Oliver Goldsmith

DALZIELS' ILLUSTRATED
GOLDSMITH:

COMPRISING of

THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD

THE TRAVELLER

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON

THE CAPTIVITY: An Oratorio

RETALIATION

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

THE GOOD-NATURED MAN

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER

AND A SKETCH OF THE

LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

By H. W. DULCKEN, Ph. D.

WITH

ONE HUNDRED PICTURES

DRAWN BY

G. J. PINWELL,

ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.

WARD, LOCK AND CO.,

LONDON: WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.

NEW YORK: 10 BOND STREET.

CONTENTS.

A SKETCH
OF THE
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

The middle of the last century was an evil time, in England, for literature and for literary men. The period was eminently one of transition; and transition periods are always times of trial to all whose interests they affect. The old system passes away, bearing with it those who cling to it; the new system requires time until it is in working order, and those who depend upon its advent for their subsistence are sorely harassed while the turmoil lasts. Thus it was with literature at the time when Goldsmith began to write. The age in which literary men depended upon patrons had passed away. No more snug government berths, no more secretaryships, as in the time of Addison and Prior and Steele—and the time when the public was to support literature had not yet come.

Thus the author was compelled either to depend entirely on the booksellers, or to sell his pen, in true hireling fashion, to the government of the day, or to the opposition, and to scribble approval or invective at his master's dictation. Happily for his own fame, happily for English literature, the author of the "Vicar of Wakefield" chose the former alternative.

Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallas, or Pallasmore, county Longford, Ireland, on the 10th of November, 1728. He was one of a numerous family, of whom he alone attained celebrity. His father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a clergyman of the Established Church, was in very poor circumstances at the time of the birth of his famous son; but little Oliver was only two years old when the sunshine of prosperity descended upon his house, with what must have appeared to the inmates quite a blaze of noonday splendour. The small income of forty pounds a-year, upon which the Rev. Charles Goldsmith had managed painfully and penuriously to struggle on with his family, was suddenly increased to two hundred, when the rectory of Kilkenny-west was obtained by that fortunate divine; and the Goldsmiths removed to Lissoy, near Athlone.

The Rev. Charles Goldsmith seems to have possessed, in a very large degree, certain traits of character by which all the Goldsmiths were more or less distinguished. Almost culpably careless in worldly matters, his easy good-nature and kindly generous disposition frequently made him the dupe of the designing and ungrateful. Himself incapable of cunning and deceit, he imagined that all men were frank and open. The last man in the world to take an unfair advantage of his neighbour, he never suspected that any man could possibly take advantage of him. Goldsmith himself under the guise of the Man in Black, gives us an insight into affairs at the Rectory in these early days. "My father's education," the Man in Black tells us, "was above his fortune, and his generosity greater than his education." Then we hear of numerous guests entertained at the hospitable parson's table, and paying for their dinner by laughing at the host's oft-repeated jests and time-honoured anecdotes. "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. We were told that universal benevolence was what first cemented society; we were taught to consider all the wants of mankind as our own; to regard the human face divine with affection and esteem; he wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us incapable of withstanding the slightest impulse made either by real or fictitious distress; in a word, we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving away thousands before we were taught the more necessary qualifications of getting a farthing."

The Man in Black—(Citizen of the World.)

In fact, this inimitable Man in Black, who appears as one of the characters in Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," is, in many respects, a counterpart of Goldsmith himself. Like our author, he is overreached by every knave, and an object of contemptuous pity to all the worldly wise. He tries one position after another, and fails in each, chiefly through his honesty and credulity. He cannot succeed as follower to a great man, because he will not flatter where he disapproves; he loses his mistress because he believes her sincere when she expresses admiration of him, and detestation of his rival's high-heeled shoes. Everywhere he is snubbed and elbowed away by men more versed than himself in the ways of the world; but, like Goldsmith again, he has an easy, good-humoured philosophy, that carries him gaily through trials and troubles that would have swamped other men. As he cannot be rich and happy, he resolves to be poor and contented. He does not "invoke gods and men to see him dining upon a ha'porth of radishes;" but rather tries to persuade himself and others that a vegetable diet suits him. And he has his reward in the verdict universally pronounced upon him—that he "is very good-natured, and has not the least harm in him."

On a lad of ordinary disposition, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith's peculiar ideas would, perhaps, have had little effect. The small world of the school-room, and the larger world in which he would afterwards have to play his part, could scarcely fail to teach him to distinguish between real and fictitious distress, and to give him the prudence which makes charity begin at home, and, indeed, too often causes it to end there. But the Goldsmiths were not ordinary people. Warm-hearted, and of large sympathy—anxious to relieve the distress of all who sued to them for aid—they were the very persons whom the prudent and prosperous are ever holding up to ridicule, as dupes and simpletons, utterly deficient in wisdom—as though there existed no other than worldly wisdom; as though "our being's end and aim" were the attainment of wealth. And here, at the very outset, we come upon the cause of many of the troubles and cares that beset Oliver Goldsmith throughout his entire career. His kindly nature led him to relieve distress wherever he found it; and, as his disposition became known, there is no doubt that distress—real and feigned—sought him out pertinaciously enough.

