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OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
THE 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 AND OTHER WORKS. 
 
 BY 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER, LL.D^ 
 
 CASSELL «& COxMPANY, Limited, 
 
 NEW YORK, LONDON, AND PARIS. 
 

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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction i 
 
 CHAPTER I. — The description of the Family of Wakefield, in ivhich a kindted 
 
 likeness prevails^ as well of minds as of persons ...... 3 
 
 CHAPTER II. — Family misfortunes. — The loss of fortune only seri'e^ to increase 
 
 the pride of the luorthy ........... 7 
 
 CHAPTER III. — A mii^ration. — The fortunate circwnstances of our lives are gene- 
 rally found at last to be of our ow.i procuring . . . . . . . 1 1 
 
 CHAPTER IV.— yi proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, 
 
 which depends not on circtimstances but constittttion ...... 19 
 
 CHAPTER Y.—A new and great acgiiaititancc introduced. — What we place most 
 
 hopes upon., generally proves 7nost fatal ........ 22 
 
 QWP^VIY.'^ Ml.— The happiness of a country fire-side 26 
 
 CHAPTER VII. — A town wit described. — The dullest fellows may learn to be 
 
 comical for a night or two ........... 3° 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL— .4;-t amour., which promises little good fortune, yet may be pro- 
 ductive of Jiiuch ............. 34 
 
 CHAPTER IX. — T7V0 ladies of great distinction introduced. — Superior finery ever 
 
 seems to confer superior breeding ......... 39 
 
 CHAPTER X. — The family endeavours to cope with their betters. — The miseries of 
 
 the poor when they attempt to appear above their circutnstances .... 43 
 
 CHAPTER XI.— The fatnily still resolve to hold up their heads .... 47 
 
 CHAPTER Xll.— Fortune seetns resolved to humble the Family cf Wakefield. — 
 
 Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities 53 
 
 CHAPTER XU\.—Mr. Burchell zs found to be an enemy; for he has the confidence 
 
 to give disagreeable advice . . . . . • • • • • 5° 
 
 CHAPTER XIW— Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming calamities 
 
 may be real blessings . . .......... 61 
 
 CHAPTER XV.—All Mr. BurchclVs villany at once detected.— The folly of being 
 
 overwise .........••••• 66 
 
 CHAPTER XNl.— The family use art, which is opposed with still greater . . 71 
 
 CHAPTER XVll.— Scarce y any virtue found to resist the power of long and 
 
 pleasing temptation . . . . . . . . • • ' • •7° 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII.— 77/^' pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue . . 84 
 
 CHAPTER XlX.-The description of a person discontented with the present govem- 
 
 vient., and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties 88 
 
 iii 
 
Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. — The history of a philosophic vagabond pursuing noveity, but 
 losing content ............. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL — The short continuance of friendship among the vicious^ which is 
 coeval only with mutual satisfaction ......... 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. — Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom . 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. — None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable 
 
 CHAPTER ^^\Y.— Fresh calamities 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. — No situation., however wretched it seems., but has some sort of 
 
 comfort attending it . . . . ■ . . . . . . . 1 32 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. — A reformatio?t in the gaol. — To mcike laws complete, they should 
 reward as well as punish . . . . . . . . ^ .. • 
 
 CHAPTER XXVll.— The same subject continued .... ... 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. — Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of 
 virtue in this life ; temporal evils or felicities being regarded by Heaven as 
 things merely in themselves tripling, and unworthy its care in the distributioft . 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. — The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to 
 the happy and the miserable here below. That from the natu) e of pleasure and 
 pain, the turetched must be repaid the balance of their sufferings in the life 
 hereafter .............. 
 
 CHAPTER XXK.— Happier prospects begin to appear.— Let us be inflexible, and 
 fortune will at last change in our favour ........ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI.— Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII.— 7:^<? Conclusion .......... 
 
 no 
 
 119 
 123 
 
 126 
 
 137 
 143 
 
 146 
 
 156 
 
 161 
 169 
 183 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 The Deserted Village 
 
 The Traveller ......... 
 
 The Haunch of Venison . . . ■ , . . 
 
 Retaliation .......... 
 
 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec, atid death of General Wolfe 
 
 An Elegy on the glory of her sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize . 
 
 A Madrigal , . . 
 
 193 
 212 
 
 230 
 236 
 242 
 243 
 244 
 
 COMEDIES. 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer; or, the Mistakes of a Night . 
 The Good-natured Man ...... 
 
 247 
 309 
 
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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 Introductory Illustration i 
 
 The Vicar relieving the Poor .......... 5 
 
 The Evening Concert ,...,,. 8 
 
 Preparations for the Wedding .....,.,. 12 
 
 George leaving Home 13 
 
 Mr. Burchell rescues Sophia 17 
 
 The Vicar rebuking his Daughters . 21 
 
 The Squire introduces Himself 25 
 
 Hay-making 28 
 
 The Vicar stirring the Fire .......... 29 
 
 The Hermit 36 
 
 The Moonlight Ball 40 
 
 Mr. Thornhill commends the Spirit of the Vicar ...... 41 
 
 The Fortune-teller 45 
 
 The Family going to Church 49 
 
 Hunt the Slipper 52 
 
 Fitting out Moses for the Fair 53 
 
 Moses' Return from the Fair 57 
 
 V 
 
List of Ilhistrations. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Vicar and Ephraim Jenkinson ...... e o . 64 
 
 The Girls' Disappointment . . . , .68 
 
 The Family sit for their Picture 72 
 
 Mrs. Primrose and the Squire ,. 'jS 
 
 Mr. Williams and Olivia ' . , ']^ 
 
 The Vicar's Indignation . . . . • 81 
 
 The Vicar and the Players , . . 85 
 
 The Vicar and his Friends at Supper 89 
 
 An Evening's Entertainment interrupted 93 
 
 Horatio 97 
 
 A philosophic Vagabond loi 
 
 Scene in St. James's Park 105 
 
 Miss Wilmot and the Vicar . , . . o . . • . . 112 
 
 The Wanderer restored 113 
 
 Father and Daughter . . . , ,. .. , , . 117 
 
 The Fire 121 
 
 Olivia's Song o . ... 128 
 
 Officers of Justice 129 
 
 The Vicar taking leave of his Flock ..o9(..».i33 
 
 The Vicar in Prison , ••««.. 137 
 
 Teaching the Prisoners •.,.<.■ 140 
 
 A Daughter's Visit ••..o» 148 
 
 The Vicar's only Companions .-..•••.... 149 
 
 George meets his Father o * .. -153 
 
 The Sermon in Prison . . . , .■ . . . . . . . "" 157 
 
 Sophia's Return i6r 
 
 Mr. Burchell saves Sophia 164. 
 
 The Baronet and the Squire . , , . , « . • • .169 
 
 Miss Wilmot Undeceived « . • . . 173 
 
 Arabella and George »•«>.. 177 
 
 The Marriage Licence • t « • » 180 
 
 Sir William and Lady Thornhill , , . , « o 185 
 
 VI 
 
List of Illustrations. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 lAGE 
 
 ■'Sweet Auburn! loveliest Village of the Plain" lo- 
 
 ■'The sad Historian of the pensive Plain" 1^7 
 
 "Shoulder'd his Crutch, and show'd how Fields were won" . , . 200 
 
 " As some tall Cliff that lifts its awful Form " 201 
 
 "The breezy Covert of the warbling Grove" 205 
 
 "Downward they move, a melancholy Band" 208 
 
 "E'en now, where Alpine Solitudes ascend" . . . . , , 213 
 
 "As some lone Miser visiting his Store" .216 
 
 "As IN those Domes where C^sars once bore sway" .... 217 
 
 "May sit, like Falcons, cowering on the Nest" 221 
 
 "Where Beasts with Man divided empire claim" 228 
 
 Edmund Burke 232 
 
 David Garrick , 237 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds 240 
 
 MlRA 244 
 
 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 
 
 Introductory Illustration 245 
 
 Miss Neville and Miss Hardcastle . . . 249 
 
 Tony and the Travellers 256 
 
 Hardcastle drilling the Servants 257 
 
 Hardcastle entertains the Travellers with a Story . . . . 261 
 
 Marlow introduced to Miss Hardcastle . . . , , , , . 265 
 
 Tony and his Cousin "Con" 269 
 
 "Back to back, my Pretties" 273 
 
 Miss Hardcastle and her Father 276 
 
 Tony and the Stolen Jewels 280 
 
 Hardcastle Interrupts the Interview 284 
 
 Marlow and the Drunken Servant 288 
 
 Tony Reading his Letter 292 
 
 Marlow, Miss Neville, and Hastings reproach Tony 293 
 
 Miss Hardcastle describes her Lover's Conduct 297 
 
 "Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman" 301 
 
 Marlow proposes to Miss Hardcastle 305 
 
 Tony resigning all Claim to Miss Neville 308 
 
 vii 
 
List of I llus'crafions 
 
 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introductory Illustration 309 
 
 Jarvis and Honeywood 313 
 
 Mrs. Croaker, Miss Richland, and Honeywood » 320 
 
 Miss Richland and Maid 324 
 
 "Call up a Look, you Dog!" , , 325 
 
 Lofty and Mrs. Croaker = . . . . 328 
 
 Leontine, Croaker, and Olivia , . . 333 
 
 The Bailiff and his Follower 336 
 
 Lofty, Sir William, and Miss Richland ■> 341 
 
 " To the Land of Matrimony ! A pleasant Journey, Jarvis" . . . 344 
 
 Preparations for Gretna Green 349 
 
 Honeywood and Miss Richland 352 
 
 Croaker discovering himself at the Inn 357 
 
 Jarvis arrested as the Incendiary 360 
 
 Sir William makes himself known to Lofty 365 
 
 Croaker joining the hands of Leohtine and Olivia ... . 368 
 
THE Vicar of Wakefield is a great English 
 classic, in the largest sense of the word. Like the 
 wonderful masterpiece of De Foe, it is a life-like fiction so true to 
 man's nature, in its strength and its weakness, its virtues and its errors, 
 its trials and its triumphs, its sorrows and its joys, that it attracts 
 every human sympathy, and has become a part of our literature, 
 
Introduction. 
 
 as permanent as it is widely diffused. We may not predicate a time when 
 it shall cease to be read, or a class or an age which it shall not instruct 
 and delight. It charms the boy to-day, as it delighted Goethe throughout life. 
 
 It would be easy to multiply the testimony which great writers in every 
 country have borne to the charms of this composition ; but it is needless. 
 We can well understand how, notwithstanding the fears of Dr. Johnson, this 
 tale stole silently upon the world without the eulogy of critics or the apprecia- 
 tion of wits, till it struck its roots deep into the soil of the English heart, and 
 became perennial. Faults it has, but they are few and trifling — forgotten in 
 the charm of style and sentiment by all save the critx. Richardson, Fielding, 
 and Smollett, command now not one reader for every hundred who read this 
 tale of Goldsmith. This need not excite our wonder. He paints Nature as 
 truly as any of them, but without the sententious formality and wearisome 
 particularity of the first, or the coarseness and pruriency of the others. 
 
 " The Vicar of Wakefield " is a domestic epic. Its hero is a country- 
 parson — simple, pious, and pure-hearted— a humorist in his way, a littfe vain 
 of his learning, a little proud of his fine fanraly — sometimes rather sententious, 
 never pedantic, and a dogmatist only on the one favourite topic of monogamy, 
 which crops out now and then above the surface of his character only to give 
 it a new charm. Its world .is a rural district, beyond whose limits the action 
 rarely passes, and that only on great occasions. Domestic affections and joys, 
 relieved by its cares, its foibles, and its little failings, cluster around the 
 parsonage, till the storms from the outward world invade its holiness and 
 trouble its peace. Then comes sorrow and suffering ; and we have the hero, 
 like the patriarchal prince of the land of Uz, when the Lord " put forth his 
 hand and touched all that he had," meeting each new affliction with meekness 
 and with patience — rising from each trial with renewed reliance upon God, till 
 the lowest depth of his earthly suffering becomes the highest elevation of his 
 moral strength. 
 
 In this charming work we see the moral nature of Goldsmith more 
 translucently than in anything else that he has written — that thorough 
 honest, unsophisticated nature, full of truth and hope, and love and charity, 
 unsordid and unselfish, improvident yet resilient, rising ever with elastic 
 rebound the moment that the pressure is removed from his spirit ; and then 
 the tale flows gracefully, easily along, as some full, clear stream wanders 
 through a varied landscape, now calmly over the daisied meadow, now troub- 
 lously between rocks and wooded hills, now in light and now in shadow, but 
 always clear and pure, reflecting the heavens over it and the scenes around it. 
 Here we have satire, the gentlest that ever fell from pen ; pungent, but the 
 pungency of a pleasant acid, without one drop of gall ; humour, the quaintest, 
 the simplest, the slyest ; wit that sparkles like dew-drops ; pathos that makes 
 its way right to the heart ; and with all and above all, an exquisite power of 
 delineating the foibles that make one smile, as well as the fortitude that makes 
 the eye moist : all these render " The Vicar of Wakefield " the most readable, 
 the most lovable, the most imperishable of novels. 
 
 Note. — The fifth edition (1773) has been adopted in the present publication. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS 
 PREVAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS. 
 
 WAS ever of opinion that the honest man who mar- 
 \J ried and brought up a large family, did more service 
 than he who continued single and only talked of 
 population. From this motive, I had scarce taken 
 orders a year, before I began to think seriously of matri- 
 mony, 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 con- 
 trivances. 
 
 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. 
 
Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 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 reputa- 
 tion ; 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 herald's 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 /lesk 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 trouble- 
 some guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my 
 house, I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, 
 or sometimes an horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction 
 of finding he never came back to return them. By thi^ 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 courtesy. But we soon got over the 
 imeasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days 
 began to wonder how they vexed us. 
 
 My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated 
 without softness, so they were at once well-formed and healthy : my 
 sons hardy and active my daughters beautiful and blooming. When 
 I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the 
 supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous 
 story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second's progress 
 through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 THE VICAR RELIEVING THE POOR. 
 
 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 god- 
 mother, 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 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 
 
CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 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 successfully repeated. 
 
 The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her 
 features ; at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for 
 many lovers ; Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected from 
 too great a desire to please ; Sophia even repressed excellence, from 
 her fears to offend. The one entertained me with her vivacity when I 
 was gay, the other with her sense when I was serious. But these 
 qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen 
 them exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourn- 
 ing has transformed my coquet 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. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FAMILY MISFORTUNES. — THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE 
 
 PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. 
 
 HE temporal concerns of our family were chiefly com- 
 mitted to my wife's management ; as to the spiritual, 
 I took them entirely under my own direction. The 
 profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five 
 )unds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows 
 of the clergy of our diocese ; for, having a fortune of my 
 own, I was careless of temporalities, and felt a secret 
 pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution 
 of keeping no 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 y^ay. Some of my friends called 
 this my weak side ; but, alas ! they had not, like me, made it the sub- 
 ject 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. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 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 com- 
 plexion 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 awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode 
 a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies 
 devoted to dress and study : they usually read a page, and then 
 gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own 
 often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife 
 took the lead ; for, as she always insisted upon carving everything 
 herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us, upon these occasions, 
 the history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies 
 leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be removed; and some- 
 times, with the music-master's assistance, the girls would ^'ve 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 
 
lo Cassetts Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a 
 master-piece, both for argument and style, I could not, in the pride of 
 my heart, avoid showing it to my old friend, Mr. Wilmot, as I made 
 no doubt of receiving his approbation : but not till too late I dis- 
 covered that he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, 
 and with good reason ; for he was at that time actually courting 
 a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute 
 attended with some acrimony, which threatened to 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 mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by 
 one of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up 
 the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. " How," cried I, 
 ** relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be 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 argu- 
 ment, 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 endless to describe the different sensations of both 
 families, when I divulged the news of our misfortune ; but what others 
 felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, 
 who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by 
 this blow soon determined ; one virtue he had in perfection, which was 
 prudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. 
 
 .:^- 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. ii 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A MIGRATION. — THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY 
 FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN I^ROCURING. 
 
 ^^;^JHE only hope of our family now was, that the report 
 ^5- of our misfortune might be malicious or premature : 
 U 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 un- 
 easiness I felt was for my family, who were to be humble 
 without an education to render them callous to contempt. 
 Near a fortnight had passed 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 pro- 
 posal I joyfully closed, having determined to increase my salary by 
 manao-inof 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 mis- 
 fortune ; but prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. We 
 are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our 
 humble situation. Let us, then, without repining, give up those 
 splendours with which numbers are 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 defi- 
 ciencies 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 Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 13 
 
 GEOKGE LEAVING HOME. 
 
 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 — / have 
 been young, and now am old ; yet 7iever saw I the righteous man 
 forsakejt, nor his seed begging their bread. Let this be your con- 
 solation 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 appre- 
 hensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life ; for I 
 knew he would act a good part, whether vanquished or victorious. 
 
