardet. Milton, describing Satan in
Hell, says,
With head uplift above the wave, and ey«
That sparkling blazed! —
— He spake : and to confirm his words out flew
Millioris of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
Of mighty cherubim. The sudden blaze
Far round illumined Hell —
There are certain words in every language par
ticularly adapted to the poetical expression ; soma
from the image or idea they convey to the imagi-
nation ; and some from the effect they have upon
the ear. The first are truly Jigurative ; the others
may be called emphatical. — RoUin observes, that
Virgil has upon many occasions poetized (if we
may be allowed the expression) a whole sentence
by means of the same word, wliich is pcndere.
Ite mese, felix quondam pecus, ite capellae,
Non ego voe poethac, viridi projectus in antro,
Dumosa pendere procul de rape videbo.
At ease reclined beneath the verdant shade,
No more shall I behold my happy flock
Aloft hang browsing on the tufted rock.
Here the word pendere wonderfully improve?
the landscape, and renders the whole passage
beautifully picturesque. The same figurative verb
we meet with in many different parts of .the
^neid.
Hi summo in fluetu pendent, his unda dehiscens
Terram inter fluctus aperit.
These on the mountain billow hung; to those
The yawning waves thy yellow ScUid disclose.
In this instance, the words pendent and dehia-
cans, hung and yawning, are equally poetical.
Addison seems to have had this passage in his eye,
when he 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 redi'ess'd.
When in tlie silent womb I lay,
And hu7ig upon the breast.
Shakspeare, in his admired description of Dover
cliff, uses the same expression :
Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire— dreadful trade !
Nothing can be more beautiful than the follow-
ing picture, in which Milton has introduced the
same expressive tint :
ESSAYS.
509
He, on his side,
Leaning half raised, witli looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamour'd.
We shall give one example more from VirgU, to
show in what a variety of scenes it may appear
with propriety and etTect. In describing the pro-
gress of Dido's passion for jEneas, the Poet says,
niacoa iterum demens audire labores
Exposcit, pendetque'V/drtxm. narrantis ab ore.
Tlie woes of Troy once more she begg'c' to hear ;
Once more the mournful tale employ'u his tongue,
While in fond rapture on his lipa site hung.
The reader will perceive in all these instances,
\hat no other word could be substituted with equal
energy; itideed no other word could be used with-
out 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 literal and metaphori-
cal sense ; and these have been always translated
for the same purpose from one language to ano-
ther ; such as quasso, concutio, do, suscito, lenio,
tcEvio, manojjluo, ardeo, mico, aro, to shake, to
wake, to rouse, to soothe, to rage, to flow, to shine
or blaze, to plough. — Gluassantia tectum limina —
yEneas, casu, concussus acerbo — ^Ere ciere viros,
Martemque accendere cantu — uEneas acuit Mar-
tem et se suscitat ira — Impium lenite clamorem.
Lenibant curas — Ne ssevi magna sacerdos — Su-
dor ad imos manabat solos — Suspensaque diu
lachrymcB fluxere per ora — Juvenali ardebat
amore — ^Wcni aereus ensis — Nullum maris cBquor
arandum. It will be unnecessary to insert exam-
ples of the same nature from the English poets.
The words we term empkatical, are such as by
their sound express the sense they are intended to
convey : and with these the Greek abounds, above
aJl other languages, not only from its natural copi-
ousness, flexibility, and significance, but also from
the variety of its dialects, which enables a writer
to vary his terminations occasionally as the nature
of the subject requires, without ofltnding the most
delicate ear, or incurring the imputation of adopt-
ing vulgar provincial expressions. Every smat-
terer in Greek can repeat
B« cT' itx.ia>v TTupai. 6/v« TroKv^Xota-Coio BaXcta-g-tic,
in which the last two words wonderfully echo to
the sense, conveying the idea of the sea dashing on
the shore. How much more significant in sound
than that beautiful image of Shakspeare —
Tlie sea that on the unnumber'd pebbles beats.
And yet, if we consider the strictness of pro-
priety, this last expression would seem to have
been selected on purpose to concur with the other
crcuinstanccs, wliich are brought together to as-
certain the vast height of Dover cliff ; for the poet
adds, "cannot be heard so high." The place
where Glo'ster stood was so high above the surface
of the sea, that the (^koivSoc, or dashing, coukl
not be heard; and therefore an enthusiastic admir-
er of Shakspeare might with some plausibility
aflSrm, the poet had chosen an expression in which
that sound is not at all conveyed.
In the very same page of Homer's Iliad we
meet with two other striking instances of the same
sort of beauty. Apollo, incensed at the insults hia
priest had sustained, descends from the top of Olym-
pus, with his bow and quiver rattling on his shoul-
der as he moved along ; . ■
"EKXcLy^AV J'' ctp oltTTUI iTr UfAWI.
Here the sound of the word Eitxity^Av admirably ex-
presses the clanking of armour ; as the third line
after this surprisingly imitates the twanging of a
bow.
AuvH S'i KXayyn yivtr etpyvpioto Bwm.
Inshrill-ton'd murmurs sung the twanging bow.
Many beauties of the same kind are scattered
through Homer, Pindar, and Theocritus, such as
the 00/^Cw^it iJ-iKiTuoL, susurrans apicula ; the
aJu -^iQupiff-f^et, dulcem susurrum; and the uiKieS't-
Ta.1, for the sighing of the pine.
The Latin language teems with sounds adapted to
every situation, and the English is not destitute of
this 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
rattling 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 tricks
ling drops, the twittering swallow, the cawing
rook, the screeching owl ; and a thousand other
words and epithets, wondejfuUy suited to the sense
they imply.
Among the select passages of poetry which we
shall insert by way of illustration, the reader will
find instances of all the different tropes and figures
which the best authors have adopted in the variety
of their poetical works, as well as of the apostrophe
abrupt transition, repetition, and prosopopoeia.
In the mean time it will be necessary still fur-
ther to analyze those principles which constitute
the essence of poetical merit ; to display those oe-
lightful parterres that teem with the fairest flowers
of imagination ; and distinguish between the gaudy
offspring of a cold insipid fancy, and the glowing
progeny, diffusing sweets, prodi>r«i' anu mvigo-
rated by the sun of genius.
610
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ESSAY XVI.
Of all the implements of poetry, the metaphor
is the most generally and successfully 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 ship at sea, and the effects of old age upon the
human countenance —
— Plough' d the bosom of the deep—
And time had plough'd hia venerable front.
Almost every verb, noun substantive, or term of
art in any language, may be in this manner ap-
plied 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 metaphor, that they
may be compared to the gaudy bubbles blown up
from a solution of soap. Longinus is of opinion,
that a multitude of metaphors is never excusable,
except in those cases when the passions are rous-
ed, and like a winter torrent rush down impetu-
ous, sweeping them with collective force along.
He brings an instance of the following quotation
from Demosthenes; "Men," says he, "profli-
gates, miscreants, and flatterers^ who having seve-
rally preyed upon the bowels of their country, at
length betrayed her liberty, first to Philip, and now
again to Alexander ; who, placing the chief felici-
ty of life in the indulgence of infamous lusts and
appetites, overturned in the dust that freedom and
independence which 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 phrase,
Buch as " if I may be allowed the expression," or
some equivalent excuse. At the same time Lon-
ginus finds fault with Plato for hazarding some
metaphors, which indeed appear to be equally af-
fected and extravagant, when he says, " The go-
vernment of a state should not resemble a bowl of
hot fermenting wine, but a cool and moderate be-
tiKfunytfta.(rfAitoi <ta; icivtuy iKa.(rT0l TTttTfiiS'ci! tuv
avS'pai. TH yctaTfit fMTjiowri^ xu.t tw atiT^i<rTCit; tuv
tuSeil/UtOVlaV, T«V S" iKiV^ipiaV, Kitl TO fJinJ'lV!t (^IIV
bm na-cut xM Kuvoyfi, etc.
verage chastised by the sober deity," — a metaphor
that signifies nothing more than " mixed or lovr-
ered with water." Demetrius Phalereus justly
observes, that though a judicious use of metaphors
wonderfully raises, sublimes, and adorns oratory
or elocution, yet they should seem to flow natural-
ly from the subject ; and too great a redundancy of
them inflates the discourse to a mere rhapsody.
The same observation will 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 human soul, and carefully dis-
tinguish between those metaphors which rise glow-
ing from the heart, and those cold conceits which
are engendered in the fancy. Should one of these
last unfortunately intervene, it will be apt to de-
stroy the whole effect of the most pathetical inci-
dent or situation. Indeed it requires the most
delicate taste, and a consummate knowledge of pro-
priety, to employ metaphors in such a manner as
to avoid what the ancients call the to ■^vp^^oy, the
frigid, or false subUme. Instances of lliis kind
were frequent even among the correct ancienta.
Sappho herself is blamed for using the hyperbole
KivKOTifoi ^lovo;, tchiter than snow. Demetrius is
so nice as to be disgusted at the simile of swiji as
the wind ; though, in speaking of a race-horse, we
know from experience that this is not even an hy-
perbole. He would have had more reason to censure
that kind of metaphor which Aristotle styles xa.n:'
ivifiyuut, exhibiting things inanimate as endued with
sense and reason ; such as that of the sharp pointed
arrow, eager to take wing among the crowd.