The words he wrote of his brother Henry, the benevolent clergyman—"passing rich on forty pounds a year"—and whose "pride" was to "relieve the wretched," might be equally applied to himself. When applicants for succour came to him—

"Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began."

But the wish to relieve was so largely in excess of the power, that frequently when Justice called to present a claim for payment Generosity had been beforehand, and had carried away the money; and Justice had to wait, or, alas, in too many cases, to go away unsatisfied. Thus the most humiliating position in which Goldsmith was ever placed in the days of his direst poverty, arose from his hastily obeying an impulse to relieve the landlord of his miserable lodgings, who had been arrested for debt, and whose wife came to Goldsmith, weeping and wringing her hands. Thinking only how he could liberate the poor man by the only means in his power, the poet rushed off and pledged some books, and a suit of clothes, procured on the credit of Ralph Griffiths, a bookseller, that Goldsmith might appear decently at an examination, which he failed to pass, and dire was the wrath of Griffiths on the occasion.

The young days of Oliver Goldsmith offer nothing very remarkable to record. He was considered a dull boy by his first instructors, though there are indications at times of poetical talent. One of his sisters married a gentleman of fortune of the name of Hodson, to whom Henry Goldsmith, Oliver's eldest brother, was tutor. In order that his daughter might not enter this family without a suitable marriage portion, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith made a sacrifice, which, while it impoverished the whole family, was peculiarly detrimental to the fortunes of Oliver. He executed a bond, pledging himself to pay four hundred pounds as the marriage portion of his daughter Catherine. The immediate effect of this proceeding was that Oliver was obliged to enter, in the humblest possible manner, upon the college career he was about to commence. On the 11th of June, 1745, Oliver Goldsmith was admitted as a sizar of Trinity College, Dublin.

Very wretched and very unsatisfactory was his life at that seat of learning. The menial duties exacted in return for the reduced expense of the sizar's education disgusted him. The brutalities of his tutor Wilder, a man at once ferocious and pedantic, and totally unable to appreciate the young scholar's genius, caused him the keenest mortification; and to these ills were added the grinding poverty with which he now first became familiar; a poverty occasionally alleviated by gifts from his uncle, the Rev. Mr. Contarine, a truly kind-hearted and benevolent man, to whom our poet was bound to the last by ties of affectionate gratitude. Now also his father died, and his necessities became greater than ever. We hear of him, writing ballads, and selling the copyrights at five shillings each; then stealing out at night to hear these, the earliest efforts of his muse, sung through the streets.

A small triumph, in the shape of an exhibition, worth some thirty shillings, induced the young awkward student to give a very humble kind of ball at his rooms. To this ball came an unexpected visitor in the shape of Wilder the tutor, who put the guests to flight, and publicly beat the host. Smarting under the disgrace, Goldsmith quitted the college, and was only induced, after a time, to return by the persuasions of his brother Henry, who brought about a reconciliation, or rather a truce, between Oliver and his tyrant. On the 27th of February, 1749, he obtained his B.A. degree, and, returning home, remained for a time idle and unemployed, looking out for the chance of a career. He presented himself for ordination and was refused; was a tutor in a private family, and left in consequence of a quarrel; was furnished with funds by Uncle Contarine to study law, lost his money, and appeared again at home destitute. At length, with some last assistance from the friendly uncle's purse, he started on a tour through Europe; travelling, not like the majority of British tourists in coach and on horseback, but on foot and alone, making his way from place to place, and studying men rather than science. Important, and rich in results for his whole future life, was this remarkable journey. And, among the most memorable of its effects was, that it suggested the poem of the "Traveller." Marvellously true were the views taken by the poor student of the various lands through which he passed; and remarkable were the words in which, in one of his early essays, he predicted the change that was coming upon France. Clearly and distinctly he heard the first far-off mutterings of the great revolutionary storm. He saw the growth and spread of the spirit of freedom among the people, and while others cried "peace" when there was no peace, he distinctly and clearly foresaw the great crash of revolution that was coming.

Early in the year 1756 Oliver Goldsmith found himself alone in London. He was in his twenty-eighth year—without a profession, almost utterly friendless, and destitute of all means of subsistence. Of this part of his life he could be scarcely ever induced to speak in his later and happier days; but here and there we get a glimpse which shows us that it must have been dreary in the extreme. At Sir Joshua Reynolds's he once startled the company by commencing an anecdote with "When I lived among the beggars in Axe Lane;" and there is something very significant in the way in which the pangs of starvation are described in his "Natural History." He must have felt those pangs himself to describe them so graphically.

By various means he made a shift to live. At one time he pounded drugs for an apothecary near London Bridge; at another, he attempted to practise physic amongst the poorest of the poor. Now we find him correcting press proofs for a printer; and now he is settled for a time as usher in Dr. Milner's boys' school at Peckham. We have a picture of him here, drawn by Miss Milner, the principal's daughter. He is described as exceedingly good-natured, always ready to amuse the boys with his flute, giving away his money, or spending it in tarts and sweetmeats for the boys as soon as he received it, and generally recommending himself by his amiability and kindliness of heart. But Goldsmith himself considered this servitude at the Peckham Academy as the most dreary period of his life. The position of an usher was at that time, if possible, worse than it is now; and the mortifications he experienced at Peckham helped to throw a shadow over his later life.