14 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 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 
 scarce fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy 
 miles, to a family that had hitherto never been above ten from home, 
 iilled 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 re- 
 markable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed, that no 
 virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarce 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 gentle- 
 man who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were 
 laced. His person was well-formed, and his face marked with the 
 Hues 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 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 to the stranger, at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and 
 offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. " I take it with 
 all my heart, sir," replied he, " and am glad that a late oversight, in 
 giving what money I had about me, has shown me that there are still 
 some men like you. I must, however, previously entreat being 
 informed of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to 
 repay him as soon as possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not only 
 mentioning my name and late misfortunes, but the place to which 
 I was going to remove. " This," cried he, " happens still more luckily 
 than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been 
 detained here two days by the floods, which I hope, by to-morrow, 
 will be found passable." I 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 con- 
 tinuance of it ; but it was now high time to retire and take refresh- 
 ment against the fatigues of the following day. 
 
 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 whimsicai 
 men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate benevolence." — " Some- 
 thing, perhaps, too much so," replied Mr. Burchell ; "at least, he carried 
 
i6 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 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 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 profusions began to impair his fortune, but not 
 his good nature ; that, indeed, was seen to increase as the other 
 seemed to decay ; he grew improvident as he grew poor ; and though 
 he talked like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, 
 however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able co 
 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 dependants, 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 besfan 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. He 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. 
 
1 8 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he travelled through 
 Europe on foot, and now, though he has scarce attained the age 
 of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent than ever. At present 
 his bounties are more rational and moderate than before ; but still he 
 preserves the character of an humourist, and finds most pleasure in 
 eccentric virtues." 
 
 My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell's account, that 
 I scarcely looked forward as 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 sensa- 
 tions 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 iourney, 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. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 19 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS, WHICH DEPENDS 
 NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES BUT CONSTITUTION. 
 
 HE place of our retreat was in a little neighbour- 
 hood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own 
 grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and 
 poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of 
 life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities 
 in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they 
 still retained the primaeval simplicity of manners ; and, 
 frugal by habit, they scarce 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 Shrove- 
 tide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked 
 nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprised of our approach, the whole 
 neicrhbourhood came out to meet their minister, drest in their finest 
 clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor ; a feast also was provided 
 for our reception, at which we sate 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 pound for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could 
 exceed the neatness of ^y little enclosures, the elms and hedge-rows 
 appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one 
 story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great 
 snugness ; the walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed, and my 
 daughters undertook to adorn them f^ith 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 the children. 
 
20 Casselts Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the follow- 
 ing manner : by sun-rise we all assembled in our common apartment, 
 the iire 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. 
 
 As we rose with the sun, so w<*5 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 Flam- 
 borough, 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 receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people 
 had several ways of being good company ; 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 con- 
 cluded 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 an 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 happened to 
 say it became her. 
 
 The firct Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to mortify 
 me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be drest 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 to assemble in the morninpf at breakfast, down 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 21 
 
 THE VICAR REBUKING HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 came my wife and daughters, drest out in all their former splendour : 
 their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, 
 their trains bundled up in an 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," inter- 
 rupted 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 
 
2 2 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 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. 
 
 §T 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 preparations 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 repeti- 
 tion of toil ; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. 
 
 It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 2^ 
 
 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 Thorn- 
 hill, and that he was the owner of the estate that lay for some extent 
 round us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part of 
 the family ; and such was the power of fortune and fine clothes, that 
 he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was 
 easy, we soon became more familiar ; and, perceiving musical instru- 
 ments 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 with a courtsy. He praised 
 her taste, and she commended his understanding^ : an aee 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; 
 
24 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 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 hand- 
 ling 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 leadily agreed to. 
 
 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 that 
 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 Wrinklers 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 sate 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 
 1 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 friend- 
 ships 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 m.an 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 are 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, 
 
26 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 but for the interruption of a servant from the Squire, who, witli his 
 compHments, 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 con- 
 tinued 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. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRE-SIDE. 
 
 S 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 a 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 : be- 
 cause 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 com- 
 pany of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was 
 famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and telling them stories ; 
 and seldom went out without something in his pockets for them — a 
 piece of gingerbread, or an halfpenny whistle. He generally came for 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 27 
 
 a few days Into our neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the 
 neighbours' hospitahty. He sate down to supper among us, and my 
 wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went round ; 
 he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck of 
 Beverland, with the History of Patient Grissel, the Adventures of 
 Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond's Bower. Our cock, which always 
 crew at eleven, now told us it was time for repose ; but an unforeseen 
 difficulty started about lodging the stranger : all our beds were already 
 taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next ale-house. In 
 this dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother 
 Moses would let him lie with him. " And I," cried Bill, " will give 
 Mr. Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs." — " Well 
 done, my good children," cried I, " hospitality Is one of the first 
 Christian duties. The beast retires to Its shelter, and the bird flies 
 to its nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow- 
 creature. The Pfreatest stranp;er 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 among 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 assisting 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 under- 
 standing, 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 pander, grown rich by his ex- 
 
28 
 
 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 HAY-MAKING. 
 
 travagance. They once praised him, and now they applaud the 
 pander : their former raptures at his wit are now converted into 
 sarcasms at his folly ; he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty ; for 
 he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be use- 
 ful" Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, I delivered this 
 observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently re- 
 proved. " 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 Prpvidence holds the scourge of its re- 
 sentment." — "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 
 
30 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 place. However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the 
 animal itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And, to con- 
 fess a 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 ex- 
 cited 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 blush- 
 ing, were symptoms I did not internally approve ; but I repressed my 
 suspicions. 
 
 As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make 
 the venison pasty ; Moses sate reading, while I taught the little ones ; 
 my daughters seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I observed 
 them for a good while cooking something over the fire. I at first sup- 
 posed 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 com- 
 position, and it was too late to begin another. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED.— THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A 
 
 NIGHT OR TWO. 
 
 HEN the morning arrived on which we were to en- 
 tertain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed 
 ^ what provisions were exhausted to make an appear- 
 ance. It may be also conjectured, that my wife and 
 laughters 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 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted 
 to us, tne 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 mis- 
 tress 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 im- 
 position, 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 smoaked him, and winking on the rest of the company 
 to prepare us for the sport : " if you are for a cool argument upon that 
 subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether are 
 you for managing it analogically or dialogically .^ " — " I am for manag- 
 ing it rationally," cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dis- 
 pute. — "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 with his usual im.portance. — "Very well," cried the Squire, 
 speaking very quick ; " the premises being thus settled, I proceed to 
 
32 CasselVs Ilhistrated Goldsmith. 
 
 observe, that the concatenation of self-existence, 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 predlcable." — " Hold, hold," cried the other, " I 
 deny that. Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox 
 doctrines ? " — "What," replied the Squire, as If in a passion, "not sub- 
 mit ! Answer me one plain question. Do you think Aristotle right 
 when he says, that relatives are related ? " — " Undoubtedly," replied 
 the other. — "If so, then," cried the Squire, "answer me directly to 
 what I propose : Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of 
 the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad 
 minus ^ and give me your reasons, give me your reasons, I say, 
 directly." — " I protest," cried Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the 
 force of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one single proposition, 
 I fancy It may then have an answer." — "O, sir," cried the Squire, " I 
 am your most humble servant; I find you want me to furnish you with 
 argument and intellects too. No, sir ! there, I protest, you are too 
 hard for me." This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, 
 who sate the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces ; nor did he 
 offer a single syllable more during 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 the 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. 
 Thornhlll, 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 dis- 
 pleased at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister upon this 
 occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the 
 day, and exulted in her daughter's victory, as If It were her own. 
 " And now, my dear," cried she to me, " I'll fairly own that It was I 
 that instructed .my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. I had 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. •33 
 
 always some ambition, and you now see that I was right ; for who 
 knows how this may end ? " — " Aye, who knows that, indeed ! " 
 answered I, with a groan ; " for my part, I don't much Hke 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 with- 
 out his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion may be invo- 
 luntary 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 enem}^" 
 
 " 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." 
 
 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 sub- 
 ject, 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 betwee:i 
 Robinson Crusoe and Friday, the savage ; and I am now employed ia 
 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." 
 
34 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN AMOUR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. 
 
 HE next morning we were again visited by Mr. Bur- 
 chell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be dis- 
 pleased with the frequency of his return ; but I could 
 not refuse him my company and iire-side. It is true, 
 -i^ 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 dis- 
 covered 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 be- 
 come 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 opposite hedges, the familiar 
 red-breast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every 
 sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. " I never sit thus," says 
 Sophia, " but I think of the two lovers, so sweetly 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 an hundred times with 
 new rapture." — " In my opinion," cried my son, " the finest strokes in 
 that description are much below those in the ' Acis and 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 
 i^nd them most easily imitated in their defects ; and English poetry, 
 like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a com- 
 bination of luxuriant images, without plot or connection ; a string of 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 Z^ 
 
 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, al 
 least free from those I have mentioned." 
 
 URN, gentle Hermit of the Dale, 
 ^j 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 ; 
 i\'y rushy couch and frugal fare. 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 *' N o 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 fruit supply'd, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 *'T'ien, 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 Heav'n descendsj 
 
 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 
 
 Requir'd a master's care ; 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 
 Receiv'd the harmless pair. 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire. 
 
 To take their ev'ning rest, 
 The hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest : 
 
 And spread his vegetable store. 
 And gaily press'd, and smil'd : 
 
 And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
 The lingering hours beguil'd. 
 
 Around, in sympathetic mirth, 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries : 
 The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 
 
 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 } 
 
CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 " From better habitations spurn'd, 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
 Are trifling, and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things 
 More trifling still than they ; 
 
 "And what is friendship but a name, 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 But leaves the wretch to weep ? 
 
 " And love is still an emptier sound, 
 The modern fair-one's jest ; 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 And spurn the sex," he said : 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd. 
 
 Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, 
 
 Swift mantling to the view : 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast. 
 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 The lovely stranger stands confest 
 
 A maid in all her charms ! 
 
 And, " Ah ! forgive a stranger rude,. 
 A wretch forlorn,'' she cried ; 
 " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 Where Heav'n and you reside. 
 
 " But let a maid thy pity share. 
 
 Whom love has taught to stray ; 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 " My father liv'd beside the Tyne, 
 A wealthy lord, was he ; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine 
 He had but only me. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 Z7 
 
 " To win me from his tender arms, 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 Who prais'd me for imputed charms, 
 And felt or feign'd a flame. 
 
 '■ Zach hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
 But never talk'd of love. 
 
 "In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 *' And when, beside me in the dale, 
 He caroll'd lays of love, 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 *' The blossom opening to the day, 
 The dews of heaven refin'd. 
 Could nought of purity display, 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 *• The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 With charms inconstant shine ; 
 Their charms were his, but woe to me. 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 ■" For still I tried each fickle art, 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 I triumph'd in his pain. 
 
 " Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 'Twas so for me that Edwm did, 
 And so for him will I." 
 
 " Forbid it, Heav'n ! " the hermit cried, — 
 And clasp'd her to his breast : 
 The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide— 
 'Twas Edwin's self that prest ! 
 
 " Turn, Angelma, ever dear, 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, Ihy long-lost Edwin here, 
 Restor'd to love and thee! 
 
 "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 And ev'ry care resign : 
 And shall we never, never part. 
 My life — my all that's mine.'' 
 
 "No never from this hour to part. 
 We'll live and love so true ; 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too."* 
 
 While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of ten- 
 derness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed 
 by the report of a gun just by us; and immediately after, a man was 
 seen bursting through the hedge to take up the game he had killed. 
 This sportsman was the Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the' 
 blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so 
 near, startled my daughters ; and I could perceive that Sophia, in the 
 fright, had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protection. The 
 gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirm- 
 
 * This poem, under the title of " Edwin and Angelina," was written in 1774, when a few copies were printed for 
 private use. On its first publication in "The Vicar of Wakefield," in 1776, Goldsmith was charged with having plagiarised 
 from his friend Dr. Percy's " Friar of Orders Gray," which had appeared the year previously in the " Reliques of Early English 
 Poetry." This charge Goldsmith at once publicly refuted, stating that his ballad was written and shown to Percy before 
 the latter had composed the "Friar." The truth of this statement was confirmed by Percy, and has ever since been 
 admitted. It is probable the plot of both ballads was suggested by " The Gentle Herdsman," which Percy showed to 
 Goldsmith. For pathos, sentiment, simplicity, and finish, this ballad has few equals, and has ever enjoyed the largest 
 popularity. The numerous emendations which the author made, prove the care he bestowed on it ; even sacrificing two 
 very sweet final verses, rather than weaken the effect of its close. 
 
2 8 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 ing that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down 
 by my youngest daughter, and, sportsman-hke, offered her what he 
 had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look 
 from her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept 
 his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, dis- 
 covered her pride in a whisper, observing that Sophy had made a 
 conquest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the Squire. I 
 suspected, however, with more probability, that her affections were 
 placed upon a different object. The chaplain's errand was to inform 
 us that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, and in- 
 tended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight on the 
 grass-plat before our door. " Nor can I deny," continued he, " but I 
 have an interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect 
 for my reward to be honoured with Miss Sophia's hand as a partner.'* 
 To this my girl replied, that she should have no objection if she 
 could do it with honour. "But here," continued she, " is a gentleman," 
 looking at Mr. Burchell, " who has been my companion in the task for 
 the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements." Mr. Burchell 
 returned her a compliment for her intentions, but resigned her up to 
 the chaplain, adding, that he was to go that night five miles, being in- 
 vited to an harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a little extra- 
 ordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest 
 could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations 
 were much greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing 
 merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. 
 The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished 
 with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 39 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. — SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS 
 TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. 
 
 Ho BuRCHELL had scarce taken leave, and Sophia 
 consented to dance with the chaplain, when my little 
 ones came running out to tell us that the Squire was 
 come with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we 
 found our landlord with a couple of under-gentlemen, 
 and two young ladies richly dressed, whom he introduced 
 as women of very great distinction and fashion from town. 
 We happened not to have chairs enough for the whole company ; but 
 Mr, Thornhill immediately proposed that every gentleman should sit 
 in a lady's lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look 
 of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to 
 borrow a couple of chairs ; and, as we were in want of ladies to make 
 up a set at country dances, the two gentlemen went with him in quest 
 of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. 
 The gentlemen returned with my neighbour Flamboroughs rosy 
 daughters, flaunting with red top-knots. But an unlucky circumstance 
 was not adverted to, though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned 
 the very best of dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and the 
 round-about to perfection, yet they were totally unacquainted with 
 country dances. This at first discomposed us ; however, after a little 
 shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily on. Our music con- 
 sisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright ; 
 Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the great 
 delight of the spectators ; for the neighbour's, hearing what was going 
 forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much grace 
 and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride of 
 her heart, by assuring me that, though the little chit did it so cleverly, 
 all the steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove 
 hard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled, 
 languished, and frisked ; but all would not do ; the gazers, indeed, 
 owned that it was fine; but neighbour Flamborough observed, that Miss 
 Livy's feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance 
 had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive 
 of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought, 
 

The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 41 
 
 MR. THORNHICL COMMENDS THE SPIRIT OF THE VICAR. 
 
 expressea her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse manner, 
 when she observed, that, by the living jingo, she was all of a muck of 
 sweat. Upon our return to the house we found a very elegant cold 
 supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. 
 The conversation, at this time, was more reserved than before. The 
 two ladies threw my girls quite into the shade ; for they would talk 
 of nothing but high life, and high-lived, company ; with other fashion- 
 able topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. 
 'Tis true, they once or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an 
 oath ; but that appeared to me as the surest symptom of their distinc- 
 tion (though I am sinc^ informed that swearing is perfectly unfashion- 
 able). Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their 
 conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior accom- 
 plishments with envy ; and whatever appeared amiss was ascribed to 
 tip-top quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies was still 
 superior to their other accomplishments. One of them observed that 
 had Miss Olivia seen a little more of the world, it would greatly 
 improve her. To which the other added, that a single winter in town 
 
A 2 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 would make little Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly- 
 assented to both ; adding, that there was nothing she more ardently 
 wished than to give her girls a single winter's polishing. To this I 
 could not help replying, that their breeding was already superior to 
 their fortune ; and that greater refinement would only serve to make 
 their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures they had 
 no right to possess. " And what pleasures," cried Mr. Thornhill, " do 
 they not deserve to possess, who have so much in their power to be- 
 stow ? As for my part," continued he, " my fortune is pretty large ; 
 love, liberty, and pleasure, are my maxims ; but, curse me, if a settle- 
 ment of half my estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it 
 should be hers, and the only favour I would ask in return would be to 
 add myself to'the benefit." I was not such a stranger to the world as 
 to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to disguise the inso- 
 lence of the basest proposal ; but I made an effort to suppress my 
 resentment. " Sir," cried I, "the family which you now condescend to 
 favour with your company has been bred with as nice a sense of honour 
 as you. Any attempts to injure that may be attended with very 
 dangerous consequences. Honour, sir, is our only possession at 
 present, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful." I 
 was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the 
 young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, 
 though he disapproved my suspicions. "As to your present hint," 
 continued he, " I protest nothing was further from my heart than such 
 a thought. No, by all that's tempting, the virtue that will stand a 
 regular siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried by 
 a coup de mam." 
 