O' ^ufi/»c xa9' ofAfKoy vriTrTurScii /uiviAivaiv. Not but
that in descriptive poetry this figure is often allow-
ed and admired. The cruel sword, the ruthless
dagger, the ruffian blast, are epithets which fre-
quently occur. The faithful bosom of the earth,
the joyous boughs, the trees that admire their im-
ages reflected in the stream, and many other exam-
ples of this kind, are found disseminated through
the works of our best modern poets ; yet still they
must be sheltered under the privilege of the poetica
licentia; and, expect in poetry, they would give
offence.
More chaste metaphors are freely used in all
kinds of writing ; more sparingly in hi-story, and
more abundantly in rhetoric : we have seen that
Plato indulges in them even to excess. The ora-
tions of Demosthenes are animated and even in-
flamed with metaphors, some of them so bold as
even to entail upon him the censure of the critics.
TcTs Tce Tlv^aivt Tcf'fyiToct 'ffovTi Kctfl' vfjuvn. — "Then
I did not yield to Python the orator, when he over-
flowed you with a tide of eloquence." Cicero is
still more liberal in the use of them : he ransacks
ESSAYS.
5U
all nature, and pours forth a redundancy of figures,
even with a lavish hand. Even the chaste Xeno-
phon, who generally illustrates his subject by way
of simile, sometimes ventures to produce an ex-
pressive metaphor, such as, part of the phalanx
Jluctuated in the march ; and indeed nothing can
be more significant than this word {^sxt/^xft, to
represent a body of men staggered, and on the
point of giving way. Armstrong has used the
■vioxi^ fluctuate with admirable efficacy, in his phi-
Iost)phicaI poem, entitled, The Art cf Preserving
Health.
O ! when the growling winds contend, and all
The sounding iotesl fluctuates in the storm,
To sinlc in warm repose, and hear the din
Howl o'er the steady battlements
The w;ord fluctuate on this occasion not only
exhibits an idea of struggling, but also echoes to
the sense Uke the i^pi^ev J'l ^.KK«of Homer; which,
by the by, it is impossible to render into English,
for the verb <ff,tj-crai 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 figures, a young
author is apt to run into a confusion of mixed me-
taphors, which leave the sense disjointed, and dis-
tract the imagination: Shakspeare himself is often
guilty of these irregularities. The soliloquy in
Hamlet, which we have so often heard extolled in
terms of admiration, is, in our opinion, a heap of
absurdities, whether we consider the situation, the
sentiment, the argumentation, or the poetry. Ham-
let is informed by the Ghost, that his father was
murdered, and therefore he is teinpted to murder
himself, even after he had promised to take ven-
geance on the usurper, and expressed the utmost
eagerness to achieve this enter[)rise. It does not
appear that he had the least reason to wish for
death ; but every motive which may be supposed
to influence the mind of a young prince, concurred
to render life desirable — revenge towards the usur-
per ; love for the fair Ophelia j and the ambition
of reigning. Besides, when he had an opportu-
nity of dying without being accessary to his own
death ; when he had nothing to do but, in obe-
dience to his uncle's command, to allow himself to
be conveyed quietly to England, where he was
Bure of suffering death ; instead of amusing him-
self with meditations on mortality, he very wisely
consulted the means of self-preservation, turned
the tables upon his attendants, and returned to
Denmark. But granting him to have been re-
duced to the lowest state of despondence, surround-
ed with nothing but horror and despair, sick of
this life, and eager to temi)t futurity, we shall see
how far he argues like a philosopher.
In order to support this general charge against
an author so universally held in veneration, whose
very errors have helped to sanctify his character
among the multitude, we will descend to particu
lars, and analyze this famous soliloquy.
Hamlet, having assumed the disguiseof madness,
as a cloak under which he might the more effec-
tually revenge his father's death upon the murderer
and usurper, appears alone upon the stage in a
pensive and melancholy attitude, and communea
with himself in these words :
To be, or not to be, that is the question : —
Wliether '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? — To die,— to sleep,-—
No more ; — and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ach, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die ; — to sleep ; —
To sleep ! perchance to dream ;— ay, there's the ntli
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
When we are 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,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his nuietus make
With a bare bodkia? Who would fardels hear, ,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life ;
But that the dread of something after death, —
The undisco\'er'd coimtry, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, — puzzles llic 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 awry.
And lose the name of action.
We have already observed, that 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 ex-
pressions of despair imply an impropriety in point
of character. But supposing liis 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 nobler in the mind to suffer,
or endure the frowns of fortune, or to take arms,
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
sloop to misfortune, or exert his faculties in order
to surmount it. This surely is the obvious mean
512
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
ing, and indeed the only meaning that can be im-
pUed to these words,
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortime;
Or to talce ariris against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them'?
He now drops this idea, and reverts to his reason-
ing on death, in the course of which he owns him-
self deterred from suicide by the thoughts of what
may follow death ;
^The dread of something after death, —
Tlie undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns.—
This might be a good argument in a Heathen
or Pagan, and such indeed Hamlet really was; but
Shakspeare 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 play,
^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, which
we presume is not within the bourn of this 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 Icnow not of.
This declaration at least implies some knowledge
of the 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, there-
fore, may be reduced to this lemma: 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 those ills 1
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 this, he had no room
to reason at all about the matter. What alone
could justify his thinking on this subject, would
have been the hope of flying from the ills of this
world, without encountering i.ny otkers in the
next.
Nor is Hamlet more accurate in the following
reflection :
Tlius 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 any thing lay heavy on his conscience;
and from the premises we can not help inferring,
that conscience in this case was entirely out of the
question. Hamlet was deterred from suicide by a
full conviction, 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 live, or do violence upon my own
life : for I knew not whether it is more honourable
to bear misfortune patiently, than to exert myself
in opposing misfortune, and by opposing, end it."
Let us throw it into the form of a syllogism, it vrill
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, 1 am doubtful whether I should slay
myself or live. To die, is no more than to sleep;
and to say that by a sleep we end the heart-ache,"
etc. "'tis a consummation devoutly to be 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 to fly to
other ills in that undiscovered country, from whose
bourn no traveller ever returns. I have ills that
are almost insupportable in this life. I know not
what is in the next, because it is an undiscovered
country : ergo, I'd rather bear those ills I have,
than fly to others which I know not of." Here
the conclusion is by no means warranted by the
premises. "I am sore afflicted in this life ; but I
will rather bear the afflictions of this life, than
plunge myself in the afflictions of another life:
ergo, conscience makes cowards of us all." But
this conclusion would justify the logician in say-
ing, negatur consequens; for it is entirely de-
tached both from the major and minor propo-
sition.
This soliloquy is not less exceptionable in the
propriety of expression, than in the chain of argu-
mentation. " To die— to sleep— no more," con-
tains an ambiguity, which all the art of punctua-
tion can not remove : for it may signify that " to
die," is to sleep no more ; or the expression " no
more," may be considered 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 character, and the worda
that follow leave the sense imperfect:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
When we have shuffled off tins mortal coil,
Musi 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 al-
lowed to pass for consideration : but
The oppressor's vnong, the proud man's contumelr
ESSAYS.
513
according to the invariable acceptation of the words
tBi-ong and contumeiy, can signify notliing but
the wrongs sustained by the oppressor, and the
contumely or abuse thrown upon the proud man ;
though it is plain that Shakspcare used them in a
different sense : neither is the word spurn a sub-
stantive, yet as such he has inserted it in these lines :
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unwortlay takes.
If we consider the meta|)hors 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 ditTicult task, if not altogether
impracticable, to represent with any propriety out-
rageous fortune using her slings and arrows, be-
tween which indeed there is no sort of analogy in
nature. Neither can any figure be more ridiculous-
ly absurd 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 reflection. What follows is a strange rhapsody
of broken images of sleeping, dreaming, and shift-
ing off a coil, which last conveys no idea that can
be represented on canvass. A man may be ex-
hibited shuffling off his garments or his chains :
but how he should shuffle off a coil, which is an-
other term for noise and tumult, we cannot com-
prehend. Then we have "long-lived calamity,"
and " time armed with whips and scorns;" and
"patient merit spurned at by unworthiness ; " and
" misery with a bare bodkin going to make his own
quietus," which at best is but a mean metaphor.
These are followed by figures "sweating under
fardels of burdens," "puzzled with doubts," "shak-
ing with fears," and "flying from evils." Finally,
we see " resolution sicklied o'er with pale thought,"
a conception like that of representing health by
sickness; and a "current of pith turned awry 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
^gri somnia, and the Tabula, cujus vance Jin-
gentur species.
But while we censure the chaos of broken, in-
congruous metaphors, we ought also to caution the
young poet against the opposite extreme of pursu-
ing a metaphor, until the spirit is quite exhausted
in a succession of cold conceits ; such as we see in
the following letter, said to be sent by Tamerlane
to the Turkish emperor Bajazet. "Where is the
monarch that dares oppose our arms'? Where is
the potentate who doth not glory in being number-
ed among our vassals? As for thee, descended
from a Turcoman mariner, since the vessel of thy
unbounded ambition hath been wrecked in the
gulf of thy self-love, it would be proper that thou
ehouldest furl the sails of thy temerity, and cast
33
the anchor 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
poetry, they are still more inexcusable in prose:
such as we find them frequently occur in Strada's
Bellum Belgicum. Vix descenderat a, prcetoria
navi Casar ; ciimfceda ilico exorta in portu terr^
pestas; classem impetu disjecit, prcctoriam hausit ;
quasi non vecturam amplius Ccesarera Ccesaris-
que fortunam. " Caesar had scarcely set his feet
on shore, when a terrible tempest arising, shatter-
ed the fleet even in the harbour, and sent to the
bottom the preetorian ship, as if he resolved it
should no longer carry Csesar and his fortunes."