But on a certain day in April, 1757, Ralph Griffiths, a prosperous London bookseller, dined at Peckham, with the Milners. He was the proprietor of a critical magazine; and, as the conversation turned on the literature of the day, Griffiths became aware that the remarks made by the poor usher were not those of an ordinary man. He took him aside, and asked if he would undertake to write some literary notices and reviews. The offer was accepted, as was also the very moderate salary Griffiths offered in return for the daily services of the writer; and thus at last Goldsmith was fairly started in authorship, and beginning to serve his apprenticeship to letters.

A dreary apprenticeship it was. Griffiths, and Griffiths' wife, ruled over their "hack" author with a rod of iron; curtailed his leisure, carped at the amount of "work" done, and ruthlessly altered his articles. He began with some reviews, which, for their elegance of style, facility of expression, and gracefulness of fancy, must have astonished the readers of the ordinarily dull and common-place "Monthly Review." Soon, however, the tyranny of the Griffiths pair became intolerable; a quarrel ensued, and the connexion between master and servant was broken off. Goldsmith established himself in a garret in a court near Fleet Street, and began the almost hopeless attempt to support himself independently by miscellaneous writing.

Very hard and bitter was the struggle through which he had to pass; and now and then he made efforts to emancipate himself entirely from the thraldom of literature. Indeed, we even find him once more at his desk at Dr. Milner's school, at Peckham. He obtained an appointment as medical officer in the East India Company's service on the Coromandel coast, but lost it, probably through inability to pay his passage and procure the necessary outfit. Then, as a last resource, he presented himself for examination at Surgeons' Hall, intending to become a "hospital mate;" but was rejected, as the books of the society record, as "not qualified." Thus, perforce driven back to literature, he girded himself up manfully for the struggle; and gradually the dawn of a better day began to break. The long and hard battle he had fought had at length produced one gain for him. He was known to the bookselling fraternity; and, as they would have phrased it, "his value in the market began to rise." A number of new magazines were started simultaneously, and the proprietors were naturally anxious to secure the services of Goldsmith's graceful pen. We find him writing for several magazines at once, and receiving a respectable price for his work. Thus, with the year 1759, the shadow of squalid poverty and grinding want passes away from Goldsmith's life. Happy would it have been for him had his distresses taught him prudence. But the prosperity came too late. His habits were formed; the unfortunate custom of living from hand to mouth, of flying from the thoughts of the dark future by heedless indulgence in any pleasure that could be snatched in the present—the inveterate disposition to alternate periods of over-work with intervals of thorough inaction—these were the marks which the hard conflict had left upon him—wounds which were seared over, indeed, but never thoroughly healed.

Goldsmith wandering among the streets
of the great, cold, wicked city.

But these years of adversity had also taught him lessons whose memory remained with him to the last day of his life—lessons which he was among the first to teach to the unthinking world around him. Poverty and pain had spoilt him to some extent for society—had brought upon him a melancholy which he would strive vainly to banish with fits of strained and forced hilarity—had rendered him abrupt in speech and uncouth in gesture—but never hardened his heart. He had been poor himself—miserably poor—and his sympathies were with the poor, and his voice was honestly uplifted in their behalf. Long before Sir Samuel Romilly had arisen to denounce the harshness and cruelty of our penal code—long before the eagle glance of Howard had pierced into the gloom of the debtor's fetid prison, Goldsmith pointed out the effects of harsh legislation, and the evils and contamination of our gaols.He would leave his home at night to wander among the streets of the great, cold, wicked city, taking note of the misery and destitution he found there, and sympathising with the distress of the wretched outcasts whom none else would succour or befriend. And manfully was his voice raised against those who, having caused much of that wretchedness, were suffered, by a false and heartless system of mock morality, to escape the penalty of infamy they had justly incurred.

In a publication called the "Bee," which he edited, there is a paper of matchless pathos, entitled a "City Nightpiece," in which he indignantly draws attention to poor houseless girls, who have been flattered and cozened into sin, and then left desolate in their misery. He concludes with the following withering denunciation of the authors of all this misery:—

"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',[^[1]] and now steals out, to give a loose to his vices under the protection of midnight—vices more atrocious because he attempts to conceal them. See how he pants down the dark alley; and, with hastening steps, fears an acquaintance in every face. He has passed 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."

Goldsmith's Essays, afterwards collected by himself into a volume, were chiefly written between 1758 and 1762. In this kind of writing he peculiarly excelled; and his friend Dr. Johnson allowed him to be unrivalled in it. As a specimen of his humourous style, the following extract from the "History of a Strolling Player" may be taken as displaying the quaint drollery and quiet fun he could infuse in this style of composition. Goldsmith has picked up in one of the parks a jocose, talkative, hungry man, who proposes that the two should dine at the expense of his new acquaintance, promising that he himself will return the favour at some future time not accurately defined. Stimulated by a good dinner, and by a tankard which he takes care shall be frequently replenished, the talkative man tells his history, of which the following is a part. He has been a soldier, and finds the profession not at all to his liking. He says:

"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, as the good old man was as fond of drinking as I was, (sir, my service to you), and those who are fond of drinking never pay for other people's discharges; in short, he never answered my letter. What could be done? If I have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge, I must find an 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.

[1]. Parnell.

"Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment. I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, in order not to be overtaken, took the most unfrequented roads possible. One evening, as I was entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I afterwards found to be the curate of the parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost smothered in the mud. He desired my assistance: I gave it, and drew him out with some difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble, and was going off; but I followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own door. The curate asked 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 unfinished bottle that I could lay my hands on: whatever eatable came in my way was sure to disappear. In short, they found I would not do; so I was discharged one morning, and paid three shillings and sixpence for two months' wages.

The Strolling Player.

"While my money was getting ready, I employed myself in making preparations for my departure. Two hens were hatching in an outhouse—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 knapsack on my back, and a staff in my hand, I bade adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far from the house when I heard behind me a cry of 'stop thief!' but this only increased my dispatch: it would have been foolish to stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me—but hold, I think I passed those two months at the curate's without drinking. Come, the times are dry, and may this be my poison, it 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 everything of the vagabond order. They were employed in settling their baggage, which had been overturned in a narrow way: I offered my assistance, which they accepted; and we soon became so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant. This was a paradise to me; they sang, danced, drank, ate, and travelled, all at the same time. By the blood of all the Mirabels! I thought I had never lived till then; I grew as merry as a grig, and laughed at every word that was spoken. They liked me as much as I liked them: I was a very good figure, as you may see; and though I was poor, I was not modest.

"I love a straggling life above all things in the world; sometimes good, sometimes bad; to be warm to-day, and cold to-morrow; to eat when one can get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it stands before me. We arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took a large room at the 'Greyhound,' where we resolved to exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave, and the garden scene. Romeo was to be 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."

Equally humourous is the account of Mr. Jack Spindle, the "good-natured man," who has been pestered during his prosperity with offers of service, which he finds suddenly and unaccountably withdrawn when the sun no longer shines upon him. His friends have, one and all, been importunate with him, that he should use their name and credit if ever the time should come when he needed them; and now that this time had most certainly arrived, Jack proceeded with the most perfect good faith to put some of these assertions to the proof. To quote our author:—

"Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without any ceremony; and, as a man confident of not being refused, requested the use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had an occasion for money. 'And pray, Mr. Spindle,' replied the scrivener, 'do you want all this money?'—'Want it, sir,' says the other, 'if I did not want it I should not have asked it.'—'I am sorry for that,' says the friend; 'for those who want money when they come to borrow, will want when they should come to pay. To say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-a-days. I 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 adventurer was resolved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addressed received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship. 'Let me see,—you want a hundred guineas; and, pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer?'—'If 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 I must borrow the other thirty from some other friend.'—'And pray,' replied the friend, 'would it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know? Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no ceremony with me at any time; you know I'm your friend, when you choose a bit of dinner, or so. You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us now and then? Your very humble servant.'

"Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, he was at last resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not have from friendship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, and she had already made all the advances that her sex's modesty would permit. He made his proposal, therefore, with confidence, but soon perceived, 'No bankrupt ever found the fair one kind.' Miss Jenny and Master Billy Galoon were lately fallen deeply 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 former 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 numberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered; he was, therefore, now resolved to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one; and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted."

Jack Spindle and the Scrivener.

Poor Jack also tries to retrieve his fortunes by marriage, but finds that a penniless wooer has but small chance with the fair.

In the "Citizen of the World" are to be found some of the best essays of Goldsmith. It was a happy idea that of pourtraying our national peculiarities and customs in the light in which they might strike a foreigner; and the series contain, moreover, besides the inimitable "Man in Black," a portrait which would in itself be enough to make it immortal—the fussy, pleasant, consequential, little Beau Tibbs. Was there ever such a perseveringly happy man? He speaks of his own miserable poverty as if it were wealth, affects to prefer a bit of ox cheek and some "brisk beer" to ortolans and claret, and gives himself the airs of a lord while Mrs. Tibbs is laboriously seeing his second shirt through the washing tub. After all, there may be more true philosophy in the cheerfulness of little Tibbs than in the querulous grumbling of greater men on whom the keen wind of adversity blows and who shout vociferous complaints as they shiver in the keen blast. Beau Tibbs' hilarious cheerfulness is, after all, but an exaggerated phase of the equanimity of the "Man in Black."

Jack Spindle rejected by Miss Jenny Dismal.

It was a day in the poet's life to be marked with a white stone when he made the acquaintance of Johnson. The "great cham of literature," as Smollett called him, understood and appreciated Goldsmith better than did the shallow witlings who laughed at the poet's eccentricities and awkwardness, but had not the sense to discover his genius. And who, better than Goldsmith, could value and respect the great qualities that lay hidden under Johnson's brusque manners and overbearing roughness? Their acquaintance soon ripened into friendship—a friendship that was a joy and solace to Goldsmith until the day of his death. Just at this time Johnson, after many years' hard and unproductive toil had been rewarded with a well-earned pension. Thus lifted above the struggling crowd of his literary brethren, he filled a sort of dictatorial throne among them. In Goldsmith he took quite a peculiar interest, and quickly became what Washington Irving, in his "Life of Goldsmith," happily designates a kind of "growling supervisor of the poet's affairs."