 The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed 
 highly displeased with this last stroke of freedorn, and began a very 
 discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue. In this my wife, the chap- 
 Iain, and I soon joined ; and the Squire himself was at last brought to 
 confess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the 
 pleasures of temperance, and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted 
 with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up 
 beyond the usual time, to be edified by so much good conversation. 
 Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any 
 objection to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal ; and 
 in this manner the night was passed In a most comfortable way, till t 
 length the company began^to think of returning. The ladies seemed 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 43 
 
 very unwilling to part with my daughters, for whom they had con- 
 ceived a particular affection, and joined in a request to have the 
 pleasure of their company at home. The Squire seconded the pro- 
 posal, and my wife added her entreaties ; the girls, too, looked upon 
 me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made two or three 
 excuses, which my daughters as readily removed ; so that at last I was 
 obliged to give a peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing but 
 sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE FAMTT.V T=>vr>F\VOLm?^ TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. — THE MISERIES OF THE POOR 
 WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 NOW began to find that all my long and painful 
 lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and content- 
 ment, were entirely disregarded. The distinctions lately 
 paid us by our betters awakened that pride which I had 
 laid asleep, but not removed. Our windows agam, as 
 formerly, were filled with washes for the neck and face. 
 The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the sk"n with- 
 out doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My 
 wife observed, that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, 
 that working after dinner would redden their noses, and she convinced 
 me that the hands never looked so white as when they did nothing. 
 Instead, therefore, of finishing George's shirts, we now had them, 
 new-modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The 
 poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off 
 as mean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life 
 and high-lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the 
 musical o-lasses. 
 
 But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling gipsy 
 come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sibyl no sooner 
 appeared, than my girls came running to me for a shilling a-piece to 
 cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of being 
 always wise, and could not help gratifying their request, because I 
 
44 CasseU's Illustrated Goldsmiik. 
 
 loved to see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling ; though, for 
 the honour of the family, it must be observed, that they never went 
 without money themselves, as my wife always generously let them 
 have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets ; but with strict injunc- 
 tions never to change it. After they had been closeted up with the 
 fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their looks, upon their return- 
 ing, that they had been promised something great. " Well, my girls, 
 how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given thee 
 a pennyworth ? " " I protest, papa," says the girl, " I believe she deals 
 with somebody that's not right ; for she positively declared, that I am 
 to be married to a Squire in less than a twelvemonth !" "Well, now, 
 Sophy, my child," said I, "and what sort of a husband are you to 
 have .'*" " Sir," replied she, " I am to have a Lord soon after my sister 
 has married the Squire." " How ! " cried I, " is that all you are to have 
 for your two shillings ? Only a Lord and a Squire for two shillings ! — 
 You fools! I could have promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half 
 the money." 
 
 This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious 
 effects : we now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to 
 something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur. 
 
 It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once 
 more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view are more 
 pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In the first case, we cook 
 the dish to our own appetite ; in the latter, nature cooks it for us. It 
 is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up for 
 our entertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising ; 
 and as the whole parish asserted that the Squire was in love with my 
 daughter, she was actually so with him ; for they persuaded her into 
 the passion. In this agreeable interval, my wife had the most lucky 
 dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us every morning 
 with great solemnity and exactness. It was one night a coffin and 
 cross-bones, the sign of an approaching wedding ; at another time she 
 imagined her daughters' pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign 
 that they would shortly be stuffed with gold. The girls themselves 
 had their omens : they felt strange kisses on their lips ; they saw rings 
 in the candle ; purses bounced from the fire ; and true-love-knots 
 lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup. 
 
 Towards the end of the week, we received a card from the town ladies ; 
 in which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our family at 
 
46 CasseUs Illustrated Golds^nith. 
 
 church the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, 
 in consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference to- 
 gether, and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a 
 latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd 
 proposal was preparing for appearing with splendour the next day. In 
 the evening, they began their operations in a very regular manner, and 
 my wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in 
 spirits, she began thus : " I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a 
 great deal of good company at our church to-morrow." " Perhaps we 
 may, my dear," returned I ; " though you need be under no uneasiness 
 about that ; you shall have a sermon, whether there be or not." 
 '' That is what I expect," returned she ; " but I think, my dear, we 
 ought to appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what may 
 happen ? " " Your precautions," replied I, " are highly commendable. 
 A decent behaviour and appearance at church is what charms me. We 
 should be devout and humble, cheerful and serene." " Yes," cried she, 
 " I know that ; but I mean we should go there in as proper a manner 
 as possible ; not altogether like the scrubs about us." " You are quite 
 right, my dear," returned I, " and I was going to make the very same 
 proposal. The proper manner of going is, to go there as early as pos- 
 sible, to have time for meditation before the service begins." " Phoo, 
 Charles," interrupted she, " all that is very true ; but not what I would 
 be at. I mean, we should go there genteelly. You know the church 
 is two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my daughters trudg- 
 ing up to their pew all blowzed and red with walking, and looking for 
 all the world as if they had been winners at a smock-race. Now, my 
 dear, my proposal is this — there are our two plough horses, the colt that 
 has been in our family these nine years, and his companion Blackberry, 
 that has scarcely done, an earthly thing for this month past : they are 
 both grown fat and lazy : why should not they do something as well 
 as we } And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, 
 they will cut a very tolerable figure." 
 
 To this proposal I objected, that walking would be twenty times 
 more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was wall- 
 eyed, and the colt wanted a tail ; that they had never been broke to 
 the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks ; and that we liad but one 
 saddle and pillion in the whole house. All these objections, however, 
 were overruled ; so that I was obliged to comply. The next morning 
 I perceived them not a little busy in collecting such materials as might 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 47 
 
 be necessary for the expedition ; but, as I found It would be a business 
 of time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised speedily 
 to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading-desk for their arrival ; 
 b.it not finding them come as expected, I was obliged to begin, and 
 went through the service, not without some uneasiness at finding 
 them absent. This was increased when all was finished, and no 
 appearance of the family. I therefore walked back by the horse-way 
 which was five miles round, though the foot-way was but two, and 
 when got about half way home, perceived the procession marching 
 slowly forward towards the church — my son, my wife, and the two 
 little ones, exalted on one horse, and my two daughters upon the other. 
 I demanded the cause of their delay ; but I soon found by their looks 
 they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses 
 had at first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind 
 enough to beat them forward for about two hundred yards with his 
 cudgel. Next the straps of my wife's pillion broke down, and they 
 were obliged to stop to repair them before they could proceed. After 
 that, one of the horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither 
 blows nor entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. He was just 
 recovering from this dismal situation when I found them ; but per- 
 ceiving everything safe, I own their present mortification did not 
 much displease me, as it would give me many opportunities of future 
 triumph, and teach my daughters more humility. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 
 
 ^ ICHAELMAS-EVE happening on the next day, 
 we were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at 
 neiofhbour Flamborou^h's. Our late mortifications 
 had humbled us a little, or It is probable we might 
 ^ have rejected such an invitation with contempt : how- 
 ever, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest 
 neighbour's goose and dumplings were fine ; and the lamb's 
 wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, was ex- 
 cellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was not quite so well. 
 
Ag Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 They were very long, and very dull, and all about himself, and we had 
 laughed at them ten times before : however, we were kind enough to 
 laugh at them once more. 
 
 Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing some 
 innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and girls to blind 
 man's buff. My wife, too, was persuaded to join in the diversion, and 
 it gave me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the mean- 
 time, my neighbour and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised 
 our own dexterity when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, 
 questions and commands followed that, and, last of all, they sate down 
 to hunt the slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with this 
 primaeval pastime, it may be necessary to observe, that the company at 
 this play plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all except one 
 who stands in the middle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, which 
 the company shove about under their hams from one to another, some- 
 thing like a weaver's shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the 
 lady who is up to face all the company at once, the great beauty of the 
 play lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side 
 least capable of making a defence. It was in this manner that my 
 eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in 
 spirits, and bawling for fair play, with a voice that might deafen a 
 ballad-singer, when, confusion on confusion, who should enter the room 
 but our two great acquaintances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss 
 Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs ! Description would but beggar^ 
 therefore it is unnecessary to describe this new mortification. Death ! 
 to be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes! 
 Nothing better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flam- 
 borough's proposing. We seemed stuck to the ground for some time, 
 as if actually petrified with amazement. 
 
 The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and, finding us from 
 home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know what accident 
 could have kept us from church the day before. Olivia undertook to 
 be our prolocutor, and delivered the whole In a nummary way, only 
 saying — " We were thrown from our horses." At which account the 
 ladles were greatly concerned ; but being told the family received no 
 hurt, they were extremely glad ; but being informed that we were 
 almost killed with fright, they were vastly sorry ; but hearing that we 
 had a very good night, they were extremely glad again. Nothing 
 could exceed their complaisance to my daughters ; their professions 
 
TJw Vicar of \Vakefii.la. 
 
 49 
 
 THE FAMILY GOING TO CHURCH. 
 
 the last evening were warm, but now they were ardent. They pro- 
 tested a desire of having a more lasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney 
 was particularly attached to Olivia; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia 
 Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) took a greater fancy to her 
 sister. They supported the conversation between themselves, while my 
 daughters sat silent admiring their exalted breeding. But as every 
 reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues, 
 with anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, I 
 must beg leave to give him the concluding part of the present conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs, " is this, that it 
 may be true, or it may not be true ; but this I can assure your Lady- 
 ship, that the whole rout was in amaze ; his Lordship turned all manner 
 of colours, my lady fell into a swoon ; but Sir Tomkyn, drawing his 
 sword, swore he was hers to the last drop of his blood." 
 
 "Well," replied our Peeress, " this I can say that the duchess never 
 told me a syllable of the matter, and I believe her grace would keep ' 
 nothing a secret from me. This you may depend upon as fact, that 
 
 4 ' 
 
50 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 the next morning my Lord Duke cried out three times to his valet-de- 
 chambre, Jernlgan ! Jernigan ! Jernigan ! bring me my garters." 
 
 But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite behaviour 
 of Mr. Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat with his face turned to 
 the fire, and at the conclusion of every sentence would cry out Ftidge / 
 an expression which displeased us all, and in some measure damped 
 the rising spirit of the conversation. 
 
 " Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress, " there is nothing 
 of this in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock made upon the 
 occasion." Fudge ! 
 
 " I am surprised at that," cried Miss Skeggs; "for he seldom leaves 
 anything out, as he writes only for his own amusement. But can your 
 Ladyship favour me with a sight of them ? " Fudge I 
 
 " My dear creature," replied our Peeress, "do you think I carry such 
 things about me ? Though they are very fine to be sure, and I think 
 myself something of a judge : at least I know what pleases myself. 
 Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr. Burdock's little pieces ; for 
 except what he does, and our dear Countess at Hanover Square, 
 there's nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in nature ; not a 
 bit of hio-h life amongf them," Fud^e ! 
 
 " Your Ladyship should except," says t'other, " your own things in 
 the ' Lady's Magazine.' I hope you'll say there's nothing low-lived 
 there ? But I suppose we are to have no more from that quarter f* " 
 Fudge ! 
 
 " Why, my dear," says the Lady, " you know my reader and com- 
 panion has left me to bo married to Captain Roach, and as my poor 
 eyes won't suffer me to write myself, I have been for some time look- 
 ing out for another. A proper person is no easy matter to find, and, 
 to be sure, thirty pounds a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl 
 of character, that can r d, write, and behave in company : as for the 
 chits about town, there io no bearing them about one." Fudge / 
 
 " That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, " by experience; for of the three 
 companions I had this last half-year, one of them refused to do plain- 
 work an hour in the day ; another thought twenty-five guineas a year 
 too small a salary ; and I was obliged to send away the third, because 
 I suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady 
 Blarney, virtue is worth any price : but where is that to be found ? " 
 Fudge I 
 
 My wife had been for a long time all attention to this discourse, but 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 5^ 
 
 was particularly struck with the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and 
 twenty-five guineas a year, made fifty -six pounds five shillings English 
 money ; all which was in a manner going a begging, and might easily 
 be secured in the family. She for a moment studied my looks for 
 approbation ; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that two such 
 places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the Squire had 
 any real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to 
 make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife, therefore, 
 was resolved that we should not be deprived of such advantages for 
 want of assurance, and undertook to harangue for the family " I 
 hope," cried she, " your Ladyships will pardon my present presumption. 
 It is true, we have no right to pretend to such favours, but yet it is 
 natural for me to wish putting my children forward in the world. And 
 I will be bold to say, my two girls have had a pretty good education, 
 and capacity ; at least, the country can't show better. They can read, 
 write, and cast accounts ; they understand their needle, broad-stitch, 
 •cross and change, and all manner of plainwork ; they can pink, point, 
 and frill ; and know something of music ; they can do up small clothes ; 
 work upon catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a 
 very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the cards." Fudge ! 
 
 When she had delivered this pretty piece *of eloquence, the two 
 ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air of 
 doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia 
 Skeggs condescended to observe, that the young ladies, from the 
 opinion she could form of them from so slight an acquaintance, seemed 
 very fit for such employments : " but a thing of this kind, madam," 
 cried she, addressing my spouse, " requires a thorough examination 
 into characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, 
 madam," continued she, " that I in the least suspect the young ladies* 
 virtue, prudence," and discretion; but there is a form in these things, 
 madam ; there is a form." Fudge ! 
 
 My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing, that she was 
 very apt to be suspicious herself; but referred her to all the neighbours 
 for a character : but this our Peeress declined as unnecessary, alleging 
 that her cousin Thornhill's recommendation would be sufiieient, and 
 upon this we rested our petition. 
 
The Vtcar of Wakefield. 
 
 53 
 
 FITTING OUT MOSES FOK THE FAIK. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 mr.TUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAiMILY OF WAKEFIELD. — MORTIFICATIONS 
 ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES. 
 
 HEN we were returned home, the night was dedicated 
 to schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted 
 much sagacity in conjecturing which of the two girls 
 was hkely to have the best place, and most oppor- 
 tunities of seeing good company. The only obstacle 
 to our preferment was in obtaining the Squire's recom- 
 mendation ; but he had already shown us too many in- 
 stances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even in bed my wife 
 kept up the usual theme : "Well, faith, my dear Charles, between our- 
 selves, I think we have made gm excellent day's work of it." " Pretty 
 well," cried 1, not knowing what to say. "What, only pretty well ! " 
 returned she : " I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come 
 to make acquaintances of taste in town ! This I am assured of, that 
 
 
54 CasseW s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 London Is the only place in the world for all manner of husbands. 
 Besides, my dear, stranger things happen every day : and as ladies of 
 quality are so taken with my daughters, what will not men of quality 
 be ? Entre nous, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly : so very 
 obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmlna Amelia Skeggs has my 
 warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk of places in town, you 
 saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don't you think I 
 did for my children there ?" "Ay," returned I, not knowing well what 
 to think of the matter ; " Heaven grant they may be both the better 
 for it this day three months ! " This was one of those observations 
 I usually made to Impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity : 
 for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but if 
 anything unfortunate ensued, then It might be looked upon as a pro- 
 phecy. All this conversation, however, was only preparatory to another 
 scheme, and Indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than 
 that, as we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the worlds 
 it would be proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neigh- 
 bouring fair, and buy us a horse that would carry single or double 
 upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or upon a 
 visit. This at first I opposed stoutly, but it was as stoutly defended. 
 However, as I weakened, my antagonists gained strength, till at last It 
 was resolved to part with hm 
 
 As. the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going 
 myself ; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing 
 could prevail upon her to permit me from home. " No, my dear," said 
 she, " our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very 
 good advantage ; you know, all our great bargains are of his pur- 
 chasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them, 
 till he gets a bargain." 
 