Yet this is modest in comparison of the follow-
ing flowers: Alii, pulsis e tormento catenis dis-
cerpti sectique, dimidiato corpore pugnabant sibi
superstitcs, ac peremtce partis ultores. " Others,
dissevered and cut in twain by chain-shot, fought
with one-half of their bodies that remained, in re-
venge of the other half that was slain."
Homer, Horace, and even the chaste Virgil, i>
not free from conceits. The latter, speaking of a
man's hand cut off in battle, says,
Te decisasuum, Laride, dextera quaerit;
Semianimesque micant digiti, ferrumque retractant :
thus enduing the amp'otated hand with sense and
volition. This, to be sure, is a violent figure, and
hath been justly condemned by some accurate cri-
tics ; but we think they are too severe in extending
the same censure to some other passages in the
most admired authors.
Virgil, in his sixth Eclogue, says, ' • '
Omnia qusB, Phoebo quondam meditante, beatus
Audiit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros,
Ille caniu
Whate'er, when Phoebus blefs'd the Arcadian plain
Eurotas heard and taught his bays the strain.
The senior sung —
And Pope has copied the conceit in his Pastorali,
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 musae, etjuvenum memorate querelas •
Dicite : nam motas ipsas ad carmina cautea,
Etrequi sse suos perhibent vaga flumina cursusL .
Say, heavenly muse, their youthful frays reheaise ,
Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse ;
Exulting rocks have own'd the power of song,
And rivers listen'd as they flow'd along.
Racine adopts the same bold figure in his Phffldra*
Le flot qui I'apportarecule epouvan'6 : .^
The wave that bore him, backwards slirunk appall'd.
5I4
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Even Milton has indulged himself in the same
license of expression —
As when to them who sail
BeyomI the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozainbic, ofl'at sea north-east winds blow
Sabajan odour from the spicy shore
Of Araby the blest ; with such delay
Well pleased 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'ning clouds.
And indeed more correct writers, both ancient
and modern, abound with the same kind of figure,
which is reconciled to proprietj', and even invested
with beauty, by the efficacy of the prosopopoeia,
which personifies the object. Thus, when Virgil
says Enipeus heard the sons of Apollo, he raises
up, as by enchantment, the idea of a river god
crovraed with sedges, his head raised above the
stream, and in his countenance the expression of
pleased attention. By the same magic we see, in
the couplet quoted from Pope's Pastorals, old father
Thames leaning upon his urn, and Ustening to the
poet's strain.
Thus in the regions of poetry, all nature, even
the passions and aflTections of the mind, may be
personified into picturesque figures for the enter-
tainment of the reader. Ocean smiles or frowms,
as the sea is calm or tempestuous ; a Triton rules
on every angry billow; every mountain has its
Nymph ; every stream its Naiad ; every tree its
Hamadryad ; and every art its Genius. We can
not therefore assent to those who censure Thomson
as Ucentious for using the following figure :
O vale of bliss ! O softly swelling hills !
On which the power of cultivation lies,
And joys to see the wonders of his toil.
We can not conceive a more beautiful image
tHan that of the genius of agriculture distinguished
by the implements of his art, imbrowned with la-
bour, 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 con-
templating with pleasure the happy effects of his
own industry.
Neither can we join issue against Shakspeare
for this comparison, which hath Ukewise incurred
the censure of the critics. .
^The noble sister of Poplicola,
The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle
That's curdled by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's temple —
This is no more than illustrating a quality of the
Blind, by comparing it with a sensible object. If
there is no impropriety in saying such a man M
true as steel, firm as a rock, inflexible as an oak,
unsteady as the ocean ; or in describing a disposi-
tion cold as ice, or fickle as the wind ; — and these
expressions are justified by constant practice ; — wa
shall hazard an assertion, that the comparison 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 virginity, heightens the
whole into a most beautiful simile, that gives a very
respectable and amiable idea of the character in
question.
The simile is no more than an extended meta-
phor, introduced to illustrate and beautify the sub-
ject ; 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 agita-
tion of spirit; such as a tragic character over-
whelmed with grief, distracted by contending cares,
or agonizing in the pangs of death. The language
of passion will not admit simile, which is alway?
the result of study and deliberation. We will not
allow a hero the privilege of a dying swan, which
is said to chant its approaching fate in the most
melodious strain; and therefore nothing can be
more ridiculously unnatural, than the representa-
tion of a lover dying upon the stage with a laboured
simile in his 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 Scripture.
Homer has been blamed for the bad choice of his
similes on some particular occasions. He com-
pares 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 re-
minding 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-coUop ; therefore, they were very
improper illustrations for any situation, in which a
hero ought to be represented.
Virgil has degraded the wife of king Latinus, by
comparing her, when she was actuated by the Fu-
ry, to a top which the boys lash for diversion.
This doubtless is a low image, though in other re-
spects the comparison is not destitute of propriety ;
but he is much more justly censured for the follow-
ing simile, which has no sort of reference to the
subject. Speaking of TurnuSj he says,
ESSAYS.
515
-Medio dux agminp Turniis
Vertitur arma tenens, el toto Venice supra esL
Ceu septem surgens sedatis amnibus alius
Per Uicitura Ganges : aul pingui fliimine Nilus
Cum refluit campis, el jam se condidil alvea
But Turnus, chief amidst the warrior train,
In armour towers the tallest on the plain.
The Ganges thus by seven rich streams supplied,
A mighty mass devolves in silent pride :
Thus Nilus pours from his prolific urn,
When from the fields o'erflo w'd his vagrant streams return.
These no doubt are majestic images ; but they bear
no sort of resemblance to a hero gUttering in ar-
mour at the head of his forces.
Horace has been ridiculed by some shrewd critics
for this comparison, which, however, we think is
more defensible than the former. Addressing him-
self to Munatius Plancus, he says :
Albus ut obscure deterget nubila ccelo
Saepe Notus, neque parlurit imbres
Perpetuos: sic tu sapiens finire memento
Tristitiam, vitaequc labores
MoUi, Plance, mera
As Notus often, when the welkin lowers.
Sweeps off the clouds, nor teems perpetual showers,
So let thy wisdom, free from anxious strife,
In mellow wine dissolve the cares of Ufe. Dunkin.
The analogy, it must be confessed, is not very
Btriking ; 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
your cares in wine. As the south wind is not al-
ways 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 magnifi-
tence, particularly abounding with similes, which
istonish, 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 happily hit
off than the following in the Georgics, to which the
poet compares Orpheus lamenting his lost Eurydice.
Qualis popule^ moerens Philomela sub umbrS,
Amissos queritiur fcetus, quos durus arator
Observans nido implumes detraxit; at ilia
Flet noclem, ramoque sedens miserabiie carmen
Integral, et mcEstis late loca quesiibus implet.
So Philomela, from th' umbrageous wood,
In strains melodious mourns her tender brood,
Snatch'd from the nest by some rude ploughman's hand.
On some lone bough the warbler Uikes her stand ;
The live-long night she mourns the cruel wrong,
And hill and dale i-esound the plaintive song.
Here we not only find the most scrupulous pro-
priety, and the happiest choice, in comparing thu
Thracian bard to Philomel the poet of the grove;
but also the most beautiful description, containing
a fine touch of the pathos, in which last particular
indeed Virgil, in our opinion, excels all other poets,
whether ancient or modern.
One would imagine that nature had exhausted
itself, in order to embellish the poems of Homer,
Virgil, and Milton, with similes and metaphors.
The first of these very 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
his ideas to the subject, and, as Longinus ob-
serves, measures every leap by the whole breadth
of the horizon.
Too'9'ov vrSpua'x.wtTi bia>\i v-^tt^ai; iTnrat. , ■
»
For as a watchman from some rock on high
O'er the wide main extends his boundless eye ; • " '■
Through such a space of air with thundering sound '
At ev'ry leap th' immortal coursers bound.
The celerity of this goddess seems to be a favourite
idea with the poet ; for in another place he com-
pares it to the thought of a traveller revolving in
his mind the different places he had seen, and pass-
intr throutjh them in imagination more swift than
the lightning flies from east to west.
Homer's best similes have been copied by Vir-
gil, and almost every succeeding poet, howsoever
they may have varied in the manner of expression.
In the third book of the Iliad, Menelaus seeing
Paris, is compared to a hungry lion espying a hint!
or a goat: . • , ^
'fliTTS \iixv ^X."'?'' fJ'-iy*^f ^^' vmixartl nufg-at
Eufuv « 8Xa<fov KS/iaoi', « ttypiov ajyoL, etc.
So joys the lion, if a branching deer ^
Or mountain goat his bulky prize appear;
In vain the youths oppose, the mastiffs bay,
The lordly savage rends the panting prey.
Thus fond of vengeance with a furious bound '
In clanging arms he leaps upon the groimd. ....
The Mantuan bard, in the tenth book of the
jEneid, applies the same simile to Mezentius, when
he beholds Acron in the battle.