Such a supervision was but too urgently needed. Increased means had not improved the poet's habits, or taught him self-denial. The pay for his literary labour was almost invariably drawn and spent before the task was completed, and already poor Goldsmith was becoming involved in that net of embarrassment from which he never extricated himself; and thus the following scene was one day enacted, which shall be told in Johnson's own words, as reported by the indefatigable Boswell:—"I received one morning," said Johnson, "a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begged that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. 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 got a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return; and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill."

The book thus sold for sixty pounds was the "Vicar of Wakefield," a work never surpassed for wonderful vitality of character and for beauty of colouring. The old vicar, loveable in his very weakness, and indulgent as a Christian priest should be towards the weaknesses of others—the downright honest buxom wife, whose maternal vanity at times tempts her so sorely to disobedience against the behests of her lord and master—Olivia the coquette, and Sophia the prude—Moses the honest and simple—and Burchell with his grand monosyllabic commentary of "Fudge,"—these will live so long as English Literature lasts, and be remembered with delight when the pretentious effusions of the Richardson school have vanished into the limbo of obscurity. But the outcry that has since been raised against the bookseller who only gave sixty pounds for the manuscript appears somewhat unjust. Francis Newbery gave the sum demanded by Johnson, evidently without reading the book, and on Johnson's recommendation alone. That he had no great hopes of profit from his bargain is proved by the length of time he allowed it to lie unpublished in his desk. It was not Newbery's fault that the manuscript was sent out at a pinch, to be sold for what it would bring, before it had even been read to a few discerning friends who might have given a deliberate opinion on its merits. Johnson spoke sensibly enough when he replied to the indignant protest,—" A sufficient price, too, when it was sold; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been elevated, as it afterwards was, by his 'Traveller;' and the bookseller had faint hopes of profit by his bargain. After the 'Traveller,' to be sure, it was accidentally worth more money."

The "Traveller" was now completed, and was published very shortly after the bailiff episode. It took the circle who surrounded Goldsmith completely by surprise; some of the members of the Literary Club even affected to doubt that he could have written it, and declared that the most striking passages were the work of Johnson. But Johnson himself laughed at all this, and openly and honestly proclaimed his belief in the great merits of the poem, and declared that since the death of Pope nothing equal to it had been written. The touches which describe the various shades of character in the different nations are exquisite, and can only be the result of personal observation aided by mature thought.

And now our poet resolved to try his powers in a new field—to write a comedy, the remuneration for which should pay off the debts that were fast accumulating round him. But here fresh vexation and new care awaited him. Garrick, the great actor and prosperous manager, to whom he offered the play, took upon himself the office of critic and emendator, authoritatively suggested the entire omission of Lofty, one of the best characters, and, to use an expressive vulgarism, seemed inclined to "burke" the comedy altogether. Goldsmith, smarting under the actor's patronizing criticism, became angry, refused to alter or amend the play, and finally took the manuscript out of Garrick's hands, and transferred it to the rival management of Colman at Covent Garden. But Colman, though he accepted the piece, had little or no hope that it would be a success; and he contrived to impart his own doubts and misgivings to the whole company. The fact was, that, at this period, sentimental comedy, showing men and women as they appear in the pages of novelists of a certain school, but not as they walk and talk in real life, was in the ascendant; and Hugh Kelly—a man with some ingenuity, but without a spark of genius—was the great representative of this school of writing. Now Goldsmith held that a comedy should be comic—that it should, above all things, amuse the spectators by humourous dialogue and startling action; and, in his dramatic creed, the enunciation of moral platitudes had no place. In fact, the lines Goldsmith afterwards wrote concerning Cumberland, Kelly's successor in the Sentimental School of Comedy, might well have been applied to Kelly himself:

Goldsmith and his Landlady.

"A flattering painter, who made it his care,

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are,

His gallànts are all faultless, his women divine;

And Comedy wonders at being so fine!

Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out,

Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout."

Now this Hugh Kelly had just produced a stupid comedy, insipid and full of mawkish sentimentality, and entitled "False Delicacy." It was acted at Drury Lane, while Goldsmith's "Good-Natured Man" was in rehearsal, and proved a complete success. This triumph of Kelly's further damaged the hopes of Colman and his actors. Goldsmith had made his hero, not an impossible monster of virtue, but an easy-going, kindly gentleman, who shows that excessive good-nature is, after all, only a kind of weakness. The fun was broad and hearty, and the characters were drawn in a style that differed from Kelly's as widely as a picture by Hogarth would differ from a pastoral piece by Watteau. At last the comedy was performed; and though it brought nearly five hundred pounds to the distressed poet, it was at first not successful. The taste of the town had been too much spoiled by the sentimentalisms of Kelly and his school, to appreciate at once the strong, hearty fare now offered; and especially was public opinion divided on the subject of the introduction of two bailiffs, who were then considered "low," and whose appearance is now acknowledged to be one of the best "points" in the whole play. Goldsmith declared he would write for the theatre no more: but fortunately he did not keep to his determination. Once again, in 1772, he wrote a comedy—one of the very best of our English plays—"She Stoops to Conquer," which was performed at Covent Garden, for the first time, on the 15th of March, 1773. Again was Goldsmith harassed by the misgivings of Colman, though sentimental comedy was no longer in the ascendant. It had never recovered the blow inflicted by a burlesque of Foote's, entitled "The Virtuous Housemaid; or Piety in Pattens," in which the mawkish platitudes of the sentimental school were turned into pitiless ridicule. But the laughter and cheers of a crowded house completely took Colman and the croakers by surprise; and so utter was their astonishment, that the town made sport of the doubters whose prognostications had proved so false. Colman was obliged to run away to Bath, from the shower of lampoons that hailed down upon him. One of the best of these bade him take comfort from the idea that though Goldsmith's present play succeeded, his next might fail; and advised Colman to bring about that desirable consummation, if all other methods failed, by writing the best play he could himself, and printing it in Goldsmith's name. "She Stoops to Conquer" has kept the stage for nearly a century, and bids fair long to retain its place. It was a triumph for our poet, but it was his last.