 As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough 
 to entrust him with this commission ; and the next morning I perceived 
 his sisters mighty busy In fitting out Moses for the fair ; trimming his 
 hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The 
 business of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of 
 seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring 
 home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth called 
 thunder and lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too 
 good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and 
 his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 55 
 
 followed him several paces from the door, bawling after him, " Good 
 luck ! good luck !" till we could see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Thornhill's butler came to con- 
 gratulate, us upon our good fortune, saying that he overheard his 
 young master mention our names with great commendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another foot- 
 man from the same family followed, with a card for my daughters, 
 importing that the two ladies had received such pleasing accounts 
 from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that, after a few previous inquiries, they 
 hoped to be perfectly satisfied. " Ay," cried my wife, " I now see it is 
 no easy matter to get into the families of the great, but when one ' 
 once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go to sleep." To this 
 piece of humour, for she intended it for wit, my daughters assented 
 with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satisfaction at 
 this message, that she actually put her hand in her pocket, and gave 
 the messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 
 
 This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was Mr. 
 Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a 
 pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife undertook to keep 
 for them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought my 
 daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they might keep wafers, 
 snuff, patches, or even money, when they got it. My wife was usually 
 fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky ; but this by-the- 
 bye. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude 
 behaviour was in some measure displeasing ; nor could we now avoid 
 communicating our happiness to him, and asking his advice : although 
 we seldom followed advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. 
 When he read the note from the two ladies he shook his head, and 
 observed that an affair of this sort demanded the utmost circumspec- 
 tion. This air of diffidence highly displeased my wife. " I never 
 doubted, sir," cried she, " your readiness to be against my daughters 
 and me. You have more circumspection than is wanted. However, 
 I fancy when we come to ask advice, we shall apply to persons who 
 seem to have made use of it themselves." — " Whatever my own con- 
 duct may have been, madam," replied he, " is not the present question; 
 though as I have made no use of advice myself, I should in conscience 
 give it to those that will." As I was apprehensive this answer might 
 draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I 
 changed the subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our son 
 
56 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 so long at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. " Never mind our 
 son," cried my wife, " depend upon it he knows what he is about ; I'll 
 warrant we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen 
 him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story 
 about that, that will make you split your sides with laughing. But as 
 I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box at his 
 back." 
 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the 
 deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar. . 
 " Welcome ! welcome, Moses ! well, my boy, what have you brought 
 us from the fair ?" — " I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a 
 sly look, and resting the box on the dresser. "Ah, Moses," cried my 
 wife, " that we know, but where is the horse?" — "I have sold him," 
 cried Moses, " for three pounds five shillings and twopence." — " Well 
 done, my good boy," returned she; " I knew you would touch them off. 
 Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad 
 day's work. Come, let us have it then." — '' I have brought back no 
 money," cried Moses again, " I have laid it all out in a bargain, and 
 here it is," pulling out a bundle from his breast; " here they are • a 
 gross of green spectacle, with silver rims and shagreen cases." — ' A 
 gross of green spectacles !" repeated my wife, in a famt voice. " And 
 you have parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing but a gross 
 of green paltry spectacles!" — "Dear mother," cried the boy, "why 
 won't you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain or I should 
 not have bouofht them. The silver rims alone will sell for double the 
 money." — "A fig for the silver rims!" cried my wife in a passion ; "I dare 
 swear they won't sell for above half the money at the rate of broken 
 silver, five shillings an ounce."—" You need be under no uneasiness, ' 
 cried I, " about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence, for I 
 perceive they are only copper varnished over." — "What," cried my 
 wife, "not silver! the rims not silver '"—" No," cried I, " no more 
 silver than your saucepan." — -" And so," returned she, " we have 
 parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles with 
 copper rims and shagreen cases ! A murrain take such trumpery. 
 The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his 
 company better !" — "There, my dear," cried I, "you are wrong; he 
 should not have known them at all." — "Marry, hang the idiot!" 
 returned she, "to bring me such stuff; if I had them 1 would throw 
 them in the fire." — " There again you are wrong, my dear," cried I i 
 
5 8 Casseir s Ilhistrated Goldsmith. 
 
 " for though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper 
 spectacles, you know, are better than nothing " 
 
 By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw 
 that he had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observnig 
 his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked him 
 the circumstances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and 
 walked the fair in search of another. A reverend -lookmo- man 
 brought him to a tent, under pretence of having one to sell ** Here, ' 
 continued Moses, ' we met another man, very well dressed, who 
 desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he wanted 
 money, and would dispose of them for a third of their value. The 
 first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy 
 them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for 
 Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did me ; 
 and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MR. EURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY; FOR HE HAS THE CONFIDENCE TO GIVE 
 
 DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. 
 
 ^ U R family had now made several attempts to be fine ; 
 but some unforeseen disaster demolished each as 
 soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the ad- 
 vantage of every disappomtment to improve their 
 good sense, in proportion as they were frustrated m 
 ambition. " You see, my children," cried I, " how little 
 is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in coping 
 with our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate with none but 
 the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and despised by those they 
 follow. Unequal combinations are always disadvantageous to the 
 weaker side ; the rich, having the pleasure, the poor the incon- 
 veniences, that result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and repeat 
 the fable you were reading to-day, for the good of the company." 
 
 " Once upon a time," cried the child, *' a giant and a dwarf were 
 friends, and kept together. They made a bargain that they would 
 never forsake each other, but go seek adventures. The first battle 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 59 
 
 they fought was with two Saracens ; and the dwarf, who was very- 
 courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry blow. It did 
 the Saracen but very little injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly 
 struck off the poor dwarf's arm. He was now in a woful plight ; but 
 the giant, coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two 
 Saracens dead on the plain, and the dwarf cut off the dead man's head 
 out of spite. They then travelled on to another adventure. This 
 was against three bloody-minded satyrs, who were carrying away a 
 damsel in distress. The dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before; 
 but for all that struck the first blow, which was returned by another 
 that knocked out his eye ; but the giant was soon up with them, and^ 
 had they not fled, would certainly have killed them every one. They 
 were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel who was relieved 
 fell in love with the giant, and married him. They now travelled far, 
 and farther than I can tell, till they met with a company of robbers- 
 The giant, for the first time, was foremost now : but the dwarf was 
 not far behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever the giant 
 came, all fell before him; but the dwarf had like to have been killed more 
 than once. At last, the victory declared for the two adventurers ; but 
 the dwarf lost his leof. The dwarf was now without an arm, a lee, and 
 an eye, while the giant was without a single wound. Upon which he 
 cried out to his little companion, * My little hero, this is glorious sport; 
 let us get one victory more, and then we shall have honour for ever.* 
 — 'No,' cries the dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, 'no ; I 
 declare off; I'll fight no more, for I find, in every battle, that you get 
 all the honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.'" 
 
 I was going to moralise this fable, when our attention was called 
 off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my 
 daughters' intended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously 
 insisted upon the advantages that would result from it. Mr. Burchell, 
 on the contrary, dissuaded her with great ardour, and I stood neuter. 
 His present dissuasions seemed but the second part of those which 
 were received with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew 
 high, while poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, 
 and was at last obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. The 
 conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all : 
 she knew, she said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what 
 they advised ; but for her part, she wished such to stay away from her 
 house for the future. " Madam," cried Burchell, with looks of c^reat 
 
6o CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 composure, which tended to inflame her the more, *' as for secret 
 reasons, you are right ; I have secret reasons which I forbear to men- 
 tion, because you are not able to answer those of which I make no 
 secret. But I find my visits here are become troublesome ; I'll take 
 rny leave therefore now, and perhaps come once more to take a final 
 farewell when I am quitting the country." Thus saying, he took up 
 his hat ; nor could the attempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to 
 upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his going. 
 
 When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with con- 
 fusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to hide her 
 concern with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was will- 
 ing to reprove : " How, woman ! " cried I to her, " is it thus we treat 
 strangers ? Is it thus we return their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, 
 that these were the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing, 
 that have escaped your lips ' " — " Why would he provoke me, then ? " 
 replied she ; " but I know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He 
 would prevent my girls from going to town, that he may have the 
 pleasure of my youngest daughter's company here at home. But what- 
 ever happens, she shall choose better company than such low-lived 
 fellows as he." — "Low-lived, my dear, do you call him T' cried I : "it is 
 very possible we may mistake this man's character ; for he seems, upon 
 some occasions, the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, 
 Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his at- 
 tachment ? " — " His conversation with me, sir," replied my daughter, 
 " has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. As to aught else, no, 
 never. One. , indeed, I rem^ember to have heard him say, he never 
 knew a woman who could find merit in a man that seemed poor." — 
 " Such, my dear," cried I, "is the common cant of all the unfortunate 
 or idle. Bu*" ] hope you have been taught to judge properly of such 
 men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from one 
 •who has been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother and 
 I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which you will 
 probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more 
 prudent choice." 
 
 What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion, I cannot pretend 
 to determine ; but I was not displeased at the bottom, that we were 
 rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of hospi- 
 tality went to my conscience a Little ; but I quickly silenced that moni- 
 tor by two or three specious reasons, which served to satisfy and 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 6t 
 
 reconcile me to myself. The pain which conscience gives the man 
 who has already done wrong is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, 
 and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom has 
 justice enough to accuse. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FRESH MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING CALAMITIES MAY EE REAL 
 
 BLESSINGS. 
 
 I HE journey of my daughters to town was now re- 
 3^ solved upon, Mr. Thornhlll having kindly promised 
 (^ to inspect their conduct himself and inform us by letter 
 jj' of their behaviour But it was thought indispensably 
 necessary that their appearance should equal the 
 greatness of their expectations, which could not be done 
 without expense. We debated, therefore, in full council, 
 what were the easiest methods of raising money; or, more properly 
 speaking, what we could most conveniently sell. The deliberation was 
 soon finished : it was found that our remaining horse was utterly use- 
 less for the plough without his companion, and equally unfit for the 
 road, as wanting an eye : it was therefore determined that we should 
 dispose of him, for the purpose above mentioned, at the neighbouring 
 fair; and, to prevent imposition, that I should go with him myself. 
 Though this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my life, yet 
 I had no doubt about acquitting myself with reputation. The opinion a 
 man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the company he 
 keeps, and as mine was mostly in the family way, I had conceived no 
 unfavourable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife, however, 
 next morning at parting, after I had got some paces from the door, 
 called me back, to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes about 
 me. 
 
 I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my horse 
 through all his paces, but for some time had no bidders. At last a 
 chapman approached, and after he had for a good while examined the 
 horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to 
 
Casseir s Ilhistr cited Goldsmith. 
 
 say to him ; a second came up, but observing he had a spavin, declared 
 he would not take him for the driving home ; a third perceived he had 
 a windgall, and would bid no money ; a fourth knew by his eye that he 
 had the botts ; a fifth wondered what a plague I could do at the fair 
 with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a 
 dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a most hearty contempt 
 for the poor animal myself, and was almost ashamed at the approach 
 of every customer ; for though I did not entirely believe all the fellows 
 told me, yet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a strong 
 presumption they were right ; and St. Gregory, upon good works, 
 professes himself to be of the same opinion. 
 
 I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergyman, an old 
 acquaintance, who had also business at the fair, came up, and shaking 
 me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public-house, and taking a 
 glass of whatever we could get. I readily closed with the offer, and, 
 entering an alehouse, we were shown ipto a little back room, where 
 there was only a venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over a 
 large book, which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure 
 that prepossessed me more favourably. His locks of silver grey 
 venerably shaded his temples, and his green old age seemed to be the 
 result of health and benevolence. However, his presence did not in- 
 terrupt our conversation : my friend and I discoursed on the various 
 turns of fortune we had met ; the Whistonian controversy, my last 
 pamphlet, the archdeacon's reply, and the hard me '-•'ure that was dealt 
 me. But our attention was in a short time takeu off by the appear- 
 ance of a youth, who, entering the room, respectfully said something 
 softly to the old stranger, " Make no apologies, my child," said the 
 old man : " to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow-creatures ; 
 take this, I wish it were more : but five pounds will relieve your dis- 
 tress, and you are welcome." The modest youth shed tears of grati- 
 tude, and yet his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. I could have 
 hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. 
 He continued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until my com- 
 panion, after some time, recollecting that he had business to transact in 
 the fair, promised to be soon back ; adding, that he always desired to 
 have as much of Dr. Primrose's company as possible. The old gentle- 
 man hearing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention 
 for some time, and when my friend was gone, most respectfully de- 
 manded if I was in any way related to the great Primrose, that 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 63 
 
 coiiraofeoLis monocfamist, who had been the bulwark of the church. 
 Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. " Sir," 
 cried I, "the applause of so good a man, as I am sure you are, adds to 
 that happiness in my breast which your benevolence has already ex- 
 cited. You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, 
 whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see that unfor- 
 tunate divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to say 
 successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age." " Sir," cried 
 the stranger, struck with awe, " I fear I have been too familiar ; but 
 you'll forgive my curiosity, sir : I beg pardon." ' " Sir," cried I, grasp- 
 ing his hand, " you are so far from displeasing me by your familiarity, 
 that I must beg you'll accept my friendship, as you already have my 
 esteem." " Then with gratitude I accept the offer," cried he, squeez- 
 ing me by the hand, " thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy ; and 
 
 do I behold " I here interrupted what he was going to say ; for 
 
 though, as an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, yet now 
 my modesty would permit no more. However, no lovers in romance 
 ever cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon 
 several subjects ; at first, I thought him rather devout than learned, 
 and began to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet 
 this no way lessened him in my esteem; for I had for some time begun 
 privately to harbour such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion 
 to observe, that the world in general began to be blameably indifferent 
 as to doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too much. 
 *' Ay, sir," replied he, as if he had reserved all his learning to that 
 moment, "ay, sir, the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony, or 
 creation of the world, has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a 
 medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the 
 world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have 
 all attempted it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara 
 kai atelutaion to pan, which imply that all things have neither begin- 
 ning nor end. Manetho also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon- 
 Asser — Asser being a Syriac word usually applied as a surname to the 
 kings of that country, as Teglat Phael- Asser ; Nabon- Asser — he, I 
 say, formed a conjecture equally absurd ; for, as we usually say, ek to 
 biblion kubernctcs, which implies that books will never teach the 
 
 world; so he attempted to investigate . But, sir, I ask pardon, I am 
 
 straying from the question." That he actually was ; nor could I for 
 my life see how the creation of the world had anything to do with the 
 
64 
 
 The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 THE VICAR AND EPHKAIM JuNKlNSON. 
 
 business I was talking of ; but It was sufficient to show me that he 
 was a man of letters, and I now reverenced him the more. I was 
 resolved, therefore, to bring him to the touchstone ; but he was too 
 mild and too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I made any- 
 observation that looked like a challenge to controversy, he \vDuld 
 smile, shake his head, and say nothing ; by which I understood he 
 could say much If he thought proper. The subject, therefore, Insensi- 
 bly changed from the business of antiquity to that which brought us 
 both to the fair ; mine, I told him, was to sell a horse ; and, very 
 luckily indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants. My horse 
 was soon produced, and In fine we struck a bargain. Nothing now 
 remained but to pay me, and he accordingly pulled out a thirty-pound 
 note, and bade me change it. Not being In a capacity of complying 
 with his demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who made 
 his appearance In a very genteel livery. " Here, Abraham," cried he, 
 " go and get gold for this ; you'll do it at neighbour J ackson's, or any- 
 where." While the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a 
 pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I undertook Co 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 65 
 
 improve by deploring also the great scarcity of gold ; so that, by the 
 time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money was never so 
 hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned to inform us, that he 
 had been over the whole fair and could not get change, though he had 
 offered half-a-crown for doing it. This was a very great disappoint- 
 ment to us all ; but the old gentleman having paused a little, asked me 
 if I knew one Solomon Flamborough in my part of the country ; upon 
 replying that he was my next door neighbour, " If that be the case, 
 then," returned he, " I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draft 
 upon him, payable at sight ; and let me tell you, he is as warm a man 
 as any within five miles round him. Honest Solomon and I have 
 been acquainted for many years together. I remember I always beat 
 him at three jumps ; but he could hop upon one leg farther than I." 
 A draft upon my neighbour was to me the same as money, for I was 
 sufficiently convinced of his ability : the draft was signed and put into 
 my hands; and Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and 
 my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off very well pleased with each other. 
 
 After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to recollect 
 that I had done wrong in taking a draft from a stranger, and so prudently 
 resolved upon following the purchaser, and having back my horse. 
 But this was now too late. I therefore made directly homewards, 
 resolving to get the draft changed into money at my friend's as fast as 
 possible. I found my honest neighbour smoking his pipe at his own 
 door, and informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it 
 twice over. "'You can read the name, I suppose," cried I, " Ephralm 
 Jenkinson." "Yes," returned he, "the name is written plain enough, 
 and I know the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of 
 heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. 
 Was he not a venerable-looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to 
 his pocket-holes ? and did he not talk a long string of learning about 
 Greek, cosmogony, and the world ? " To this I replied with a groan. 
 " Ay," continued he, "he has but that one piece of learning In the 
 world, and he always talks it away whenever he finds a scholar in 
 company : but I know the rogue, and will catch him yet." 
 
 Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest struggle 
 was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No truant was ever 
 more afraid of returning to school, there to behold the master's visage, 
 than I was of going home. I was determined, however, to anticipate 
 their fury, by first falling into a passion myselfl 
 5 
 
S6 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith, 
 
 But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed for 
 battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been 
 there that day to inform them that their journey to town was entirely 
 over. The two ladies, having heard reports of us from some 
 malicious person about us, were that day set out for London. He 
 could neither discover the tendency nor the author of these ; but, 
 whatever they might be, or whoever might have broached them, he 
 continued to assure our family of his friendship and protection. I 
 found, therefore, that they bore my disappointment with great 
 .resignation, as it was eclipsed in the greatness of their own. But what 
 perplexed us most, was to think who could be so base as to asperse 
 the character of a family so harmless as ours — too humble to excite 
 envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ALL MR. BURCHELL'S VILLANY AT ONCE DETECTED— THE FOLLY OF BEING OVERWISE. 
 