Impastus stabula alta leo ceu saepe peragrana
(Suadet enim vesana fames) si forte fugacem
Coiispexit capream, aut surgentemin cornua cerrum |
Gaudet hians immane, comasque arresit, et hsret
Visceribus super accumbens : lavit improba teter
Ora cruor.
Then as a hungry lion, who beholds ' "»
A gamesome goat who friiks about th* foW% , /
516
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
Or beamy stag that graze? on the plain ;
He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane :
He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws,
The prey lies panting underneath liis paws;
He fills his famish'd maw, his mouth runs o'er
With unchew'd morsels, while he churns the gore.
Dryden.
The reader will perceive that Virgil has im-
proved the simile in one particular, and in another
fallen short of his original. The description of the
lion shaking his mane, opening his hideous jaws
distairied with the blood of his prey, is great and
picturesque ; but on the other hand, he has omit-
ted the circumstance of devouring it without being
intimidated, or restrained by the dogs and youths
that surround him ; a circumstance that adds
greatly.to our idea of his strength, intrepidity, and
importance.
ESSAY XVII.
Of all the figures in poetry, that called the hy-
perbole, is managed with the greatest difficulty.
The hyperbole is an exaggeration with which the
muse is indulged for the better illustration of her
subject, when she is warmed into enthusiasm.
CLuintilian calls it an ornament of the bolder kind.
Demetrius Phalereus is still more severe. He says
the hyperbole is of all forms of speech the most
frigid ; MctXtcTci J't i 'T^s^Ccxm 4"^ taTov vavrocy ;
but this must be understood with some grams of
allowance. Poetry is animated by the passions ;
and all the passions exaggerate. Passion itself is
a magnifying medium. There are beautiful in-
6tances of the hyperbole in the Scripture, which a
reader of sensibiUty can not read without being
strongly affected. The difficulty lies in choosing
such hyperboles as the subject will admit of; for,
according to the definition of Thcophrastus, the
frigid in style is that which exceeds the expression
suitable to the subject. The judgment does not
revolt against Homer for representing the horses
of Ericthonius running over the standing corn
without breaking oflT the heads, because the whole
is considered as a fable, and the north wind is re-
presented as their sire ; but the imagination is a
little startled, when Virgil, in imitation of this
hyperbole, exhibits Camilla as flying over it with-
out even touching the tops :
Ka vel intactoB segetis persumraa volaret
Grcunina
This elegant author, we are afraid, has upon
some other occasions degenerated into the frigid,
in straining to improve upon his great master.
Homer in the Odyssey, a work which Longinus
does not scruple to charge with bearing the marks
of old age, describes a storm in which all the four
win«ls were concerned together.
luv J" Bvpo; T3, NoTOC t' iTTio-i, Zt<fupo( T« J'ua-a.ni,
Ka/ Bi/>£»c a;9p),6vST»c fAiyai wjuu. kuKivSuy.
We know that such a contention of contrary
blasts could not possibly exist in nature ; for even
in hurricanes the winds blow alternately from dif-
ferent points of the compass. Nevertheless Vir-
gil adopts the description, and adds to its extrava-
gance.
Incubuere mari, totumque a sedibus imis
Una Eurusque Notusque ruunt, cret)erque procellia
Africus.
Here the winds not only blow together, but they
turn the whole body of the ocean topsy-turvy.
East, west, and south, engage with furious sweep,
And from ila lowest bed upturn the foaming deep.
The north wind, however, is still more mischiev-
ous:
Stridens aquilone procella
Velum adversa ferit, fluctusque ad rfdera tolliu
Tlie sail then Boreas rends with hideous cry,
And wliirls the madd'ning billows to the sky.
The motion of the sea between Scylla and
Charybdis is still more magnified ; and .^tna is
exhibited as throwing out volumes of flame, whicU
brush the stars.* Such expressKuit as these aca
not intended as a real representation 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 conception, is hurried into excess and extra-
vagance.
CLuintilian allows the use of hyperbole, when
words are wanting to express any thing in its just
strength or due energy : then, he says, it is better
to exceed in expression than fall short of the con-
ception ; but he likewise observes, that there is no
figure or form of speech so apt to run into fustian.
Nee alia magis via in xcmo^ehiatv itur.
If the chaste Virgil has thus trespassed upon
poetical probability, what can we expect from
Lucan but hyperboles even more ridiculously ex-
travagant ? He represents the winds in contest,
the sea in suspense, doubting to which it shall give
way. He affirms, that its motion would have been
so violent as to produce a second deluge, had not
Jupiter kept it under by the clouds ; and as to the
ship during this dreadful uproar, the sails totich
the clouds, while the keel strikes the ground.
' Speaking of the first, he saya,
Tollimur in coelum curvato gurgite, et iidem
Subduct^ ad manes imos descendimus uud^
Of the other,
AltoUitque globes flammarum, et sidera lambit.
ESSAYS.
517
Nubila tanguntur vclis, ct terra carina.
This image of dashing water at the stars, Sir
Richard Blackmore has produced in colours truly
ridiculous. Describing spouting whales in his
Prince Arthur, he makes the following comparison :
Like some prodigious water-eaigine made
To play on heaven, if fire should heaven invade.
The great fault in all these instances is a devia-
tion from propriety, owing to the erroneous judg-
ment of the writer, who, endeavouring to capti-
vate the admiration with novelty, very often shocks
the understanding with extravagance. Of this na-
ture is the whole description of the Cyclops, both
in the Odyssey of Homer, and in the iEneid of
Virgil. It must be owned, however, that 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, that will
not bear the critic's examination. There is not in
any of Homer's works now subsisting such an
example of the false sublime, as Virgil's descrip-
tion of the thunderbolts forging under the ham-
mers of the Cyclops. -
The ode and satire admit of the boldest hy-
perboles, such exaggerations suit the impetuous
warmth of the one ; and in the other have a good
effect in exposing folly, and exciting horror against
vice. They may be Ukewise successfully used in
comedy, for moving and managing the powers of
ridicule.
ESSAY XVIII.
Tres imbris toni radios, tres nubis aquosa
Addiderant, rutili tres ignis et alitis Austri.
Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more,
Of winged southern winds, and cloudy store,
As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame.
Dryden.
This is altogether a fantastic piece of affecta-
tion, of which we can form no sensible image, and
serves to chill the fancy, rather than warm the
admiration of a judging reader.
Extravagant hyperbole is a weed that grows in
great plenty through the works of our admired
Shakspeare. In the following description, which
hath been much celebrated, one sees he has an eye
to Virgil's thunderbolts.
O, then I see queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' 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 wagon-spokes made of long spinner's legs;
The cover, of the wings of gra=shoppers ;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web ;
The collars, of the moonshine's waVry beams, etc.
E"en in describing fantastic beings there is a pro-
priety to be observed ; but surely nothing can be
more revolting to common sense, than this num-
bering af the moon-beams among the other imple-
ments of queen Mab's harness, which, though ex-
tremely slender and diminutive, are nevertheless
objects of the touch, and may be conceived capa-
ple of use.
Verse 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 return of the
same measure, and thus every strophe, antistro-
phe, and 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 consult those who have
written on grammar and prosody ; it is the busi-
ness of a schoolmaster, rather than the accomplish-
ment of a man of taste.
Various essays have been made in different
countries to compare the characters 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 dif-
ference, 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 fine,
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 mod-
ern languages will not admit.
Rhyme, from the Greek word Vv$/uo;, is nothing
else but number, which was essential to the ancient,
as well as to the modern versification. As to the
jingle of similar sounds, though it was never used
by the ancients in any regular return in the mid-
dle, 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 : Apyvpioio Bioio-~
AvA^ AvJ>a'V Ayufxtf^my— almost the whole first ode
of Anacreon is what we call rhyme. The follow-
ing Hne of Virgil has been admired for the simili-
tude of sound in the first two words.
Ore ^rethusa tuo siculus confunditur undia
Rhythmus, or number, is certainly essential to
verse, whether in the dead or living languages
and the real difference between the two is this:
the number in ancient verse relates to the feet, and
in modern poetry to the syllables; for to assert that
518
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
modern poetry has no feet, is a ridiculous ab-
surdity. The feet that principally enter into the
composition of Greek and Latin verses, are either
fi tWT^ or three syllables : tliose of two syllables are
either both long, as the spondee ; or both short, as
tne pyrrhic ; or one short, and the other long, as
the iambic ; or one long, and the other short, as the
troche. Those of three syllable.«!, are the dactyl,
of one long and two short syllables ; the anapest,
of two short and one long ; the tribachium, of three
short ; and the molossus of three long.
From the differeiit combinations of these feet,
restricted to certain numbers, the ancients formed
their different kinds of verses, such as the hexa-
meter or heroic distinguished by six feet dactyls
and spondees, the fifth being always a dactyl, and
the last a spondee ; e. g.
12 3 4 5 6
Prlncipi-is obs-ta, se-r5 medi-cina pa-ratur.
The pentameter of five feet, dactyls and spondees,
or of six, reckoning two ca3suras.
12 3 4 5 6
Clum mala per Ion-gas invalu-ere mo-raa.