For now money troubles and embarrassments thickened more and more around him. His fame, indeed, was established; but his habits of procrastination and unthrift were but too well known. The "Deserted Village" had silenced those even who carped at the "Traveller;" his charming "Animated Nature" had brought him profit and reputation as a scientific writer; but his dilatoriness and want of method spoiled all.

Early in 1774 he was attacked by an illness to which he was subject, and as a remedy for which he obstinately insisted on dosing himself with "James's Powders." He grew rapidly worse, and to the question asked by his medical man: "Is your mind at ease?" replied with a mournful "No, it is not." For some days he fluctuated between life and death; but at last, on the morning of the 4th of April, strong convulsions came on, under which he expired.

His death was mourned by a circle of friends comprising some of the most illustrious names in the land. A public funeral was proposed for him, but negatived in consideration of his embarrassed circumstances. For, alas! in spite of the success of his later years, he owed nearly two thousand pounds. "Was ever poet so trusted before!" exclaimed sturdy old Johnson. "But," added the same honest friend, pronouncing a verdict which a century has since endorsed, "let not his failings be remembered—he was a very great man!"

DALZIELS'
ILLUSTRATED GOLDSMITH.
THE
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.

CHAPTER I.
The description of the family of Wakefield,
in which a kindred 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 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 surface, but such qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured, notable woman; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping, though I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances.

However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country and a good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusement; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown.

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry-wine, for which we had great reputation; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help from the heralds' office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that, as they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same table: so that if we had not very rich, we generally had very happy friends about us; for this remark will hold good through life, that the poorer the guest the better pleased he ever is with being treated; and as some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of a very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out of doors.

Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness; not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which 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 sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated curtsey. 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 support of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second's progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who during her pregnancy had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was by her directions called Sophia; so that we had two romantic names in the family; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years we had two sons more.

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, "Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country;"—"Ay, neighbour," she would answer, "they are as heaven made them—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 about 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 execution; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successively repeated.

Olivia and Sophia.

The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features; at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers; Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected, from too great a desire to please; Sophia even repressed excellence, from her fear to offend. The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribands has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son, George, was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of the learned professions. My second boy, Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular characters of young people that had seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all; and, properly speaking, they had but one character—that of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive.

"And having got it copied fair, with an elegant
frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece."

CHAPTER II.
Family misfortunes.—The loss of fortune only serves
to increase the pride of the worthy.

The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's management; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to about thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese; for, having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of 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 matrimony; 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 alehouses wanting customers.

Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its happiness; but there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point of supporting: for I maintained, with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the Church of England, after the death of his first wife, to take a second: or, to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict monogamist.

I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which so many laborious volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking were read only by the happy few. Some of my friends called this my weak side; but, alas! they had not, like me, made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles: as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obedience till death; and, having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty to me and my fidelity to her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end.

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church, and in circumstances to give her 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 innocence were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and such a happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so both families lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced, by experience, that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period; and the various amusements which the young couple every day shared in each other's company seemed to increase their passion. We were generally awakened in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study: they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead; for, as she always insisted upon carving everything herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us, upon these occasions, the history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us I generally ordered the table to be removed; and sometimes, with the music-master's assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country-dances, and forfeits shortened the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we played together: I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce-ace five times running.

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters: in fact my attention was fixed on another object—the completing a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my heart avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approbation: but not till too late I discovered that he was violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason; for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance; but, on the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large.

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides: he asserted that I was heterodox; I retorted the charge; he replied, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. "How!" cried I, "relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity? You might as well advise me to give up my fortune as my argument." "Your fortune," returned my friend, "I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town in whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family with the account till after the wedding; but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument; for I suppose your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the young lady's fortune secure." "Well," 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 circumstances: and as for the argument, I even here retract 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 useless to describe the different sensations of both families, when I divulged the news of our misfortune; but what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence—too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two.

"And take this book too, it will be your comfort on the way."

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 premature: but 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 family, who were to be humbled, without an education to render them callous to contempt.

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their affliction; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer 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 I could still enjoy my principles without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, having determined to increase my salary by managing a little farm.

Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the wrecks of my fortune; and, all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand 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 cannot be ignorant, my children," cried I, "that no prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us to conform to our humble situation. Let us, then, without repining, give up those splendours with which numbers are wretched, and seek, in humbler circumstances, that peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help; why then should not we learn to live without theirs? No, my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility; we have still enough left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune."