 .HAT evening, and part of the following day, was em- 
 ployed in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies : 
 scarcely a family in the neighbourhood but incurred 
 our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our 
 opinion best known to ourselves. As we were in this 
 rplexity, one of our little boys, who had been playing 
 abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he found on the 
 green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr. Burchell, with 
 whom it had been seen ; and, upon examination, contained some 
 iiints upon different subjects ; but what particularly engaged our 
 .ittention was a sealed note, superscribed, " The copy of a letter to be 
 •cent to the two ladies at Thornhill Castle." It instantly occurred that 
 lie was the base informer ; and we deliberated whether the note should 
 aiot be broken open. I was against it ; but Sophia, who said she was 
 .sure that of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much base- 
 ness, insisted upon its being read. In this she was seconded by the 
 Test of the family ; and, at their joint solicitation, I read as follows : — 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 6 J 
 
 LADIES, 
 
 The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person from whom this comes : one 
 at least the friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its being seduced. I am informed for a 
 truth, that you have some intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some 
 knowledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither have simplicity 
 imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as my opinion, that the impropriety of 
 such a step will be attended with dangerous consequences. It has never been rAy way to treat 
 the infamous or the lewd with severity ; nor should I now have taken this method of explaining 
 myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take, therefore, the admonition of a friend, 
 and seriously reflect on the consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where 
 peace and innocence have hitherto resided. 
 
 Our dotibts were now at an end. There seemed, indeed, something 
 apphcable to both sides in this letter, and its censures might as well 
 be referred to those to whom it was written as to us ; but the malicious 
 meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My wife had scarcely 
 patience to hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with unre- 
 strained resentment. Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed 
 perfectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me 
 one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had ever met 
 with. Nor could I account for it in any other manner than by im- 
 puting it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the 
 country, to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. In 
 this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when 
 our other little boy came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was 
 approaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than 
 •describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a 
 recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though 
 our intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was 
 resolved to do it in a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For 
 this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual smiles, to chat in 
 the beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little; 
 and then, in the midst of the flattering calm, to burst upon him like an 
 earthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own baseness. 
 ■ This being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business 
 herself, as she really had some talents for such &n undertaking. We 
 saw him approach ; he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. *' A fine 
 •day, Mr. Burchell." "A very fine day, Doctor; though I fancy we 
 shall have some rain, by the shooting of my corns." " The shooting 
 of your horns," cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked 
 pardon for being fond of a joke. " Dear madam," replied he, " I 
 pardon you with all my heart ; for I protest I should not have thought 
 
6« 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 THE GIRLS DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 it a joke, had you not told me." *' Perhaps not, sir," cried my wife, 
 winking at us ; "and yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes 
 go to an ounce." " I fancy, madam," returned Burchell, " you have 
 been reading a jest-book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very 
 good a conceit ; and yet, madam, I had rather see half an ounce of 
 understanding." " I believe you might," cried my wife, still smiling 
 at us, though the laugh was against her ; " and yet I have seen some 
 men pretend to understanding, that have very little." — " And no 
 doubt," replied her antagonist, " you have known ladies set up for wit 
 that had none." I quickly began to find that my wife was likely to 
 gain but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a style of 
 more severity myself " Both wit and understanding," cried I, " are 
 trifles without integrity ; it is that which gives value to every character ; 
 the ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher 
 with many ; for what is genius or courage without a heart ? 
 
 " ' An honest man's the noblest work of God.'" 
 
 "I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope's," returned Mr, 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 69 
 
 Burchell, " as very unworthy of a man of genius, and a base desertion 
 <^f his own superiority. As the reputation of books is raised, not by 
 their freedom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties ; so 
 should that of men be prized, not from their exemption from fault, but 
 the size of those virtues they are possessed of The scholar may want 
 prudence ; the statesman may have pride; and the champion ferocity : 
 but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods 
 on through life without censure or applause ? We might as well 
 prefer the tame correct paintings of the Flemish school to the 
 erroneous, but sublime animations of the Roman pencil." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, " your present observation is just, when there are 
 shining virtues and minute defects ; but when it appears that great 
 vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a 
 character deserves contempt." 
 
 " Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such monsters as you 
 describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet, in my progress 
 through life, I never yet found one instance of their existence : on the 
 contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the mind was capacious, 
 the affections were good. And, indeed, Providence seems kindly our 
 friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the understanding where the 
 heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where there is the will to do 
 mischief This rule seems to extend even to other animals ; thejittle 
 vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly ; whilst those 
 endowed with strength and power are generous, brave, and gentle." 
 
 " These observations sound well," returned I, " and yet it would be 
 easy this moment to point out a man," and I fixed my eye steadfastly 
 upon him, " whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. 
 Ay, sir," continued I, raising my voice, " and I am glad to have this 
 opportunity of detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do 
 you know this, sir — this pocket-book ? " " Yes, sir," returned he, with 
 a face of impenetrable assurance ; " that pocket-book is mine, and I am 
 glad you have found it." " And do you know," cried I, "this letter? 
 Nay, never falter, man ; but look me full in the face. I say, do you 
 know this letter } " " That letter," replied he ; " yes, it was I that 
 wrote that letter." " And how could you," said I, " so basely, so 
 ungratefully, presume to write this letter ? " " And how came you," 
 replied he, w^ith looks of unparalleled effrontery, "so basely to presume 
 to break open this letter ? Don't you know, now, I could hang you 
 all for this ? All that I have to do, is to swear at the next justice's 
 
70 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmilh. 
 
 that you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, 
 and so hang you all up at his door." This piece of unexpected 
 insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I could scarcely govern my 
 passion. " Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and no longer pollute my 
 dwelling with thy baseness. Begone ! and never let me see thee 
 again : go from my door, and the only punishment I wish thee is an 
 alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor ! " So saying, 
 I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a smile, and shut- 
 ting the clasps with the utmost composure, left us quite astonished at 
 the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that 
 nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his 
 villanies. " My dear," cried I, willing to calm those passions that had 
 been raised too high among us, " we are not to be surprised that bad 
 men want shame ; they only blush at being detected in doing good, 
 but glory in their vices. 
 
 " Guilt and Shame (says the allegory) were at first companions, and 
 in the beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. But their 
 union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both : 
 Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame often betrayed the 
 secret conspiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement, therefore, they 
 at length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward 
 alone to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner; 
 but Shame, being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company 
 with Virtue, which in the beginning of their journey they had left 
 behind. Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a few 
 stages in vice. Shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon 
 the few virtues they have still remaining." 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 71 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL GREATER. 
 
 HATEVER might have been Sophia's sensations, 
 the rest of the family were easily consoled for Mr. 
 Burchell's absence by the company of our landlord, 
 whose visits now became more frequent and longer. 
 Though he had been disappointed in procuring my 
 ighters the amusements of the town, as he designed, 
 he took every opportunity of supplying them with those 
 little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usually 
 came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations 
 abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by de- 
 scribmg the town, with every part of which he was particularly- 
 acquainted. He could repeat all the observations that were retailed 
 in the atmosphere of the playhouses, and had all the good things 
 of the high wits by rote, long before they made their way into the jest- 
 books, The intervals between conversation were employed in teaching 
 my daughters piquet ; or, sometimes, in setting my two little ones ta 
 box, to make them sharp, as he called it : but the hopes of having him 
 for a son-in-law in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. 
 It must be owned that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap 
 him ; or, to speak it more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit 
 of her daughter. If the cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were 
 made by Olivia ; if the gooseberry-wine was well knit, the gooseberries 
 were of her gathering ; it was her fingers which gave the pickles their 
 peculiar green ; and in the composition of a pudding it was her judg- 
 ment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor woman would some- 
 times tell the Squire that she thought him and Olivia extremely of a 
 size, and would bid both stand up to see which was the tallest. These 
 instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet which ever}-- 
 body saw through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who gave 
 every day some new proofs of his passion, which, though they had not 
 arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short 
 of it : and his slowness was attributed sometimes to native bash- 
 fulness, and sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. An occur- 
 rence, however, which happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 73 
 
 he designed to become one of our family ; my wife even regarded it as 
 an absolute promise. 
 
 My wife and daughters, happening to return a visit to neighbour 
 Flamborough's, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn 
 by a limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen 
 shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a sort of rivalry in 
 point of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, 
 and notwithstanding all I could say (and I said much), it was resolved 
 that we should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, 
 engaged the limner (for what could I do ?), our next deliberation was 
 to show the superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our 
 neighbour's family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn 
 with seven oranges — a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no 
 composition in the world. We desired to have something in a brighter 
 style, and, after many debates, at length came to a unanimous resolu- 
 tion of being drawn together, in one large historical family-piece. 
 This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it 
 would be infinitely more genteel ; for all families of any taste were now 
 drawn in the same manner. As we did not immediately recollect an 
 historical subject to hit us, we were contented each with being drawn 
 as independent historical figures. My wife desired to be represented 
 as Venus, and the painter was requested not to be too frugal of his 
 diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be 
 as Cupids by her side ; while I, in my gown and band, was to present 
 her with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be 
 drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in 
 a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia 
 was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could put 
 in for nothing ; and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and white 
 feather. 
 
 Our taste so much pleased the Squire, that he insisted on being put 
 in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander the Great, at 
 Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his 
 desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his request. 
 The painter was therefore set to work ; and, as he wrought with 
 assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole was com- 
 pleted. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did not spare 
 his colours ; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We were 
 all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but an unfortunate cir- 
 
74 Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 jcumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now 
 struck us with dismay. It was so very large, that we had no place in 
 the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point 
 is inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. This 
 picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned 
 in a most mortifying manner against the kitchen wall, where the canvas 
 was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through any of 
 the doors, and the jest of all our neighbours. One compared it to 
 Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed ; another thought 
 it more resembled a reel in a bottle ; some wondered how it could be 
 got out, but still more were amazed how it ever got in. 
 
 But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more 
 malicious suggestions in many. The Squire's portrait being found 
 united with ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous 
 whispers began to circulate at our expense, and our tranquillity was 
 continually disturbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what 
 was said of us by enemies. These reports were always resented with 
 becoming spirit ; but scandal ever improves by opposition. 
 
 We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation upon obviating 
 the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had 
 too much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this : as 
 our principal object was to discover the honour of Mr Thornhill's 
 addresses, my wife undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his 
 advice in the choice of a husband for her eldest daughter. If this 
 was not found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then re- 
 solved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I would 
 by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn 
 assurances that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon 
 this occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such 
 was the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose. I did 
 not entirely approve. 
 
 The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us. my girls 
 took care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma an oppor- 
 tunity of putting her scheme in execution ; but they only retired to the 
 next room, from whence they could overhear the whole conversation. 
 My wife artfully introduced it by observing, that one of the Miss Flam- 
 boroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. 
 To this the Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark that they who 
 had warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands : " But 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 75 
 
 heaven help," continued she, " the girls that have none ! What 
 signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the virtue and all 
 the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest ? It is not. 
 What is she ? but. What has she ? is all the cry." 
 
 " Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the justice, as well as the 
 novelty, of your remarks ; and if I were a king, it should be otherwise. 
 It should then, indeed, be fine times for the girls without fortunes ; our 
 two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide." 
 
 " Ah ! sir," returned my wife, '* you are pleased to be facetious : 
 but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter 
 should look for a husband. But now that you have put it into my 
 head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't you recommend me a proper 
 husband for her '^ she is now nineteen years old, well grown, and well 
 educated ; and, in my humble opinion, does not want for parts." 
 
 " Madam," replied he, " if I were to choose, I would find out a 
 person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel 
 happy ; one with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity : such, madam, 
 would be, in my opinion, the proper husband." " Ay, sir," said she, 
 ** but do you know of any such person ?" " No, madam," returned he ; 
 "it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be her husband : 
 she's too great a treasure for one man's possession : she's a goddess. 
 Upon my soul, I speak what I think, she's an angel." " Ah ! Mr. 
 Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl : but we have been thinking 
 of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, 
 and M ho wants a manager ; you know whom I mean. Farmer Williams ; 
 a warm man, Mr, Thornhill, able to give her good bread ; and who 
 has several times m^de her proposals " (which was actually the case). 
 " But, sir," concluded she, " I should be glad to have your approbation 
 of our choice." " How, madam !" replied he, "my approbation ! My 
 approbation of such a choice ! Never. What ! sacrifice so much 
 beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the bless- 
 mg ! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice f 
 
 And I have my reasons " " Indeed, sir," cried Deborah ; "if you 
 
 have your reasons, that's another affair ; but I should be glad to know 
 those reasons." " Excuse me, madam," returned he ; " they lie too 
 deep for discovery " (laying his hand upon his bosom) ; " they remain 
 buried, riveted here." 
 
 After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could not tell 
 what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as in- 
 
76 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 MRS. PRIMROSE AKD THE SC^UIRE. 
 
 Stances of the most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so sanguine : 
 it seemed to me pretty plain that they had more of love than matri- 
 mony in them ; yet, whatever they might portend, it was resolved to 
 prosecute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from my daughter's 
 £rst appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SCARCELY ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 ,S I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of 
 Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, 
 prudent, and sincere. It required but very little encourage- 
 ment to revive his former passion ; so that in an evening or 
 two he and Mr. Thornhlll met at our house, and surveyed each other for 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 77 
 
 MR. WILLIAMS AND OLIVIA. 
 
 some time with looks of anger ; but Williams owed his landlord no rent, 
 and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the 
 coquet to perfection, if that might be called acting which was her real 
 character, pretending to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. 
 Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and, with a 
 pensive air, took leave ; though I own it puzzled me to find him in sa 
 much pain as he appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily 
 to remove the cause, by declaring an honourable passion. For what- 
 ever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived that 
 Olivia's anguish was still greater. After any of these interviews 
 between her lovers, of which there were several, she usually retired to 
 solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was in such a situation I 
 found her one evening, after she had been for some time supporting a 
 fictitious gaiety. "You now see, my child," said I, "that your confi- 
 dence in Mr. Thornhill's passion was all a dream ; he permits the rivalry 
 of another, every way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his power 
 to secure you to himself by a candid declaration." " Yes, papa," re- 
 turned she, " but he has his reasons for this delay. I know he has. 
 
7$ Casseir s Ilhisirated Goldsmith. 
 
 The sincerity of his looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. 
 A short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of his sentiments, 
 and convince you that my opinion of him has been more just than 
 yours," " Olivia, my darling," returned I, " every scheme that has been 
 hitherto pursued to compel him to a declaration has been proposed 
 and planned by yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have con- 
 strained you. But you must not suppose, my dear, that I will ever be 
 instrumental in suffering his honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed 
 passion. Whatever time you require to bring your fancied admirer to 
 an explanation, shall be granted ; but at the expiration of that term, if 
 he is still regardless, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams 
 shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I have hitherto 
 supported in life demands this from me ; and my tenderness as a 
 parent shall never influence my integrity as a man. Name, then, your 
 day ; let it be as distant as you think proper, and in the meantime 
 take care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which I design 
 delivering you up to another. If he really loves you, his own good 
 sense will readily suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent 
 his losing you for ever." This proposal, which she could not avoid 
 considering as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed 
 her most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in case of the 
 other's insensibility ; and at the next opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill's 
 presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. 
 
 Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thornhill's 
 anxiety ; but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In 
 this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook 
 her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. 
 One week passed away ; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain 
 her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assiduous, but not 
 rhore open. On the third he discontinued his visits entirely ; and in- 
 stead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she 
 seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as resig- 
 nation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking 
 that my child was going to be secured in a continuance of com- 
 petence and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution, in pre- 
 ferring happiness to ostentation. 
 
 It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little 
 family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories of 
 the past, and laying schemes for the future ; busied in forming a 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 79 
 
 thousand projects, and laughing- at whatever folly came uppermost. 
 *' Well, Moses," cried I, -'we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the 
 family ; what is your opinion of matters and things in general ? " — 
 *' My opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well ; and I was just 
 now thinking, that when sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams, we 
 shall then have the loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing." 
 " That we shall, Moses," cried I ; " and he will sing us Death and the 
 Lady, to raise our spirits, into the bargain." "He has taught that song 
 to our Dick," cried Moses ; " and I think he goes through it very 
 prettily." " Does he so ? " cried I ; " then let us have it. Where is 
 little Dick ? let him up with it boldly." " My brother Dick," cried 
 Bill, my youngest, " is just gone out with sister Livy ; but Mr. Williams 
 has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which 
 song do you choose— The Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the Death of 
 a Mad Dog?" *' The elegy, child, by all means," said I ; "I never 
 heard that yet ; and Deborah, my life, grief, you know, is dry ; let 
 us have a bottle of the best gooseberry-wine, to keep up our spirits. 
 I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that, without an 
 enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome me. And Sophy, love, 
 take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little " 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 ^^J.OOD people all, of every sort, 
 ^^ Give ear unto my song ; 
 And if you find it wondrous short, 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man, 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran, 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had, 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 
 The naked every day he clad, 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
 And in that town a dog was found ; 
 
 As many dogs there be. 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 The dog, to gain some private ends, 
 
 W^ent mad, and bit the man ! 
 