They had likewise the 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, Alcaeus, Anacrcon 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 found in the versification of
living languages ; for as cadence was regulated by
the ear, it was impossible for a man to write melo-
dious 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, etc. which they use indiscriminately in
all kinds of composition, whether tragic, epic, pas-
toral, or ode, having in this particular, greatly the
advantage of the ancients, who were restricted 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 restricted to particular spe-
cies of feet ; so that the advantages and disadvan-
tages, are pretty equally balanced : but indeed the
English are more free in this particular, than any
other modern nation. They not only use blank
verse in tragedy and the epic, but even in lyric
poetry. Milton's translation of Horace's ode to
Pyrrha is universally known and generally admir-
ed, in our opinion much above its merit. There
is an ode extant without rhyme addressed to Eve-
ning, by the late Mr. Collins, much more beautiful ;
and Mr. Warton, with some others, has happily
succeeded m divers occasional pieces, that are free
of this restraint : but the number in all of thesa
depends upon the syllables, and not upon the feet,
which are unlimited.
It is generally su[)posed that the genius of the
English language will not admit of Greek or Latin
measure; but this, we apprehend, is a mistake
owing to the prejudice of education. It is impos-
sible that the same measure, composed of the same
times, should have a good effect upon the ear in
one language, and a bad effect in another. The
truth is, we have been accustomed from our infancy
to the numbers of English poetry, and the very
sound and signification of the words dispose the
car to receive them in a certain manner ; so that
its disappointment must be attended with a disa-
greeable sensation. In imbibing the first rudi-
ments of education, we acquire, as it were, another
ear for the numbers of Greek and Latin poetry^
and this being reserved entirely for the sounds and
significations of the words that constitute those dead
languages, will not easily accommodate itself to
the sounds of our vernacular tongue, though con-
veyed in the same time and measure. In a word,
Latin and Greek have annexed to tl em the ideas
of the ancient measure, from whic[i they are not
easily disjoined. But we will venture to say, this
difliculty might be surmounted by an effort of at-
tention and a little practice ; and in that case we
should in time be as well pleased with English as
with Latin hexameters.
Sir Philip Sydney is said to have miscarried in
his essays ; but his miscarriage was no more than
that of failing in an attempt to introduce a new
fashion. Tne 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 pub*
lie. Without all doubt the ancient measure, so
different from that of modern poetry, must have
appeared remarkably uncouth to people in general,
who were ignorant of the classics ; and nothing
but the countenance and perseverance of the learn-
ed could reconcile them to the alteration. We
have seen several late specimens of English hexa-
meters and Sapphics, so happily composed, that
by attaching them to the idea of ancient measure,
we found them in all respects as melodious and
agreeable to the ear as the works of Virgil and
Anacreon or Horace.
Though the number of syllables distinguishes
the nature of the English verse from that of the
Greek and Latin, it constitutes neither harmony,
grace, nor expression. These must depend on the
choice of words, the seat of the accent, the pause,
and the cadence. The accent, or tone, is under-
stood to be an elevation or sinking of the voice in
reciting : the pause is a rest, that divides the verse
into two parts, each of them called an hemistich.
The pause and accent in English poetry vary oc-
casionally, accorduig to the meaning of the words \
ESSAYS.
519
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 regu-
lar stops, like those in the French versification,
every line of which is divided by a pause exactly in
the middle. The cadence comprehends that poeti-
cal style which animates every line, that propriety
which give strength and expression, that numero-
sity which renders the verse smooth, flowing, and
harmonious, that significancy which marks the
passions, and in many cases makes the sound an
echo to the sense. The Greek and Latin lan-
guages, in being copious and ductile, are suscepti-
ble of a vast variety of cadences, which the living
languages will not admit ; and of these a reader of
any ear will judge for himself.
ESSAY XIX.
A SCHOOL in the polite arts properly signifies
that succession of artists, which has learned the
principles of the art from some eminent master,
either by hearing his lessons, or studying his works,
and consequently who imitate his manner either
throutrh desisn or from habit. Musicians seem
agreed in making only three principal schools in
music ; namely, the school of Pergolese in Italy, of
LuUy in France, and of Handel in England ;
though some are for making Rameau the founder
of a new shoool, different from those of the for-
mer, as he is the inventor of beauties peculiarly
his own.
Without all doubt, Pergolese's music deserves
the first rank ; though excelling neither in variety
of movements, number of parts, nor unexpected
flights, yet he is universally allowed to be the mu-
sical Raphael of Italy. This great master's prin-
cipal art consisted in knowing how to excite our
passions by sounds, which seem frequently oppo-
site 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 move-
ments he excite-s melancholy in every heart that
sounds are capable of affecting. This is a talent
which seems born with the artist. We are unable
to tell why such sounds aflTect us ; they seem no
way imitative of the passion they would express,
ttuc operates upon us by an inexpressible sympa-
thy : the original of which is as inscrutable as the
secret springs of life itself. To this excellence he
adds another, in which he is superior to every other
artist of the profession, the ha[ipy transition from
one passion to another. No dramatic poet better
knows to prepare his incidents than he ; the audi-
ence are pleased in those intervals of passion with
the delicate, the simple harmony, if I may so ex-
press 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 »nd I need
only instance that song in the Serva Padrona,
which begins Lo conosco a quegV occelli, as one
of the finest instances of excellence in the duo.
The Italian artists in general have followed his
manner, yet seem fond of embellishing the delicate
simplicity of the original. Their style in music
seems somewhat to resemble that of Seneca in
writing, where there are some beautiful starts of
thought ; but the whole is filled with studied ele-
gance and unafTecting affectation.
Lully in France first attempted the improvement
of their music, which in general resembled that of
our old solemn chants in churches. It is worthy
of remark, in general, that the music of every
country is solemn in proportion as the inhabitants
are merry ; or in other words, the merriest spright-
liest nations are remarked for having the slowest
music ; and those whose character it is to be melan-
choly, are pleased with the most brisk and airy
movements. Thus in France, Poland, Ireland,
and Switzerland, the national music is slow, melan-
choly, and solemn ; in Italy, England, Spain, and
Germany, it is faster, proportionably as the people
are grave. Lully only changed a bad manner,
which he found, for a bad one of his own. His
drowsy pieces are played still to the most sprightly
audience that can be conceived ; and even though
Rameau, who is at once a musician and philoso-
pher, has shown, both by precept and example,
what improvements French music may still admit
of, 3'et his countrymen seem little convinced by his
reasonings : and the Pont-Neuf taste, as it is called,
still prevails in their best performances.
The English school was first planned by Purcel:
he attempted to unite the Italian manner, that pre-
vailed 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 bal«
lads, " The Broom of Cowdenknows," for instance,
are still ascribed to David Rizzio. But be that as
it will, his manner was something peculiar to the
English ; and he might have continued as head of
the English school, had not his merits been en-
tirely eclipsed by Handel. Handel, though origi-
nally a German, yet adopted the English manner;
he had long laboured to please by Italian composi-
tion, but without success ; and though his English
oratorios are accounted inimitable, yet his Italian
operas are fallen into oblivion. Pergolese excelled
in passionate simplicity : Lully was remarkable for
creating a new species of music, where all is ele-
gant, but nothing passionate or sublime ; Handel's
true characteristic is sublimity ; he has employea
all the variety of sounds and parts in all his pieces;
the pcrfomances of the rest may l)e pleasing, though
executed by few performers ; his requires the full
520
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
band. The attention is awakened, the soul is
roused up at his pieces : but distinct passion is sel-
dom expressed. In this particular he has seldom
found success ; he has been obliged, in order to
express passion, to imitate words by sounds,
which, though it gives the pleasure which imitation
always produces, yet it fails of exciting those last-
ing affections which it is in the power of sounds
to produce. In a word, no man ever understood
harmony so well as he : but in melody he has been
exceeded by several.
[The following Objections to the preceding Es-
say having been addressed to Dr. Smollett
(as Editor of the British Magazine, in which
it first appeared), that gentleman, with equal
candour and politeness, communicated the MS.
to Dr. Goldsmith, who returned his answers
to the objector in the notes annexed. — Edit.]
Permit me to object against some things ad-
vanced in the paper on the subject of The Dir-
Terent Schools of Masic. The author of this
article seems too hasty in degrading the harmoni-
ous Purcel* from the head of the English school,
to erect in his room a foreigner (Handel), who has
not yet formed any school.t The gentleman,
when he comes to communicate his thoughts upon
the different schools of painting, may as well place
Rubens at the head of the English painters, be-
cause he left some monuments of his art in Eng-
' Had the objector eaii melodious Purcel, it had testified at
least a greater acquaintance with music, and Parcel's peculiar
excellence. Purcel in melody is frequently great : his song
made in his last siclcness, called Rosy Bowers is a fine instance
of this: but in harmony he is far short of the meanest of our
modern composers, his fullest harmonies being exceedingly
simple. His Opera of Prince Artliur, the words of which
were Dryden's, is reclconed his finest piece. But what is that
In point of harmony, to what we every day hear from modem
masters'! In short, with respect to genius, Purcel had a fine
one ; he greatly improved an art but little known in England
before his time : for this he deserves oiur applause : but the pre-
sent prevailing taste in music is very different from what he
left it, and who was the improver since his time we shall see
by and by.