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his own. The 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 with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I 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 take this book too—it will be your comfort on the way; these two lines in it are worth a million—I have been young, and now am old; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, nor 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 I 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 increase it. The first day's journey brought us in safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were 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 morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was removing, particularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures, being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed, that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that there was scarcely a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but what had found him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph; nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to inform her husband that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning. "Want money!" replied the host, "that must be impossible; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog-stealing." The hostess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he complied, 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 something short and dry in his address, 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 misfortune, but the place to which I was going to remove. "This," cried he, "happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been detained here two days by the floods, which I hope, by to-morrow, will be found passable." I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day.

"My wife and daughters joining in entreaty,
he was prevailed upon to stay supper."

The next morning we all set forward together: my family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, 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 trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. "That," cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at some distance, "belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits 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, generosity, and singularities are so universally known? 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," replied Mr. Burchell; "at least, he carried benevolence to an excess when young, for his passions were then strong, and as they were all upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and the scholar; was soon distinguished in the army, and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded 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 persons, 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 sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found numbers disposed to solicit: his profusion 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 surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew round him crowds of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he became contemptible to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and, that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never learned to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice; and advice, when rejected, produced their reproaches. He now, therefore, found that such friends as benefits had gathered round him were little 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 affluent than ever. At present his bounties are more rational and moderate than before; but he still preserves the character of a humourist, and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues."

My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell's account, that I scarcely looked forward as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of my family; when, turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and 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 attempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished, had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity of joining our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined than described: she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a different part of the country, he took leave; and we pursued our journey, my wife observing, as he went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting that, if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family as ours, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain; but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy.

CHAPTER IV.
A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness,
which depends not on circumstances, but constitution.

The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting of farmers who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of superfluities. 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 labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true-love knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas-eve. Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor; a feast also was provided for 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 goodwill. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures, the elms and hedgerows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one storey, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures 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 coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, 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 our children.

The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the following manner: by sunrise 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 mechanical forms of good 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 innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me.

"Sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour,
and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit."

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, a 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 making of which we had lost neither the recipe nor the reputation. These harmless people had several ways of being good company; for while one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad—Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my 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 into 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 still found them secretly attached to all their former finery; they still loved laces, ribands, bugles, and catgut; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happend to say it became her.

The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were assembled 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 into a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource 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 we walk to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us." "Indeed," replied my wife, "I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him." "You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, "and I shall love you the better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. 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 may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain."

This remonstrance had the proper effect: they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones; and, what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing.

CHAPTER V.
A new and great acquaintance introduced.—What we place most
hopes upon generally proves most fatal.

At a small distance from the house my predecessor had made a seat overshaded by a hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we usually sat together to enjoy an extensive landscape in the calm of the evening. Here, too, we drank tea, which was now become an occasional banquet; and as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparation for it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these occasions our two little ones always read for us, and they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the guitar; and while they thus 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 situation in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures; every morning waked us to a repetition of toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.

It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday—for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from labour—that I had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and, by its panting, it seemed pressed by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family; but either curiosity or surprise, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, passed us with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young gentleman, of a more genteel appearance than the rest, came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of pursuing the chase stopped short, and, giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us with a careless, superior air. He seemed to want no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain of a kind reception; but they had early learned the lesson of looking presumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know that his name was Thornhill, and that he was the owner of the estate that lay for some extent around us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part of the family; and such was the power of fortune and fine clothes, that he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve 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 performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very indifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned by a curtsey. 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 taking 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 contrary, gave him a question or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed at; my little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarcely keep their dirty fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was there. At the approach of evening he took leave; but not till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to.

"Mr. Thornhill was highly delighted with their
performance and choice, and then took the guitar himself."

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion that it was a most fortunate hit; for she had known even stranger things than that brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them; and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinkles should marry great fortunes, and her children get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it neither; nor why Mr. Simkins got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we set down with a blank. "I protest, Charles," cried my wife, "this is the way you always damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new visitor? Don't you think he seemed to be good-natured?" "Immensely so, indeed, mamma," replied she; "I think he has a great deal to say upon everything, 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 like him, he is so extremely impudent and familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking." These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia internally despised as much as Olivia secretly admired him. "Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children," cried I, "to confess the truth, he has not prepossessed me in his favour. Disproportioned 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 be contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honourable; but if they be otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that! It is true, I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my children, but I think there are some from his character." I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favour than anything I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the sentinel.

CHAPTER VI.
Happiness of a country fireside.

As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order to accommodate matters it was universally agreed that we should have a part of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. "I am sorry," cried I, "that we have no neighbour or stranger to take part in this good cheer: feasts of this kind 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 heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair.

I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons: because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the poor gentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense; but in general he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads and telling them stories; and seldom 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 supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gosseberry-wine. The tale went round; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the History of Patient Grizzel, 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 alehouse. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with him. "And I," cried Bill, "will give Mr. Burchell my part, if my sisters 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 willing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear," cried I to my wife, "give those boys a lump of sugar each; and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first."