 Around from all the neighbouring streets 
 The wondering neighbours ran ; 
 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad. 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light, 
 That showed the rogues they lied : 
 
 The man recovered of the bite, 
 The dog it was that died.* 
 
 - A * A^'^' ^"""'"Sfiam states that these verses had previously appeared in "The Bee." This is an inadvertence, as 
 indeed IS evident from his own note (vol. i., p. 105) of Goldsmith's Works. "The Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize" was 
 published in "The Bee." j -x 
 
8o Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 "■ A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an elegy that may 
 truly be called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and 
 may he one day be a bishop !" 
 
 " With all my heart," cried my wife ; " and if he but preaches as 
 well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, 
 by the mother's side, could sing a good song. It was a common saying 
 in our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look 
 straight before them ; nor the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that 
 there were none of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the 
 Marjorams but could tell a story." " However that be," cried I, " the 
 most vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases me better than the fine 
 modern odes, and things that petrify us in a single stanza — productions 
 that we at once detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, 
 Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair 
 for griefs that give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A 
 lady loses her muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs 
 home to versify the disaster." 
 
 " That may be the mode," cried Moses, " in sublimer compositions ; 
 but the Ranelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly familiar, 
 and all cast in the same mould. Colin meets Dolly, and they hold 
 a dialogue together ; he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she 
 presents him with a nosegay; and then they go together to church, 
 where they give good advice to young nymphs and swains to get 
 married as fast as they can." 
 
 ** And very good advice too," cried I ; " and I am told there is not 
 a place in the world where advice can be given with so much propriety 
 as there ; for, as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a 
 wife; and surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, where we 
 are told what we want, and supplied witn it when wanting." 
 
 ** Yes, sir," returned Moses, "and I know but of two such markets 
 for wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spam. 
 The Spanish market is open once a year, but our English wives are 
 saleable every night." 
 
 " You are right, my boy," cried his mother. " Old England is 
 the only place in the world for husbands to get wives." *' And for 
 wives to manage their husbands," interrupted I. " It is a proverb 
 abroad, that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the 
 continent would come over to take pattern from ours ; for there are 
 no such wives in Europe as our own. But let us have one bottle 
 
§2 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 more, Deborah, my life ; and, Moses, give us a good song. What 
 thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquilHty, 
 health, and competence ! I think myself happier now than the greatest 
 monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces 
 about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old ; but the evening of 
 our life is likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that 
 knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children 
 behind us. While we live they will be our support and our pleasure 
 here, and when we die they will transmit our honour untainted to 
 posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song ; let us have a chorus. 
 But where is my darling Olivia ? That little cherub's voice is always 
 sweetest in the concert." Just as I spoke, Dick came running in. 
 "' Oh, papa, papa, she is gone from us — she is gone from us ; my 
 sister Livy is gone from us for ever ! " " Gone, child ! " " Yes ; she 
 is gone off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one of them 
 kissed her, and said he would die for her ; and she cried very much, 
 and was for coming back ; but he persuaded her again, and she went 
 into the chaise, and said, ' Oh ! what will my poor papa do when he 
 knows I am undone.' " " Now, then," cried I, " my children, go and 
 be miserable ; for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And oh, may 
 Heaven's everlasting fury light upon him and his ! Thus to rob me 
 of my child ! And sure it will — for taking back my sweet innocent 
 that I was leading up to heaven ! Such sincerity as my child was 
 possessed of! But all our earthly happiness is now over. Go, my 
 children, go and be miserable and infamous — for my heart is broken 
 within me!" "Father," cried my son, "is this your fortitude.**" 
 " Fortitude, child ! Yes, he shall see I have fortitude — bring me my 
 pistols — I'll pursue the traitor — while he is on earth I'll pursue him ! 
 Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet — the villain — the per- 
 ■fidious villain ! " I had by this time reached down my pistols, when 
 my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong as mine, caught me 
 in her arms. " My dearest, dearest husband," cried she, " the Bible 
 is the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my 
 love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived 
 us." " Indeed, sir," resumed my son, after a pause, " your rage is too 
 violent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and 
 you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character, 
 thus to curse your greatest enemy ; — you should not have curst him, 
 villain as he is." " I did not curse him, child, did I ?" " Indeed, sir. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. Z-^^ 
 
 you did ; you curst him twice." " Then may Heaven forgive me 
 and him, if I did. And now, my son, I see it was more than human 
 benevolence that first taught us to bless our enemies. Blest be his 
 holy name for all the good he hath given, and for all that he hath 
 taken away. But it is not — it is not a small distress that can wring 
 tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many years. My 
 child — to undo my darling ! May confusion seize — Heaven forgive 
 me ! what am I about to say ? You may remember, my love, how 
 good she was, and how charming ; till this vile moment all her care 
 was to make us happy. Had she but died ! but she is gone; the 
 honour of our family contaminated, and I must look out for happi- 
 ness in other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw them go off ; 
 perhaps he forced her away ? If he forced her, she may yet be 
 innocent." " Ah, no, sir," cried the child ; " he only kissed her, and 
 called her his angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon his 
 arm, and they drove off very fast." " She's an ungrateful creature," 
 cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, " to use us thus : 
 she never had the least constraint put upon her affections. The vile 
 strumpet has basely deserted her parents without any provocation ; 
 thus to bring your grey hairs to the grave, and I must shortly follow." 
 
 In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent 
 in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. 
 I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and 
 reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our wretched 
 child at breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us 
 all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. 
 *' Never," cried she, " shall that vilest stain of our family again darken 
 these harmless doors. I will never call her daughter more. No, let 
 the strumpet live with her vile seducer : she may bring us to shame, 
 but she shall never more deceive us." 
 
 "Wife," said I, "do not talk thus hardly : my detestation of her 
 guilt is as ^reat as yours ; but ever shall this house and this heart be 
 open to a poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns 
 from her transgression, the more welcome shall she be to me. For the 
 first time the very best may err ; art may persuade, and novelty spread 
 out its charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity ; but every 
 other the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be 
 welcome to this heart and this house, though stained with ten thousand 
 vices. I will again hearken -o the music of her voice, a^aln will I 
 
84 Casseirs I Uustratcd Goldstnith. 
 
 hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son^ 
 bring hither my Bible and my staff; I will pursue her, wherever she 
 is ; and, though I cannot save her from shame, I may prevent the 
 continuance of iniquity." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE. 
 
 HOUGH the child could not describe the gentle- 
 man's person, who handed his sister into the post- 
 chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our young 
 landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but 
 too well known. I therefore directed my steps towards 
 Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, and, if possible,, 
 to bring back my daughter ; but before I had' reached his 
 seat I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he saw a young 
 lady resembling my daughter in a post-chaise with a gentleman, whom, 
 by the description, I could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that 
 they drove very fast. This information, however, did by no means 
 satisfy me ; I therefore went to the young Squire's, and though it was 
 yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately ; he soon appeared 
 with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my 
 daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was quite a 
 stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspicions, and 
 could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who I recollected had of late 
 several private conferences with her ; but the appearance of another 
 witness left me no room to doubt of his villany, who averred that he and 
 my daughter were actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles, 
 off, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that 
 state of mind in which we are more ready to act precipitately than to 
 reason right, I never debated with myself, whether these accounts 
 might not have been given by persons purposely placed in my way to 
 mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied 
 deluder thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of 
 several by the way ; but received no accounts, till entering the town I 
 was met by a person on horseback, whom I remembered to have seen 
 
The Vicar t)f Wakefield. 
 
 85 
 
 THK VICAR AND THE PLAYERS. 
 
 at the Squire's ; and he assured me, that if I followed them to the races, 
 which were but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking 
 them ; for he had seen them dance there the night before, and the 
 whole assembly seemed charmed with my daughter's performance. 
 Early the next day I walked forward to the races, and about four in 
 the afternoon I came upon the course. The company made a very 
 brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of 
 pleasure ; how different from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to 
 virtue ! I thought I perceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me ; 
 but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him' he mixed 
 among a crowd, and I saw him no more. 
 
 I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to continue my 
 pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family, who 
 wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues 
 I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of which I 
 perceived before I came off the course. This was another unexpected 
 stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant from home ; however, 
 I retired to a little ale-house by the road-side ; and ia this place, the 
 
86 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 usual retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down patiently to 
 wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here for nearly three 
 weeks ; but at last my constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided 
 with money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is possible 
 the anxiety from this last circumstance alone might have brought on a 
 relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller who stopped to take a 
 cursory refreshment. This person was no other than the philanthropic 
 bookseller in St. Paul's Churchyard, who has written so many little 
 books for children ;* he called himself their friend, but he was the 
 friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste 
 to be gone ; for he was ever on business of the utmost importance, and 
 was at that time actually compiling materials for the history of one 
 Mr. Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this good-natured man's 
 red pimpled face ; for he had published for me against the Deutero- 
 gamists of the age ; and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid 
 at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I 
 resolved to return home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. 
 
 My health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now 
 condemned that pride which had made me refractory to the. hand of 
 correction. Man little knows what calamities are beyond his patience 
 to bear till he tries them : as in ascending the heights of ambition, 
 which look bright from below, every step we rise shows us some new 
 and gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment ; so in our descent from 
 the summits of pleasure, though the vale of misery below may appear 
 at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to its own 
 amusement, finds, as we descend, something to flatter and to please. 
 Still, as we approach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the 
 mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. 
 
 I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, when I 
 perceived what appeared at a distance like a wagon, which I was 
 resolved to overtake ; but when I came up with it found it to be a 
 strolling company's cart, that was carrying their scenes and other 
 theatrical furniture to the next village, where they were to exhibit. 
 
 The cart was attended only by the person who drove it, and one of 
 the company, as the rest of the players were to follow the ensuing day. 
 
 • This was Mr. John Newbery, who published " The British Magazine " in 1760, for which Goldsmith and Smollett 
 were the principal writers. He also started, in the same year, a daily paper, "The Public Ledger," in which "The 
 Citizen of the World" originally appeared. Amongst the children's books pubhshed by Newbery, was "Goody Two 
 Shoes," said to have been written by Goldsmith. The poet was in the habit of telling pleasant stories of the bookseller, 
 who, he declared, was the patron of more distressed authors than any man of his time ; yet he dishonoured Goldsmith's 
 bill for fifteen guineas when the second edition of "The Vicar of Wakefield" came out. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 87 
 
 " Good company upon the road," says the proverb, " is the shortest cut." 
 I therefore entered into conversation with the poor player ; and, as I 
 once had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics with 
 my usual freedom ; but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the 
 present state of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical 
 writers in vogue, who the Drydens and Otways of the day ? "I fancy, 
 sir," cried the player, " few of our modern dramatists would think 
 themselves much honoured by being compared to the writers you 
 mention, Dryden and Rowe's manner, sir, are quite out of fashion ; 
 our taste has gone ba k a whole century ; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and 
 all the plays of Shakespeare are the only things that go down." 
 " How!" cried I, "is it possible the present age can be pleased with 
 that antiquated dialect, "That obsolete humour, those over-charged 
 characters, which abound in the works you mention ?" " Sir," returned 
 my companion, " the public think nothing about dialect, or humour, or 
 character ; for that is none of their business : they only go to be 
 amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime^ 
 under the sanction of J onsen's or Shakespeare's name." " So then, I 
 suppose," cried I, " that our modern dramatists are rather imitators 
 of Shakespeare than nature." " To say the truth," returned my com- 
 panion, " I don't know that they imitate anything at all ; nor indeed 
 does the public require it of them ; it is not the composition of the 
 piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced 
 into it that elicits applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest 
 in the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved by the 
 poet's throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve 
 and Farquhar have too much v it in them for the present taste ; our 
 modern dialect is much more natural." 
 
 By this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived at 
 the village, which, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, and 
 was come out to gaze at us ; for my companion observed, that strollers 
 always have more spectators without doors than within. I did not 
 consider the impropriety of my being in such company, till I saw a mob 
 gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the 
 first alehouse that offered, and, being shown into the common room, 
 Avas accosted by a very well-dressed gentleman, who demanded whether 
 I was the real chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be 
 my masquerade character in the play ? Upon informing him of the 
 truth, and that I did not belong in any sort to the company, he was 
 
88 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 condescending enough to desire me and the player to partake in a 
 bowl of punch, over which he discussed modern politics with great 
 earnestness and interest. I set him down in my own mind for nothing 
 less than a parliament-naan at least ; but was almost confirmed in my 
 conjectures, when, upon asking what there was in the house for supper, 
 he insisted that the player and I should sup with him at his house ; 
 with which request, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on to 
 comply. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND 
 APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES. 
 
 HE house where we were to be entertained lying at 
 a small distance from the village, our inviter observed, 
 that as the coach was not ready, he would conduct 
 us on foot, and we soon arrived at one of the most 
 magnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the 
 country. The apartment into which we were shown was 
 perfectly elegant and modern ; he went to give orders 
 for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed that we were 
 perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned, an elegant supper 
 was brought in, two or three ladies in easy dishabille were introduced, 
 and the conversation began with some sprightliness. Politics, however, 
 were the subject on which our entertainer chiefly expatiated ; for he 
 asserted that liberty was at once his boast and his terror. After the 
 cloth was removed, he asked me if I had seen the last " Monitor ;" to 
 which replying in the negative, " What ! nor the 'Auditor,' I suppose .'^" 
 cried he. " Neither, sir," returned I. " That's strange, very strange," 
 replied my entertainer. " Now, I read all the politics that come out. 
 The ' Daily,' the ' Public,' the ' Ledger,' the ' Chronicle,' the ' London 
 Evening,' the ' Whitehall Evening,' the seventeen Magazines and the 
 two Reviews ; and, though they hate each other, I love them all. 
 Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and, by all my coal-mines in 
 Cornwall, I reverence its guardians." " Then it is to be hoped," cried 
 I, " you reverence the king ?" " Yes," returned my entertainer, " when 
 
90 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 he does what we would have him; but if he goes on as he has done of 
 late, I'll never trouble myself more with his matters. I say nothing, 
 I think only. I could have directed some things better. I don't think 
 there has been a sufficient number of advisers ; he should advise with 
 every person willing to give him advice, and then we should have things 
 done in another guess manner." 
 
 " I wish," cried I, "that such intruding advisers were fixed in the 
 pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side 
 of our constitution — that sacred power that has for some years been 
 every day declining, and losing its due share of influence in the state. 
 ,But these ignorants still continue the cry of liberty, and if they have 
 any weight, basely throw it into the subsiding scale." 
 
 *' How !" cried one^of the ladies, " do I live to see one so base, so 
 sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants ? 
 Liberty, that sacred gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons ! '* 
 
 " Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, " that there should be any 
 found, at present, advocates for slavery .<* Any who are for meanly 
 giving up the privileges of Britons ! Can any, sir, be so abject ?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied I. '"I am for liberty, that attribute of gods ! 
 Glorious liberty ! that theme of modern declamation. I would have 
 all men kings. I would be a king myself We have all naturally an 
 equal right to the throne ; we are all originally equal. This is my 
 opinion, and was once the opinion of a set of honest men who were 
 called Levellers. They tried to erect themselves into a community, 
 where all should be equally free. But, alas ! it would never answer ; 
 for there were some among them stronger, and some more cunning 
 than others, and these became masters of the rest ; for as sure as your 
 groom rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal than they, 
 so surely will the animal that is cunninger or stronger than he sit upon 
 his shoulders in turn. Since, then, it is entailed upon humanity to 
 submit, and some are born to command, and others to obey, the question 
 is, as there must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the 
 same house with us, or in the same village, or still farther off in the 
 metropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the face of 
 a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me, the better pleased am 
 I. The generality of mankind also are of my way of thinking, and 
 have unanimously created one king, whose election at once diminishes 
 the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from 
 the greatest number of people. Now the great, who were tyrants 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 91 
 
 themselves before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a 
 power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on 
 the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, to 
 diminish kingly power as much as possible ; because whatever they 
 take from that is naturally restored to themselves ; and all they have 
 to do in the state is to undermine the single tyrant, by which they 
 resume their primaeval authority. Now the state may be so circum- 
 stanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so 
 minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining 
 monarchy. For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state be 
 such as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent 
 still more rich, this will increase their ambition. An accumulation of 
 wealth, however, must necessarily be the consequence, when, as at 
 present, more riches flow in from external commerce than arise from 
 internal industry; for external commerce can only be managed to ad- 
 vantage by the rich, and they have also at the same time all the emolu- 
 ments arising from internal industry ; so that the rich, with us, have 
 two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this reason, 
 wealth In all commercial states is found to accumulate ; and all such 
 have hitherto, in time, become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also 
 of this country may contribute to the accumulation of wealth : as when, 
 by their means, the natural ties that bind the rich and poor together 
 are broken ; and it is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the 
 rich ; or when the learned are held unqualified to serve their country 
 as councillors, merely from a defect of opulence ; and wealth is thus 
 made the object of a wise man's ambition ; by these means, I say, and 
 such means as these, riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of 
 accumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and pleasures 
 of life, has no other method to employ the superfluity of his fortune, 
 but in purchasing power; that is, differently speaking, in making 
 dependants by purchasing the liberty of the needy, or the venal, of 
 men who are willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for 
 bread Thus each very opulent man generally gathers round him a 
 circle of the poorest of the people, and the polity abounding in accumu- 
 lated wealth may be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a 
 vortex of its own. Those, however, who are willing to move in a 
 great man's vortex, are only such as must be slaves, the rabble of 
 mankind, whose souls and whose education are adapted to servitude, 
 and who know nothing of liberty except the name. But there must 
 
^2 ' CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 still be a large number of the people without the sphere of the opulent 
 man's influence, namely, that order of men which subsists between the 
 very rich and the very rabble ; those men who are possessed of too 
 large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet are 
 too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of 
 mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of 
 society. This order alone is known to be the true preserver of freedom, 
 and may be called the People. Now, it may happen, that this middle 
 order of mankind may lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be 
 in a manner drowned in that of the rabble ; for if the fortune sufficient 
 for qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs be 
 ten times less than was judged sufficient upon forming the constitution, 
 it is evident that greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced 
 into the political system, and they, ever moving in the vortex of the 
 great, will follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, 
 all that the middle order has left is to preserve the prerogative and 
 privileges of the one principal governor with the most sacred circum- 
 spection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great 
 from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed beneath 
 them. The middle order may be compared to a town, of which the 
 opulent are forming the siege, and of which the governor from without 
 is hastening the relief While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy 
 over them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious 
 terms ; to flatter them with sounds, and to amuse them with privileges ; 
 but if they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town 
 will be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then 
 expect may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, 
 where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am 
 then for, and would die for monarchy, sacred monarchy ; for if there 
 be anything sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign of 
 his people ; and every diminution of his power, in war or peace, is an 
 infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of 
 liberty, patriotism, and Britons have already done much ; it is to be 
 hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more. 
 I have known many of these pretended champions of liberty in my 
 time, yet do I not remember one that was not in his heart and in his 
 family a tyrant." 
 