1 Handel may be said as justly as any man, not Pergolese
excepted, to have foimded 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 what foreigners call the point d'ar-
gue too closely and injudiciously. But in his Oratorios he
is perfectly an original genius. In thete, by steering between
the manners of Ita>y and England, he has struck out new
harmonies and formed a species of music different from all
others. He has left some excellent and eminent scholars,
particularly Worgan and Smith, who compose nearly in his
manner : a manner as different from Purcel's as from that of
modem Italy, Co^isequemly Handel may be placed at the
licad of the English school
land.* He says, that Handel, though originally
a. German (as most certainly he was, and continued
so to his last breath), yet adopted the English
manner.t Yes, to be sure, just as much as Ru-
bens the painter did. Your correspondent, in the
course of his discoveries, tells us besides, that
some of the best Scotch ballads, " The Broom of
Cowdenknows," for instance, are still ascribed to
David Rizzio.t This Rizzio must have been a
most original genius, or have possessed extraordi-
nary imitative powers, to have come, so advanced
■ 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 England those essential differences
which characterize his music ; we have already shown that
he had them not upon his arrival. Had Rubens come over to
England but moderately skilled in his art ; had he learned here
all his excellency in coloiuring and correctness of designing ;
had he left several scholars excellent in his manner behind
him ; I should not scmple 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. Tlius
Champagne, who painted ui the maimer of the French school,
is always placed among the painters of that school, though he
was born in Flanders, and should consequently, by the object-
or's rule, be placed among the Flemish painters. Kneller is
placed in the German school, and Oitade in the Dutch,
though bom in the same city. Priraatis, who may be truly
said to have founded the Roman school, was born in Bologna j
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, ii. is hoped, will be
sufficient to prove, that Handel, though a German, may be
placed at the head of 'he Eriglish school.
I Handel was originally a 6erman; but by a long continuance
in England, he might have been looked upon as naturalized to
the country. I do not pretend to be a fine writer ; however,
if the gentleman dislikes the expression (although he must be
convinced it is a common one), 1 wish it were mended.
I I said that they were ascribed to David Rizzio. That they
are, the objector need only look into Mr. Oswald's Collection
of Scotch tunes, and he wiU there find not only " The Broom
of Cowdenknows," but also "The Black Eagle," and several
other of the best Scotch tunes, ascribed to him. Tliough this
might be a sufficient answer, yet I must be permitted to go
farther, to tell the objector the opinion of our best modern
musicians in this particular. It is the opmion of the melo-
dious Geminiani, that we have in the dominions of great
Britain no original music except the Irish; the Scotch and
English being originally borrowed from the Italians. And
that his opinion in this respect is just (for I would not be
swayed merely by authorities,) it is very reasonable to sup-
pose, fu-st from the conformity between the Scotch and an-
cient Italian music. They who compare the old French Vau-
devilles, brought from Italy by Rinuccini, with those pieces
a.scri1ied to David Rizzio, who was pretty nearly contempora-
ry with him, will find a strong resemblance, notwithstanding
the op]X)site characters of the two nations which have pre-
served those pieces. When I would have them compared, 1
mean I would have their bases compared, by which the simi'
litude may be most exactly seen. Secondly, it is reasonable
from the ancient masic of tlie Scotch, which is still preserved
in the Highlands, and which bears no resemblance at all to
the music of the low -country. The Highland tunes are sung to
Irish words, and flow entirely in the Irisli manner On the
other hand, the Lowland music is always sung to Eiigliaii
words.
ESSAYS.
521
in life as he did, from Italy, and strike so far out
of tlie common road of his own country's music.
A mere fiddler,* a shallow coxcomb, a giddy, in-
solent, worthless fellow, to compose such pieces as
nothing but genuine sensibility of mind, and an
exquisite feeling of those passions which animate
only the finest souls, could dictate ; and in a man-
ner too so extravagantly distant from that to which
he had all his life been accustomed ! — It is impos-
sible. He might indeed have had presumption
enough to add some flourishes to a few favourite
airs, like a cobbler of old plays when he takes it
upon him to mend Shakspeare. So far he might
go ; but farther it is impossible for any one to be-
lieve, that has but just ear enough to distinguish
between the Italian and Scotch music, and is dis-
posed to consider the subject witli the least degree
of attention. S_ jj
March 18, 1760.
ens to make the best use of their time, for they
will soon, for all their present bloom, be stretched
under the table, Uke the dead body before them.
Of all the bards this country ever produced, the
last and the greatest was Carolan the Blind.
He was at once a poet, a musician, a composer,
and sung his own verses to his harp. The origi-
nal natives never mention his name without rap-
ture: both his poetry and music they have by
heart ; and even some of the English themselves,
who have been transplanted there, find his music
extremely pleasing. A song begijining
" O'Rourke's noble fere will ne'er be forgot,"
ESSAY XX. . '. '■
There can be perhaps no greater entertainment
than to compare the rude Celtic simplicity with
modern refinement. Books, however, seem inca-
pable of furnishing the parallel ; and to be ac-
quainted with the ancient manners of our own an-
cestors, we should endeavour to look for their re-
mains in those countries, which being in some
measure retired from an intercourse with other na-
tions, are still untinctured with foreign refinement,
language, or breeding.
The Irish will satisfy curiosity in this respect
preferably to all other nations I have seen. They
in several parts of that country still adhere to their
ancient language, dress, furniture, and supersti-
tions ; several customs exist among them, that still
speak their original; and in some respects Casar's
description of the ancient Britons is applicable to
them.
Their bards, in particular, are still held in great
veneration among them ; those traditional heralds
are invited to every funeral, in order to fill up the
intervals of the bowl with their songs and harps.
In these they rehearse the actions of the ancestors
of the deceased, bewail the bondage of their coun-
try under the English government, and generally
conclude with advising the young men and maid-
• David Rizzio was neither a mere fldtUer, nor a shaUow
coxcomh nor a worthlesA fellow, nor a stranger in Scotland.
He had indeed been brought over from Piedmont, to be put
at the head of a band of music, by King James V. one of the
Jtiost elegant princes of his time, an exquisite judge of music,
113 wed as cf poetry, architecture, and all the fine ails. Rizzio,'
at the time of his deatli, had been above twenty years iri
Scotland : he was secretary to the Queen, and at the same
time an agent from the Pope ; m that lie could not be so ob-
■ture as he has be«n represeated.
translated by Dean Swift, is of his composition ;
which, though perhaps by this means the best
known of his pieces, is yet by no means the most
deserving. His songs in general may be compared
to those of Pindar, as they have frequently the
same flights of imagination ; and are composed (I
do not say written, for he could not write) merely
to flatter some man of fortune upon some excel-
lence of the same kind„ In these one man is
praised for the excellence of his stable, as in Pin-
dar, another for his hospitality, a third for the
beauty of his wife and children, and a fourth for
the antiquity of his family. Whenever any of
the original natives of distinction were assem-
bled at feasting or revelling, Carolan was generally
there, where he was always ready with his liarp
to celebrate their praises. He seemed by nature
formed for his profession ; for as he was born blind,
so also he was possessed of a most astonishing
memory, and a facetious turn of thinking, which
gave his entertainers infinite satisfaction. Being
once at the house of an Irish nobleman, where
there was a musician present who was eminent in
the profession, Carolan immediately challenged him
to a trial of skill. To carry the jest forward, his
Lordship persuaded the musician to accept the
challenge, and he accordingly played over on his
fiddle the fifth concerto of Vivaldi. Carolan, im-
mediately taking his harp, played over the vJhoIe
piece after him, without missing a note, though he
never heard it before ; which produced some sur-
prise : but their astonishment increased, when he
assured them he could make a concerto in the
same taste himself, which he instantly composed;
and that with such spirit and elegance, that it may
compare (for we have it still) with the finest com-
positions of Italy.
His death was not more remarkable tli an his
life. Homer was never more fond of a glass than
he ; he would drink whole pints of usquebaugh,
and, as he used to think, without any ill conse-
quence. His intemperance, however, in this re-
spect, at length brought on an incurable disor-
der, and when just at the point of death, he called
for a cup of his beloved liquor. Those who wer»
592
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
standing round him, surprised at the demand, en-
deavoured to persuade him to the contrary ; but he
persisted, and, when the bowl was brought to him,
attempted to drink, but could not ; wherefore, giv-
ing away the bowl, he observed with a smile, that
it would be hard if two such friends as he and the
cup should part at least without kissing ; and then
expired.
ESSAY XXI.
Of all men who form gay illusions of distant
happiness, perhaps a poet is the mo^it sanguine.
Such is the ardour of his hopes, that they often are
equal to actual enjoyment ; and he feels more in
expectance than actual fruition. I have often re-
garded a character of this knid with some degree
of envy. A man possessed of such warm imagi-
nation commands all nature, and arrogates posses-
Bions of which the owner has a blunter reUsh.
While life continues, the alluring prospect lies be-
fore him : he travels in the pursuit with confidence,
and resigns it only with his last breath.
It is this happy confidence which gives life its
true relish, and keeps up our spirits amidst every
distress and disappointment. How much less
would be done, if a man knew how little he can
do ! How wretched a creature would he be, if he
saw the end as well as the beginning of his pro-
jects ! He would have nothing left but to sit down
in torpid despair, and exchange employment for
actual calamity.
I was led into this train of thinlcing upon lately
visiting* the beautiful gardens of the late Mr.
Shenstone, who was himself a poet, and possessed
of that warm imagination, which made him ever
foremost in the pursuit of flying happiness.
Could he but have foreseen the end of all his
schemes, for whom he was improving, and what
changes his designs were to undergo, he would
have scarcely amused his innocent life with what
for several years employed him in a most harmless
manner, and abridged his scanty fortune. As the
progress of this improvement is a true picture of
sublunary vicissitude, I could not help calling up
my imagination, which, while I walked pensively
along, suggested the following reverie.