In the morning early, I called out my whole family to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and our guest offering his assistance, he was accepted among the number. Our labours went on lightly; we turned the swath to the wind; I went foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in aiding my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, he would join in hers, and enter into a close conversation: but I had too good an opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was too well convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on the night before, but he refused, as he was to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late unfortunate guest. "What a strong instance," said I, "is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance! He by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor forlorn creature! where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command? Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pandar, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they applaud the pandar: their former raptures at his wit are now converted into sarcasms at his folly: he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition to be independent nor the skill to be useful." Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. "Whatsoever his former conduct may have been, papa, his circumstances should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly: and I have heard my papa himself say, that we should never strike one unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Providence holds the scourge of its resentment." "You are right, Sophy," cried my son Moses; "and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another; besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be so bad as my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of others by what we might feel if in their place. However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apartments sufficiently lightsome. And, to confess the truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station; for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you." This was said without the least design: however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh; assuring him that she scarcely took any notice of what he said to her, but that she believed he might once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve; but I repressed my suspicions.

"I could not avoid, however, observing
the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in aiding my
daughter Sophia in her part of the task."

As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the venison-pasty; Moses sat reading, while I taught the little ones: my daughters seemed equally busy with the rest; and I observed them for a good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their mother; but little Dick informed me, in a whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to; for I knew that, instead of mending the complexion, they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair by slow degrees to the fire, and grasping 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 for a night or two.

When 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 be also conjectured, that my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage on this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next alehouse: but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all; for which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us, the day before, that he was making some proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son George's former mistress, this 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 anything more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty. "For, strike me ugly!" continued he, "if I should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the clock of St. Dunstan's." At this he laughed, and so did we: the 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 I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was the only mistress of his affections. "Come, tell us honestly, Frank," said the 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 her, on the other, which would you be for?" "For both, to be sure," cried the chaplain, "Right, 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 imposture? and I can prove it." "I wish you would," cried my son Moses; "and I think," continued he, "that I should be able to answer you." "Very well, sir," cried the squire, who immediately smoked him, and winked on the rest of the company to prepare us for the sport: "if you are for a cool argument upon the subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it analogically or dialogically?" "I am for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. "Good again!" 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 further." "Why," returned Moses, "I think I may grant that, and make the best of it." "I hope, too," returned the other, "you will 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 three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones?" "Nothing can be plainer," returned t'other, and looked round him with his usual importance. "Very well," cried the squire, speaking very quick; "the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the concatenation of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical dialogism, which, in some measure, proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable." "Hold, hold!" cried the other, "I deny that. Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines?" "What!" replied the squire, as if in a passion, "not submit! Answer me one plain question. Do you think Aristotle right when he says that relatives are related?" "Undoubtedly," replied the other. "If so, then," cried the squire, "answer me directly to what I propose: Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus? and give me your reasons, I say, directly." "I protest," cried Moses, "I don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning; but if it be reduced to one single, proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer." "Oh, sir," cried the squire, "I am your most humble servant: I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir! there I protest you are too hard for me." This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sat the 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, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of memory. She thought him, therefore, a very fine gentleman; and such as consider what powerful 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 could expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising, then, that such talents should win the affections of a girl who, by education, was taught to value an appearance in herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in another.

Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter's victory, as if it were her own. "And now, my dear," cried she to me, "I'll fairly own that it was I who 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 was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infidelity; for, depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no freethinker shall ever have a child of mine."

"Sure, father," cried Moses, "You are too severe in this; for Heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary with this gentleman; so that, allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet, as he is purely passive in 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 afford an invading enemy."

"True, my son," cried I; "but if the governor invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable; and such is always the case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they see, but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet, as we have been wilfully corrupt or very negligent in forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for our folly."

"And when he bought each of the girls a
set of ribands, hers was the finest."—p. 30.

My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argument: she observed, that several very prudent men of our acquaintance were freethinkers, and made very good husbands; and she knew some sensible girls that had had skill enough to make converts of their spouses. "And who knows, my dear," continued she, "what Olivia may be able to do? The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and, to my knowledge, is very well skilled in controversy."

"Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read? "cried I. "It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands: you certainly over-rate her merit." "Indeed, papa," replied Olivia, "she does not; I have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum and Square; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage; and I am now employed in reading the controversy in 'Religious Courtship.'" "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."

CHAPTER VIII.
An amour, which promises little good fortune,
yet may be productive of much.

The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return; but I could not refuse him my company and my fireside. It is true, his labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us with vigour, and, either in the meadow or at the hay-rick, put himself foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter: he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress; and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribands, hers was the finest. I 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 rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from the opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. "I never sit thus," says Sophia, "but I think of the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture." "In my opinion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the 'Acis and Galatea' of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends." "It is remarkable," cried Mr. Burchell, "that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little 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 connection—a string of epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate; and, indeed, I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned."

A BALLAD.

"Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow;

Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,

"To tempt the dangerous gloom;

For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

"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 little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring 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 trimmed his little fire

And cheered his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed, and smiled;

And skilled in legendary lore

The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries;

The cricket chirrups in the hearth

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answering care opprest:

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

"The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurned,

Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturned,

Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings

Are trifling and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep,

A shade that follows wealth or 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 betrayed.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view;

Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms!

And "Ah, forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn," she cried;

"Whose feet unhallowed 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 marked as mine;

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumbered suitors came;

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt or feigned a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;

Among the rest young Edwin bowed,

But never talked of love.

"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"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 shine;

Their charms were his, but, woe is me!

Their constancy was mine!

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touched my heart,

I triumphed in his pain.

"Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;