 My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules 
 of good breeding ; but the impatience of my entertainer, who often 
 
94 
 
 Cassell's Illush'ated Goldsmith. 
 
 strove to interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. " What ! " cried 
 he, "then I have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's 
 clothes ? but, by all the coal-mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if 
 my name be Wilkinson." I now found I had gone too far, and asked 
 pardon for the warmth with which I had spoken. " Pardon !" returned 
 he, in a fury ; " I think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. 
 What ! give up liberty, property, and, as the ' Gazetteer' says, lie down 
 to be saddled with wooden shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your marching 
 out of this house immediately, to prevent worse consequences. Sir, I 
 insist upon it." I was going to repeat my remonstrances ; but just 
 then we heard a footman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried 
 out, *' As sure as death, there is our master and mistress come home !" 
 It seems my entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his 
 master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the gentle- 
 man himself; and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most 
 country gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion 
 upon seeing the gentleman and his lady enter ; nor was their surprise, 
 at finding such company and good cheer, less than ours. "Gentlemen," 
 cried the real master of the house to me and my companion, " my wife 
 and I are your most humble servants ; but I protest this is so unex- 
 pected a favour, that we almost sink under the obligation." However 
 unexpected our company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still 
 more so to us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my 
 own absurdity, when, whom should I next see enter the room but my 
 dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be married 
 to my son George ; but whose match was broken off, as already 
 related ! As soon as she saw me, she fle\\^ to my arms with the utmost 
 joy. " My dear sir," cried she, " to what happy accident is it that we 
 owe so unexpected a visit ? I am sure my uncle and aunt will be in 
 raptures when they find they have got the good Doctor Primrose for 
 their guest." Upon hearing my name the old gentleman and lady very 
 politely stepped up, and welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. 
 Nor could they forbear smiling on being informed of the nature of my 
 present visit ; but the unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed 
 disposed to turn away, was at my intercession forgiven. 
 
 Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted 
 upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days ; and as their 
 niece, my charming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, had been 
 formed under my own instructions, joined in their entreaties, I complied. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. gr 
 
 That niorht I was shown to a mao-nificent chamber, and the next 
 morning, early, Miss Wilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, 
 which was decorated in the modern manner. After some time spent 
 in pointing out the beauties of the place, she inquired, with seeming 
 unconcern, when last I had heard from my son George " Alas ! 
 madam," cried I, "he has now been nearly three years absent, without 
 ever writing to his friends or me. Where he is, I know not ; perhaps 
 I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear madam, 
 we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by 
 our fireside at Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very 
 fast, and poverty has brought not only want but infamy upon us." The 
 good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw her 
 possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail of 
 our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me to find that 
 time had made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected 
 several offers that had been made her since our leaving her part of the 
 country She led me round all the extensive improvements of the 
 place, pointing to the several walks and arbours, and at the same time 
 catching from every object a hint for some new question relative to my 
 son. Jn this manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us 
 in to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling company that 
 I mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the " Fair 
 Penitent," which was to be acted that evening ; the part of " Horatio " 
 by a young gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. He 
 seemed to be very warm in the praise of the new performer, and 
 averred that he never saw any one who bade so fair for excellence. 
 Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day ; " but this gentleman," 
 continued he, " seems born to tread the stage. His voice, his figure, 
 and attitudes are all admirable. We caught him up accidentally, in 
 our journey down." This account in some measure excited our 
 curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to 
 accompany them to the play-house, which was no other than a barn. 
 As the company with which I went was incontestably the chief of the 
 place, we were received with the greatest respect, and placed in the 
 front seat of the theatre ; where we sat for some time with no small 
 impatience to see " Horatio" make his appearance. The new per- 
 former advanced at last ; and let parents think of my sensations by 
 their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son ! He was 
 going to begin ; when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he per- 
 
96 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 celved Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and im- 
 movable. 
 
 The actors behind the scenes, who ascribed this pause to his natural 
 timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but instead of going on, he 
 burst into a flood of tears and retired off the stage. I don't know 
 what were my feelings on this occasion, for they succeeded with too 
 much rapidity for description ; but I was soon awaked from this 
 disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale and with a tremblings 
 voice, desired me to conduct her back to her uncle's. When got home, 
 Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary behaviour, 
 being informed that the new performer was my son, sent his coach, and 
 an invitation for him ; and, as he persisted in his refusal to appear 
 again upon the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon 
 had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I 
 received him with my usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit 
 false resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was mixed with seeming 
 neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a studied part. The 
 tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated ; she said twenty giddy 
 things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of 
 meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, as if 
 happy in the consciousness of unresisted beauty ; and often would ask 
 questions, without giving any manner of attention to the answers. 
 
^8 CasscWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 CHAPTER XX.* 
 
 TTTE MtSTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND PURSUING NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT. 
 
 §^\4J?^^^^^^'^^^ we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to 
 
 fe^^^y^fc^i<^S\ send a couple of her footmen for my son's baggage, 
 
 v-^l^w^"^ which he at first seemed to decline ; but, upon her 
 
 ^^*^^^^M^ pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that 
 
 \2^P3jvi''^^ a stick and a wallet wene all the movable things upon 
 
 ^^^r'^^ftS' ^^'^ earth that he could boast of. " Why, ay, my son,'' 
 
 ""^^ViLi*"" cried I, "you left me but poor ; and poor, I find, you are 
 
 come back, and yet, I make no doubt, you have seen a great deal of 
 
 the world." "Yes, sir," replied my son; "but travelling after fortune 
 
 is not the way to secure her ; and, indeed, of late, I have desisted from 
 
 the pursuit." " I fancy, sir," cried Mrs. Arnold, " that the account of 
 
 your adventures would be amusing ; the first part of them I have often 
 
 heard from my niece ; but could the company prevail for the rest, it 
 
 would be an additional obligation." " Madam," replied my son, " I 
 
 promise you the pleasure you have in hearing will not be half so great 
 
 .as my vanity in repeating them ; and yet in the whole narrative I can 
 
 scarce promise you one adventure, as my account is rather of what I 
 
 saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all 
 
 know, was great; but though it distressed it could not sink me. No 
 
 person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I 
 
 found Fortune at one time, the more I expected from her another ; and 
 
 being now at the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, 
 
 "but could not depress me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London in 
 
 a fine morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as the 
 
 birds that carolled by the road ; and comforted myself with reflecting, 
 
 that London was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of 
 
 meeting distinction and reward. 
 
 " Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver your 
 letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little better 
 <circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, sir, was to be usher 
 at an academy, and I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin 
 received the proposal with a true Sardonic grin. ' Ay,' cried he, '• this 
 
 * The incidents in this chapter are no fictions. The experiences of his tutor-life at Peckham, his Continental wanderings, 
 :and his literary struggles, are here recorded by Goldsmith. " It was the common talk at the dinner table of Reynolds," says 
 Mr. Forster, "that the wanderings of the Philo^ophic Vagabond in the ' Vicar of Wakefield ' had been suggested by his own, 
 iind he often admitted at that time, to various friends, the accuracy of special details." 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. gg 
 
 is, indeed, a very pretty career that has been chalked out for you. I 
 have been an usher at a boarding-school myself ; and may I die by an 
 anodyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey in Newgate. 
 I was up early and late. I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my 
 ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never per- 
 mitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are 
 fit for a school } Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred 
 apprentice to the business ? ' ' No.' ' Then you won't do for a school. 
 Can you dress the boys' hair?' 'No.' 'Then you won't do for a 
 school. Have you had the small-pox ? ' ' No.' ' Then you won't do 
 for a school. Can you lie three in a bed ?' ' No.' ' Then you will 
 never do for a school. Have you got a good stomach ? ' ' Yes.' 
 ' Then you will by no means do for a school. No, sir ; if you are for 
 a genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice 
 to turn a cutler's wheel ; but avoid a school by any means. Yet come,' 
 continued he, ' I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning ; what 
 do you think of commencing author like me ? You have read in 
 books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade ; at piesent I'll 
 show you forty very dull fellows about town that live by it in opulence. 
 All honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write 
 history and politics, and are praised ; men, sir, who, had they been 
 bred cobblers, would all their lives have only mended shoes, but 
 never made them.' 
 
 " Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the 
 character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal ; and, having 
 the highest respect for literature, hailed the Antiqua Mater of Grub 
 Street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which 
 Dryden and Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess of this 
 region as the parent of excellence ; and, however an intercourse with 
 the world might give us good sense, the poverty she granted I 
 supposed to be the nurse of genius. Big with these reflections I sat 
 down, and, finding that the best things remained to be said on the 
 wrong side, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I 
 therefore dressed up some paradoxes with ingenuity. They were 
 false, indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth have been 
 so often imported by others, that nothing was left for me to import but 
 some splendid things that, at a distance, looked every bit as well. 
 Witness, you powers, what fancied importance sat perched upon my 
 quill while I was writing ! The whole learned world, I made no doubt, 
 
lOo CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 would rise to oppose my systems ; but then I was prepared to oppose 
 the whole learned world. Like the porcupine, I sat self-collected, with 
 a quill pointed against every opposer." 
 
 " Well said, my boy," cried I ; " and what subject did you treat 
 upon ? I hope you did not pass over the importance of monogamy. 
 But I interrupt : go on. You published your paradoxes ; well, and 
 what did the learned world say to your paradoxes ? " 
 
 *' Sir," replied my son, *' the learned world said nothing to my 
 paradoxes ; nothing at all, sir. Every m.an of them was employed in 
 praising his friends and himself, or condemning his enemies ; and„ 
 unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the cruelest mortification — 
 neglect. 
 
 *' As I was meditating one day, in a coffee-house, on the fate of my 
 paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, placed himself in 
 the box before me ; and, after some preliminary discourse, finding me 
 to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe 
 to a new edition he was going to give the world of Propertius, with, 
 notes. This demand necessarily produced a reply, that I had no money ; 
 and that concession led him to inquire into the nature of my expecta- 
 tions. Finding that my expectations were just as great as my purse^ 
 * I see,' cried he, ' you are unacquainted with the town, I'll teach you 
 a part of it. Look at these proposals ; upon these very proposals I 
 have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. The moment a 
 nobleman returns from his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or 
 dowager from her country-seat, I strike for a subscription. I first 
 besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the 
 breach. If they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to 
 beg a dedication fee ; if they let me have that, I smite them once miore 
 for engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus,' continued he, ' I 
 live by vanity and laugh at it ; but, between ourselves, I am now too 
 well known. I should be glad to borrow your face a bit ; a nobleman 
 of distinction has just returned from Italy ; my face is familiar to his 
 porter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it, you succeed, 
 and we divide the spoil.' " 
 
 " Bless us, George ! " cried I, " and Is this the employment of poets 
 now ? Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary } Can 
 they so far disgrace their calling as to make a vile traffic of praise for 
 bread?" 
 
 " O no, sir," returned he ; "a true poet can never be so base ; for, 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 lOI 
 
 A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND. 
 
 wherever there is genius there is pride. The creatures I now describe 
 are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship 
 for fame, so is he equally a coward to contempt ; and none but those 
 who are unworthy protection condescend to solicit it. 
 
 " Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a 
 fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now 
 obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread; but I was 
 unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was to insure 
 success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for applause ; but 
 ■usually consumed that time in efforts after excellence, which takes up 
 but little room, when it should have been more advantageously employed 
 in the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would, 
 therefore, come forth in the midst of periodical publications, unnoticed 
 and unknown. The public were more importantly employed than to 
 observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. 
 Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were 
 buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the 
 bite of a mad dog ; while Philautos, Philalethes, and Philelutheros, 
 
I02 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 and Philanthropos, all wrote better, because they wrote fastei 
 than I. 
 
 " Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed 
 authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. 
 The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer's attempts was 
 inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could 
 please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that 
 source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction ; 
 for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade. 
 
 " In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on 
 a bench in St. James's Park, a young gentleman of distinction, who 
 had been my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. 
 We saluted each other with some hesitation ; he almost ashamed to be 
 known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a 
 repulse. But my suspicions soon vanished ; for Ned Thornhill was at 
 the bottom a very good-natured fellow." 
 
 " What did you say, George ? " interrupted I. "Thornhill! was 
 not that his name? It can certainly be no other than my landlord/ 
 " Bless me ! " cried Mrs.. Arnold, " is Mr. Thornhill so near a neighbour 
 of yours ? He has long been a friend in our family, and we expect a 
 visit from him shortly." 
 
 " My friend's first care," continued my son, " was to alter my appear- 
 ance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then I was admitted to 
 his table upon the footing of half friend, half underling. My business 
 was to attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he sat for his 
 picture, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by another, 
 and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when he had a mind 
 for a frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other little employments in the 
 family. I was to do many small things without bidding ; to carry the 
 corkscrew ; to stand godfather to all the butler's children ; to sing 
 when I was bid ; to be never out of humour ; always to be humble ; 
 and, if I could, to be very happy. 
 
 "In this honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. A 
 captain of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, opposed 
 me in my patron's affections. His mother had been laundress to a 
 man of quality, and thus he early acquired a taste for pimping and 
 pedigree. As this gentleman made it the study of his life to be 
 acquainted with lords, though he was dismissed from several for his 
 Stupidity, yet he found many of them who were as dull as himself, that 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 103 
 
 permitted his assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he practised it 
 with the easiest address imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff 
 from me ; and as every day my patron's desire of flattery increased, 
 so every hour being better acquainted with his defects, I became^ 
 more unwilHng to give it. Thus I was once more fairly going to give 
 up the field to the captain, when my friend found occasion for 
 my assistance. This was nothing less than to fight a duel for him 
 with a gentleman, whose sister it was pretended he had used ill. I 
 readily complied with his request, and though I see you are displeased 
 at my conduct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due to friendship, I 
 could not refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and 
 soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was only a woman 
 of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. This piece 
 of service was repaid with the warmest professions of gratitude ; 
 but as my friend was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other 
 method of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle, Sir 
 William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction, who 
 enjoyed a post under the government. When he was gone, my first 
 care was to carry his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose 
 character for every virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by 
 his servants with the most hospitable smiles, for the looks of the 
 domestics ever transmit their master's benevolence. Being shown 
 into a grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I delivered 
 my message and letter, which he read, and after pausing some minutes 
 — * Pray, sir,' cried he, ' inform me what you have done for my kins- 
 man, to deserve this warm recommendation ? But I suppose, sir,. 
 I guess your merits ; you have fought for him ; and so you would 
 expect a reward from me for being the instrument of his vices. 
 I wish, sincerely wish, th .t my present refusal may be some punish- 
 ment for your guilt ; but still more that it may be some inducement to 
 your repentance.' The severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, because 
 I knew it was just. My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in 
 my letter to the great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost 
 ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition, I found 
 it no easy matter to gain admittance. However, after bribing the 
 servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a 
 spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his lordship's 
 inspection. During this anxious interval, I had full time to look around 
 me. Everything was grand and of happy contrivance : the paintings 
 
I04 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 the furniture, the gildings, petrified me with awe, and raised my idea 
 of the owner. Ah ! thought I to myself, how very great must the 
 possessor of all these things be, who carries in his head the business 
 of the state, and whose house displays half the wealth of a kingdom ; 
 sure his o-enius must be unfathomable ! Durinsf these awful reflections 
 I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man 
 himself! No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard 
 soon after. This must be he ! No, it was only the great man's 
 valet-de-chambre. At last his lordship actually made his appearance. 
 ' Are you,' cried he, ' the bearer of this here letter ?' I answered with 
 
 a bow. ' I learn by this,' continued he, ' as how that ' But just 
 
 at that instant a servant delivered him a card ; and without taking 
 further notice he went out of the room, and left me to digest my 
 own happiness at leisure. I saw no more of him, till told by a footman 
 that his lordship was going to his coach at the door. Down I imme- 
 diately followed, and joined my voice to that of three or four more, who 
 came like me to petition for favours. His lordship, however, went too 
 fast for us, and was gaining his chariot-door with large strides, when I 
 hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply. He was by this time 
 got in, and muttered an answer, half of which only I heard, the other 
 half was lost in the rattling of his chariot- wheels. I stood for some 
 time with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one that was 
 listening to catch the glorious sounds, till, looking round me, I found 
 myself alone at his lordship's gate. 
 