As I was turning my batic upon a beautiful
piece of water enlivened wi',h cascades and rock-
work, and entering a dark walk by which ran a
prattling brook, the Genius of the place appeared
before me, but more resembling the God of Time,
than him more pecr.iiarly appointed to the care of
gardens. Instead of shears he bore a scythe ; and
he appeared rather with the implements of hus-
bandry, than those of a modern gardener. Having
1773
rememl)ered this place in its {)ristine beauty, I
could not help condoling with him on its present
ruinous situation. I spoke to him of the many
alterations which had been made, and all for the
worse ; of the many shades which had been taken
away, of the bowers that were destroyed by ne-
glect, and the hedge-rows that were spoiled by clip-
ping. The Genius with a sigh received my con-
dolement, and assured me that he was equally a
martyr to ignorance and taste, to refinement and
rusticity. Seeing me desirous of knowing farther,
he went on:
" You see, in the place before you, the paternal
inheritance of a poet ; and, to a man content with
little, fully sufficient for his subsistence : but a
strong imagination and a long acquaintance with
the rich are dangerous foes to contentment. Our
poet, instead of sitting down to enjoy life, resolved
to prepare for its future enjoyment, and set about
converting a place of profit into a scene of plea-
sure. This he at first supposed could be accom-
plished at a small expense ; and he was willing for
a while to stint his income, to have an opportunity
of displaying his taste. The improvement in this
manner went forward ; one beauty attained led him
to wish for some other ; but he still hoped that
every emendation would be the last. It was now
therefore found, that the improvement exceeded
the subsidy, that the place was grown too large and
too fine for the inhabitant. But that pride which
was once exhibited could not retire ; the garden
was made for the owner, and though it was be-
come unfit for him he could not willingly resign it
to another. Thus the first idea of its beauties con-
tributing to the happiness of his life was found un-
faithful ; so that, instead of looking within for sat-
isfaction, he began to think of having recourse to
the praises of those who came to visit his improve-
ment.
"In consequence of this hope, which now took
possession of his mind, the gardens were opened
to the visits of every stranger ; and the country
flocked round to walk, to criticise, to admire, and
to do mischief. He soon found, that the admirers
of his taste left by no means such strong marks
of their applause, as the envious did of their
malignity. All the windows of his temples, and
the walls of his retreats, were impressed with the
characters of profaneness, ignorance, and obsceni-
ty ; his hedges were broken, his statues and urns
defaced, and his lawns worn bare. It was now
therefore necessary to shut up the gardens once
more, and to deprive the public of that happiness,
which had before ceased to be his own.
" In this situation the poet continued for a time
in the character of a jealous lover, fond of the beau-
ty he keeps, but unable to supply the extravagance
of every demand. The garden by this time was
completely grown and finished; the marks of art were
ESSAYS.
523
covered up by the luxuriance of nature; the wind-
ing wallcs were grown dark ; the brook assumed a
natural sylvage ; and the rocks were covered with
moss. Nothing now remained but to enjoy the
beauties of the place, when the poor poet died, and
his garden was obliged to be sold for the benefit
of those who had contributed to its embellishment.
^ ••' The beauties of the place had now for some
.time been celebrated as well in prose as in verse ;
and all men of taste wished for so envied a spot'
where every urn was marked with the poet's pen-
cil, and every walk awakened genius and medita-
tion. The first purchaser was one Mr. True-
penny, a button-maker, who was possessed of three
thousand pounds, and was willing also to be pos-
sessed of taste and genius.
" As the poet's ideas were for the natural wild-
ness of the landscape, the button-maker's were for
the more regular productions of art. He conceiv-
ed, perhaps, that as it is a beauty in a button to be
of a regular pattern, so the same regularity ought
to obtain in a landscape. Be this as it will, he e'm-
ployed the shears to some purpose ; he chpped up
the hedges, cut down the gloomy walks, made vis-
tas upon the stables and hog-sties, and showed his
friends that a man of taste should always be doing.
"The next candidate for taste and genius wasli
captain of a ship, who bought the garden because
the former possessor could find nothing more to
mend ; but unfortujiately he had taste too. His
great passion lay in buikUng, in making Chinese
temples, and cage-work summer-houses. As the
place before had an appearance of retirement, and
inspired meditation, he gave it a more peopled air ;
every turning presented a cottage, or ice-house, or
a temple ; the improvement was converted into a
little city, and it only wanted inhabitants to give it
the air of a village in the East Indies.
"In this manner, in less than ten years, the im-
provement has gone through the hands of as many
proprietors, who were all willing to have taste, and
to show their taste too. As the place had received
its best finishing from the hand of the first possessor,
so every innovator only lent a hand to do mischief.
Those parts which were obscure, have been en-
lightened ; those walks which led naturally, have
Jeen twisted into serpentine windings. The colour
of the flowers of the field is not more various than
.he variety of tastes that have been employed here,
and all in direct contradiction to the original aiin
of the first improver. Could the original possessor
but revive, with what a sorrowful heart would he
look upon his favourite spot again ! He would
scarcely recollect a Dryad or a Wood-nvmph of his
former acquaintance, and might perhaps find him-
self as much a stranger in his own plantation as in
the deserts of yiberia."
ESSAY XXII.
The theatre, like all other amusements, has its
fashions and its prejudices; and when satiated with
Its excellence, mankind begin to mistake chang©
for improvement. For some years tragedy wad
the reigning entertainment; but of late it has en-
tirely given way to comedy, and our best efforts
are now exerted in these lighter kinds of compos!
tion. The pompous train, the swelling phrase,
and the unnatural rant, are displaced for that
natural portrait of human folly and frailty, of
which all are judges, because all have sat for the
picture.
But as in describing nature it is presented with
a double face, either of mirth or sadness, our modern
writers find themselves at a loss which chiefly to
copy from; and it is now debated, whether the
exhibition of human distress is likely to aiTord the
mind more entertainment than that of human ab-
surdity?
Comedy is defined by Aristotle to be a picture
of the frailties of the lower part of mankind, to dis-
I tinguish it from tragedy, which is an exhibition of
the misfortunes of the great. When comedy there-
fore ascends to produce the characters of princes oi
generals upon the stage, it is out of its walk, since
low life and middle life are entirely its object. The
principal question therefore is, whether in describ
ing low or middle life, an exhiiiition of its follies
be not preferable to a detail of its calamitiesi Or,
in other words, which deserves the preference— the
weeping sentimental comedy so much in fashion
at present,* or the laughing and even low comedy,
which seems to have been last exhibited by Vaji-
brugh and Gibber?
If we apply to authorities, all the great masters
m the dramatic art have but one opinion. Their
rule is, that as tragedy displays the calamities of
the great, so comedy should excite our laughter,
by ridiculously exhibiting the follies of the lowei
part of mankind. Boileau, one of the best modern
critics, asserts, that comedy will not admit of trat^ic
distress: "
Le comique, ennemi des soupirs et cieg pleurg,
N'adniet point dans ses vers de tragiques douleius.
Nor is this rule without the strongest foundation
in nature, as the distresses of the mean by no
means afTectus so strongly as the calamities of the
great. When tragedy exhibits to us some great
man iallen from his height, and struir.Tlipo- tvith
want and adversity, we feel his situa^tFon In the
same manner as we suppose he himself must feel,
and our pity is increased in proportion to the height
• 1773
524
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
from which he fell. On the contrary, we do not
80 strongly sympathize with one born in humbler
circumstances, and encountering accidental dis-
tress: so that while we melt for Belisarius, 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 pity 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 the 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 reproached by Csesar for wanting the
vis comica. All the other comic writers of anti-
quity aim only at rendering folly or vice ridiculous,
but never exalt their characters into buskined
pomp, or make what Voltaire humorously calls a
tradesman's tragedy.
Yet, notwithstanding this weight of authority and
the universal practice of former ages, a new species
of dramatic composition has been introduced under
the name o{ sentimental comedy, in which the vir-
tues of private hfe are exhibited, 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 great success, per-
haps from their novelty, and also from their flatter-
ing every man in his favourite foible. In these
plays almost all the characters are good, and ex-
ceedingly generous ; they are lavish enough of their
tin money on the stage ; and though they want
humour, have abundance of sentiment and feeUng.
If they happen to have faults or foibles, the spec-
tator is taught, not only to pardon, but to applaud
them, in consideration of the goodness of their
hearts ; so that folly, instead of being ridiculed, is
commended, 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 formed to
amuse mankind, and that it matters little, if this
end be answered, by what means it is obtained.
If mankind find delight in v^'eeping at comedy, it
■would be cruel to abridge them 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. Tlien
success, it will be said, is a mark of their ment,
and it is only abridging our happiness to deny ns
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 cha-
racter supported throughout a piece, with its ridi-
cule 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 the 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. Giles's."
The other objection is as ill-grounded ; for though
we should give these pieces another name, it will
not mend their efficacy. It will continue a kind
of mulish production, with all the defects of its op-
posite parents, and marked with sterility. If we
are permitted to make comedy weep, we have an
equal right to make tragedy laugh, and to set down
in blank verse the jests and repartees of all the at-
tendants in a funeral procession.
But there is one argument in favour of senti-
mental comedy which will keep it on the stage in
spite of all that can be said against it. It is of all
others the most easily written. Those abilities
that can hammer out a novel, are fully sufiScient
for the production of a sentimental comedy. It is
only sufficient to raise the characters a little ; Xa
deck out the hero with a riband, or give the heroine
a title; then to put an insipid dialogue, without
character or humour, 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 conversa-
tion through the whole, and there is no doubt but
all the ladies will cry, and all the gentlemen ap
plaud.
Humour at present seems to be departing from
the stage, and it will 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 drive those poor merry creatures
from the stage, or sit at a play as gloomy as at the
tabernacle. It is not easy to recover an art when
once lost; and it will be but a just punishment,
that when, by our being too fastidious, we havs
banished humour from the stage, we should our-
selves be deprived of the art of laughing.
' EbSAYS.
52*
ESSAY XXIII.
As I see you are fond of gallantry, and seem
willing to set young people together as soon as you
can, I can not help lending my assistance to your
endeavours, as I am greatly concerned in the at-
tempt. You must know, sir, that I am landlady
of one of the most noted inns on the road to Scot-
brjd, and have seldom less than eight or ten couples
a-week, who go down rapturous lovers, and return
man arid wife.
If there be in this world an agreeable situation,
it must be that in which a young couple find them-
selves, when just let loose from confinement, and
whirling off to the land of promise. When the
post-chaise is driving off, and the blinds a»-e drawn
up, sure nothing can equal it. And yet, I do not
know how, what with the fears of being pursued,
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 dis-
contented.
But if it be ■ ••»ing down, how is it with them
coming back? Havmg 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 himself 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 the wedding : I
was conducted with great ceremony from the table
to the bed ; and I do not find that it any ways di-
minished my happiness with my husband, while,
poor man ! he continued with me. For my part,
I am entirely for doing things in the old family
wav; I hate your new-fashioned manners, and
never loved an outlandish marriage in my liff.
As 1 have had numbers 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. 1 can not say that I ever heard much good
come of them ; and of a 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 their 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, he did not take proper measure of the young
lady's disposition ; they quarrelled at my house on
their return ; so she left him for a cornet of dra-
goons, and he went back to his shop-board.
Miss Rachel Runfort went off with a grenadier.
They epent 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 Racket 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 holding the whip. This bred a dispute : and
before they were a fortniglit together, she felt that
he could exercise the whip on somebody else be-
sides the horses.
Miss Meekly, though all compliance to the will
of her lover, could never reconcile him to the 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 Rosemary-lane.
The next couple of whom I have any account,
actually Uved together in great harmony and un-
cloying kindness for no less than a month ; but the
lady who was a little in years, having parted with
her fortune to her dearest hfe, he left her to make
love to that better part of her which he valued more.
The next pair consisted of an Irish fortune-hunt-
er, and one of the prettiest modestest ladies that
ever my eyes beheld. As he was a well-looking
gentleman, all dressed in lace, and as she was very
fond of him, I thought they were blessed 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 to parliament.
In this manner we see that all those marriages
in which there is interest on the one side and diso-
bedience on the other, are not likely to promise a
large 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 blood has boiled in my veins, when
I saw a young fellow of twenty, kneeling at the feet
of a twenty thousand pounder, professing his pas-
sion, while he was taking aim at her money. I do
not deny hut there may be love in a Scotch mar-
riage, hut 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, had a daughter, who,
as you shall see, was not very handsome. It was
the opinion of every body that this young woman
would not soon be married, as she wanted two
main articles, beauty and fortune. But for all this,
a very well-looking man, that happened to be trav-
elling those parts, came and asked the cxcisemac
526
GOLDSMITH'S WORKS.
for his daughter in marriage. The exciseman
willmg to deal openly oy him, asked him if he had
seen the girl; "for," says he, "she is hump-
backed." — "Very well," cried the stranger, "that
will do for me." — " Ay," says the e.Kciseman, " but
my daughter is as brown as a berry." — " So much
the better," cried the stranger, " such skins wear
well." — "But she is bandy-legged," says the ex-
ciseman. — "No matter," cries the other; "her pet-
ticoats will hide that defect," — " But then she is
very poor, and wants an eye." — " Your description
delights me," cries the stranger : " I have been
looking out for one of her make ; for I keep an ex-
hibition of wild beasts, and intend to show her off
for a CMmpanzee."
ESSAY XXIV.
Mankind have ever been prone to expatiate in
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 osten-
tation which usually accompanies such as are sure
of having 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 nature; and by at-
tempting 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 glory and preservation; to have fought
their battles, and inspired their teachers: 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 first came
amongthe wretched inhabitants of the coast of Afri-
ca, these savage nations readily allowed the strangers
more skill in navigation and war ; yet still consid-
ered 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 his neck, and whose legs were
covered with ivory.
In this manner examine a savage in the history
of his country and predecessors, you over find his
warriors able to conquer armies, and his sages ac-
quainted with more than possible knowledge ; hu-
man nature is to him an unknown country ; he
thinks it capable of great things because he is ig-
norant of its boundaries; whatever can be con-
ceived bo be done, he allows to be possible, and
whatever is possible he conjectures must have been
done. He never measures the actions and powerg
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 tne
fancied power of others reflects a lustre on himseli
Thus by degrees he loses the idea of his own in-
significance in a confused notion of the extraordi-
nary powers of humanity, and is willing to grant
extraordinary gifts to every pretender, because un-
acquainted with their claims.
This is the reason why demi-gods and heroes
have ever been erected in times or countries of ig-
norance and barbarity: they addressed a people who
had high opinions of human nature, because they
v/ere ignorant how far it could extend ; they ad-
dressed a people who were willing to allow that
men should be gods, because they were yet imper-
fectly acquainted with God and with man. These
impostors knew, that all men are naturally fond
of seeing something very great made from the Utile
materials of humanity ; that ignorant 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, in-
stals a god or a hero : but though the adoring sav-
age can raise his colossus to the clouds, he can ex-
alt the hero not one inch above the standard of hu-
manity : incapable, therefore, of exalting the idol,
he debases himself, and falls prostrate before him.
When man has thus acquired an erroneous idea
of the dignity of his species, he and the gods be-
come perfectly intimate; men are but angels, angels
are but men ; nay, but servants that stand in wait-
ing, to execute human commands. The Persians,
for instance, thus address the prophet Hali : "I sa-
lute thee, glorious Creator, of whom the sun is but
the shadow. Masterpiece of the Lord of human
creatures. Great Star of Justice and Religion. The
sea is not rich and liberal, but by the gifts of thy
munificent hands. The angel treasurer 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 Hea-
ven, 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 throne of God, 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 a degree of satirical contempt
must they listen to the songs of little mortals thus
flattering each other! thus to see creatures, wiser
1 indeed than the monkey, and more active than the
ESSAYS.
527
•yster, claiming tothemselves a mastery of Heaver'
minims, the tenants of an atom, thus arrogatmg 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 regards 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 bar-
barous nations, I do not know that any man became
a god in a country where the inhabitants were re-
fined. Such countries generally have too close an
inspection into human weakness to think it invest-
ed with celestial power. They sometimes, indeed,
admit the gods of strangers or of their ancestors,
who had their existence in times of obscurity ; their
weakness being forgotten, while 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 thia
day, were brought from the barbarous nations
around them. The Roman emperors who pre-
tended to divinity, were generally taaght by a
poniard tliat they were mortal; and Alexander,
though he passed among barbarous countries for a
real god, could never persuade liis polite country-
men into a sunilitude of thinking. The Lacede-
monians shrewdly complied with his commands by
the following sarcastic edict :
'El AXi^civJ'iiO! CovKrrau uvm ©Mf, 0«c lW«fc
THE END.
I ..
* .
■'•- '•< <t.
'\ <.
. . '^ " V '■ ^'
■ y
V •
'A ■
>
■v-^
*\
v^
My Angel Guide.
BY MES. EMILY C. JUI)SO>'.
I gazed cloTTii life's dim labyrmtb,
A wilderiiig maze to Bee»
Crossed o'ev by many a tangled clue.
And wild as wild could be ;
Aud as I gazed iu doubt and dread,
Au angel came to mc>
1 knew biro for a heavenly gizidCv
I knew him eren then,
Though meekly as a '/liild be stood
Among the sod^ of men—
By his deep and apirit-lovelinesa
I knew him e^ttn then.
2
And as I leaned my weary head
Upon his proffered breast,
And scanned the perii-hauntad TSiM
From oiit my place of rest,
1 wondered if the shining ones
Of Rcldb were more blest.
For there was light witHn msy sou!.
Light on my peaceful- way,
And all aronud the blue above,.
The clustering starlight lay;
And easterly I saw upreared
The pearly gates of day.
So, hand in hand we trod the wild.
My angel love and I—
Hie lifted wing all quiverinp*
With tokens from the- sky.
Strange, my dull tbouglit could not dfviE*
'T was lifted— but to fly I
Again down Kfe''s dim fabyrfntb
I grope my way alone,
While wildly tbroagh tbemidBigbt skj
Black, hurrying elotsds are blown,
And thickly in my tangled path,
The shaq.i, bare tbonxs are sown.
Yet firm my foot, for well I know
Tlie gonl cannot be far,
And ever, tbrotrgh the rifted clouds.
Shines out one steady star—
For when my guide went up, he left
The pearly gates ajar.
UC SOUTHFRN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIU'|j[
AA 000 380 012 5
CLEOPATRA BY W. W. STORY AT METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART, NE\V YORK
I See article in this issue on Modern Sculpture at the Metropolitan Mu-ieum of Art]
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