 " My patience," continued my son, " was now quite exhausted. Stung 
 with the thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast 
 myself away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. I regarded 
 myself as one of those vile things that Nature designed should be 
 thrown by into her lumber-room, there to perish in obscurity. I had 
 still, however, half" a guinea left, and of that I thought Nature herself 
 should not deprive me ; but, in order to be sure of this, I was resolved 
 to go instantly and spend it while I had it, and then trust to occur- 
 rences for the rest. As I was going along with this resolution, it 
 happened that Mr. Crispe's office seemed invitingly open to give me a 
 welcome reception. In this office Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his 
 majesty's subjects a generous promise of .£30 a-year, for which promise 
 all they give in return is their liberty for life, and permission to let him 
 transport them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a place 
 where I could lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell, for it 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 105 
 
 SCENE IN ST. JAMESS PARK. 
 
 had the appearance of one, with the devotion of a monastic. Here I 
 found a number of poor creatures, all in circumstances hke myself, 
 expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome of 
 English impatience. Each untractable soul, at variance with Fortune, 
 •wreaked her injuries on, their own hearts ; but Mr. Crispe at last came 
 down, and all our murmurs were hushed. He deigned to regard 
 me with an air of peculiar approbation, and indeed he was the first 
 man who, for a month past, talked to me with smiles. After a few 
 questions, he found I was fit for everything in the world. He paused 
 ciwhile upon the properest means of providing for me, and slapping his 
 forehead as if he had found it, assured me that there was at that time 
 an embassy talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chicka- 
 saw Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me made 
 secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his 
 promise gave me pleasure, there was something so magnificent in the 
 sound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half-guinea, one-half of which 
 went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and with the 
 
io6 Cassells Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 other half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there more happy 
 than he. 
 
 "■ As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door by 
 the captain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some little acquaint- 
 ance, and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I 
 never chose to make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that 
 I was upon the very point of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper's 
 promises ; for that he only designed to sell me to the plantations. 
 ' But,' continued he, ' I fancy you might by a much shorter voyage be 
 very easily put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My 
 ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam ; what if you go in her as a 
 passenger ? The moment you land, all you have to do is to teach the 
 Dutchmen English, and I warrant you'll get pupils and money enough, 
 I suppose you understand English,' added he, ' by this time, or 
 the deuce is in it' I confidently assured him of that ; but expressed 
 a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing to learn Englisli. 
 He affirmed, with an oath, that they were fond of it to distraction ; and 
 upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and embarked 
 the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was 
 fair, our voyage short, and, after having paid my passage with half my 
 moveables, I found myself fallen, as from the skies, a stranger in one 
 of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was 
 unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed 
 myself, therefore, to two or three of those I met, whose appearance 
 seemed most promising ; but it was impossible to make ourselves 
 mutually understood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, 
 that in order to teach Dutchmen English, it was necessary that they 
 should first teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an 
 objection, is to me amazing ; but certain it is I overlooked it. 
 
 ** This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping 
 back to England again ; but falling into company with an Irish student, 
 who was returning from Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics 
 of literature (for by the way, it may be observed, that I always forgot 
 the meanness of my circumstances when I could converse on such 
 subjects), from him I learned, that there were not two men in his 
 whole university who understood Greek. This amazed me. I 
 instantly resolved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching 
 Greek ; and in this design I was heartened by my brother-student, who 
 threw out some hints that a fortune might be got by it. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 107 
 
 " I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day lessened the 
 burthen of my moveables, like ^sop and his basket of bread ; for I 
 paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When I 
 came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneaking to the lower 
 professors, but openly tendered my talents to the principal himself I 
 went, had admittance, and offered him my service as a master of the 
 Greek lan^uas^e, which I had been told was a desideratum in this 
 university. The principal seemed, at first, to doubt of my abilities ; 
 but of these I offered to convince him, by turning a part of any Greek 
 author he should fix upon into Latin, Finding me perfectly earnest 
 in my proposal, he addressed me thus : ' You see me, young man ; I 
 never learned Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I 
 have had a doctor's- cap and gown without Greek ; I have ten thousand 
 florins a year without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and, 
 in short,' continued he, ' as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there 
 is any good in it.' 
 
 " I was now too far from home to think of returning, so I resolved 
 to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable 
 voice ; I now turned what was once my amusement into a present 
 means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless peasants of 
 Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to 
 be very merry ; for I ever found tkem sprightly in proportion to their 
 wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, L 
 played one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a 
 lodging, but subsistence for the next day. I once or twice attempted 
 to play for people of fashion ; but they always thought my performance 
 odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me 
 the more extraordinary, as whenever I used in better days to play for 
 company, when playing was my amusement, my music never failed to 
 throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but, as it was now 
 my only means, it was received with contempt : a proof how ready the 
 world is to underrate those talents by which a man is supported. 
 
 "In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just 
 to look about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are 
 much fonder of strangers that have money, than of those that have wit. 
 As I could not boast much of either, I was no great favourite. After 
 walking about the town four or five days, and seeing the outsides of the 
 best houses, I was preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality ; 
 when, passing through one of the principal streets, whom should 
 
io8 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmiths 
 
 I meet but our cousin, to whom you first recommended me ! This 
 meeting was very agreeable to me, and I beheve not displeasing 
 to him. He inquired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and 
 informed me of his own business there, which was to collect pictures, 
 medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a gentleman in London, 
 who had just stepped into taste and a large fortune. I was the more 
 surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he 
 himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the matter. Upon 
 asking how he had been taught the art of a cog7ioscento so very 
 suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more. easy. The whole 
 secret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules : the one, always to 
 observe that the picture might have been better if the painter had 
 taken more pains ; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Peru- 
 gino. ' But,' says he, ' as I once taught you how to be an author in 
 London, I'll now undertake to instruct you in the art of picture- 
 buying in Paris.' 
 
 " With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living ; and 
 now all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodgings, 
 improved my dress by his assistance ; and, after some time, accom- 
 panied him to auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were 
 expected to be purchasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy 
 •with people of the best fashion, who referred themselves to his judg- 
 ment upon every picture or medal, as an unerring standard of taste. 
 He made very good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; for 
 "when asked his opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, 
 shrug, look wise, return, and assure the company that he could give no 
 opinion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was some- 
 times an occasion for a more supported assurance. I remember to 
 have seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring of a picture 
 was not mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown 
 varnish that was accidentally lying by, and rub it over the piece with 
 great composure before all the company, and then ask if he had 
 not improved the tints. 
 
 " When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly 
 recommended to several men of distinction, as a person very proper for 
 a travelling tutor ; and, after some time, I was employed in that 
 capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set 
 him forward on his tour through Europe. I was to be the young 
 gentleman's governor, but with a proviso that he should always 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 109 
 
 be permitted to govern himself. My pupil, in fact, understood the 
 art of guiding in money concerns much better than I. He was heir to 
 a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle 
 in the West Indies ; and his guardians, to qualify him for the manage- 
 ment of it, had bound him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice 
 was his prevailing passion : all his questions on the road were, how 
 much money might be saved ; which was the least expensive course of 
 travelling; whether anything could be bought that would turn to 
 account when disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on the 
 way as could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look at ; but 
 if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had 
 been told they were not worth seeing He never paid a bill that 
 he would not observe, how amazingly expensive travelling was ! and 
 all this though he was not yet twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, 
 as we took a walk to look at the port and shipping, he inquired 
 the expense of the passage by sea home to England. This he 
 was informed was but a trifle compared to his returning by land : 
 he was therefore unable to withstand the temptation , so paying me the 
 small part of my salary that was due, he took leave, and embarked 
 with only one attendant for London. 
 
 " I now, therefore, was left once more upon the world at large ', 
 but then it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in music 
 could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant was a better 
 musician than I ; but by this time I had acquired another talent, which 
 answered my purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In 
 all the foreign universities and convents, there are, upon certain days, 
 philosophical theses maintained against every adventitious disputant ; 
 for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a 
 gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, 
 therefore, I fought my way towards England ; walked along from city 
 to city ; examined mankind more nearly ; and, if I may so express it» 
 saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, however, are but few ; I 
 found that monarchy was the best government for the poor to live in, 
 and commonwealths for the rich. I found that riches in general were 
 in every country another name for freedom ; and that no man is so fond 
 of liberty himself as not to be desirous of subjecting the will of some 
 individuals in society to his own. 
 
 «' Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay my respects first to 
 you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was 
 
no 
 
 CasseWs Illustrated GoldsTnith. 
 
 going forward ; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed 
 by meeting an old acquaintance, who I found belonged to a company 
 of comedians that were going to make a summer campaign in the 
 country. The company seemed not much to disapprove of me for 
 an associate. They all, however, apprised me of the importance of the 
 task at which I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed monster, 
 and that only such as had very good heads could please it ; that acting 
 was not to be learnt in a day ; and that without some traditional 
 shrugs which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these 
 hundred years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty 
 was in fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in keeping. 
 I was driven for some time from one character to another, till at 
 last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of the present 
 company has happily hindered me from acting." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY 
 
 WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION. , 
 
 fY son's account was too long to be delivered at once ; 
 the first part of it was begun that night, and he was 
 concluding the rest after dinner the next day, when 
 the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at the 
 door seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. 
 The butler, who was now become my friend in the 
 family, informed me, in a whisper, that the Squire had 
 already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and 
 uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill's 
 entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start back ; but I 
 readily imputed that to surprise, and not displeasure. However, 
 upon our advancing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the 
 most apparent candour ; and after a short time his presence served 
 only to increase the general good humour. 
 
 After tea, he called me aside, to inquire after my daughter ; but upon 
 my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatl) 
 surprised ; adding that he had been since frequently at my house, 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 II I 
 
 in order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. 
 He then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot, 
 or my son ; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he 
 greatly approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all 
 means to keep it a secret ; " for at best," cried he, " it is but divulging 
 one's own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we 
 all imagine." We were here interrupted by a servant, who came to 
 ask the Squire in to stand up at country-dances ; so that he left 
 me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my concerns 
 His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot were too obvious to be 
 mistaken ; and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them 
 rather in compliance to the will of her aunt, than from real inclination. 
 I had even the satisfaction to see her lavish some kind looks upon my 
 unfortunate son, which the other could neither extort by his fortune 
 nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming composure, however, not a 
 little surprised me : we had now continued here a week, at the pressing 
 instances of Mr. Arnold ; but each day the more tenderness Miss 
 Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill's friendship seemed propor- 
 tionably to increase for him. 
 
 He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using 
 his interest to serve the family ; but now his generosity was not 
 confined to promises alone. The morning* I designed for my departure 
 Mr. Thornhill came to me, with looks of real pleasure, to inform me of 
 a piece of service he had done for his friend George. This was 
 nothing less than his having procured him an ensign's commission 
 in one of the regiments that were going to the West Indies, for which 
 he had promised but one hundred pounds, his interest having been 
 sufficient to cret an abatement of the other two : " As for this triflino; 
 piece of service," continued the young gentleman, " I desire no other 
 reward but the pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for 
 the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, 
 I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your leisure." This was a 
 favour we wanted words to express our sense of : I readily, therefore, 
 gave my bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude as if 
 I never intended to pay. 
 
 George was to depart for town the next day to secure his com- 
 mission, in pursuance of his generous patron's directions, who judged 
 it highly expedient to use dispatch, lest in the meantime another 
 should step in with more advantageous proposals. The next morning, 
 
112 
 
 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 MISS Wir.MOT AND THIi; VICAR. 
 
 therefore, our young- soldier was early prepared for his departure, and 
 seemed the only person among us that was not affected by it. Neither 
 the fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends 
 and mistress (for Miss Wilmot actually loved him) he was leavmg 
 behind, any way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the 
 rest of the company, I gave him all I had — my blessing : " And 
 now, my boy," cried I, " thou art going to fight for thy country, 
 remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred king, when 
 loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in 
 all but his misfortunes ; if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk- 
 land. Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant, exposed and 
 unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears are those with 
 which Heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier." 
 
 The next morning I took leave of the good family that had been 
 kind enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions, 
 of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the 
 enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good breeding 
 procure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my 
 
114 Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 daughter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and to forgive 
 her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having 
 hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted 
 myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. 
 But the night coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the 
 road-side, and asked for the landlord's company over a pint of wine. 
 We sat beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room in the house, 
 and chatted on politics and the news of the country. We happened, 
 among other topics, to talk of young squire Thornhill, who, the host 
 assured me, was hated as much as his uncle, Sir William, who some- 
 times came down to the country, was loved. He went on to observe, 
 that he made it his whole study to betray the daughters of such 
 as received him to their houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks' 
 possession turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. 
 As we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who had been 
 out to get change, returned, and perceiving that her husband was 
 enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in 
 an angry tone, what he did there, to which he only replied, in an 
 ironical way, by drinking her health. "Mr. Symonds," cried she, " you 
 use me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here, three-parts of 
 the business is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished, while 
 you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long ; whereas, if 
 a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop." 
 I now found what she would be at, and immediately poured her out a 
 glass, which she received with a curtsey, and drinking towards my 
 o-ood health, " Sir," resumed she, " it is not so much for the value 
 of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it when the house 
 is eoingf out of the windows. If the customers or oruests are to 
 be dunned, all the burden lies upon my back : he'd as lief eat that glass 
 as budee after them himself. There now above stairs we have a 
 young woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don't 
 believe she has got any money, by her over-civility. I am certain she 
 is very slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it." 
 " What signifies minding her ?" cried the host ; " if she be slow she's 
 sure." " I don't know that," replied the wife ; *' but I know that I am 
 sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross 
 of her money." " I suppose, my dear," cried he, " we shall have it all 
 in a lump." " In a lump !" cried the other; " I hope we may get it any 
 way ; and that I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 1 1 5 
 
 bag and baggage." '' Consider, my dear," cried the husband, " she is 
 a gentlewoman, and deserves more respect." " As for the matter 
 of that," returned the hostess, " gende or simple, out she shall pack 
 with a sassarara. Gentry may be good things where they take ; but for 
 my part I never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow." 
 Thus saying, she ran up a narrow flight of stairs that went from 
 the kitchen to a room overhead, and I soon perceived by the loud- 
 ness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money 
 was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very 
 distinctly. " Out, I say, pack out this moment ! tramp, thou infamous 
 strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the better for these 
 three months. What ! you trumpery, to come and take up an honest 
 house without cross or coin to bless yourself with ! come along, I say." 
 *' Oh, dear madam," cried the stranger, "pity me, pity a poor abandoned 
 creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest." I instantly 
 knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, 
 while the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the 
 dear forlorn wretch in my arms. " Welcome, any way, welcome, 
 my dearest lost one, my treasure, to your poor old father's bosom. 
 Though the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the world that 
 will never forsake thee ; though thou hadst ten thousand crimes to 
 answer for, he will forgive them all." " Oh, my own dear" — for minutes 
 she could say no more — " my own dearest, good papa ! Could angels 
 be kinder ? How do I deserve so much .'* The villain, I hate him 
 and myself, to be a reproach to so much goodness. You can't forgive 
 me ; I know you cannot." ** Yes, my child, from my heart I do 
 forgive thee : only repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall 
 see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia." " Ah ! never, sir, never. 
 The rest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad, and shame 
 at home. But, alas ! papa, you look much paler than you used to do. 
 Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneasiness ? Surely 
 you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon 
 yourself!" " Our wisdom, young woman — " replied I. "Ah ! why so 
 cold a name, papa ? " cried she. " This is the first time you ever 
 called me by so cold a name." " I ask pardon, my darling," returned 
 I ; *' but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow 
 defence against trouble, though at last a sure one." 
 
 The landlady now returned to know if we did not choose a more 
 genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown to a room 
 
1 1 6 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 where we could converse more freely. After we had talked ourselves 
 into some degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some 
 account of the gradations that led to iier present wretched situation. 
 " That villain, sir," said she, "from the first day of our meeting, made 
 me honourable, though private proposals. 
 
 " Villain, indeed," cried I ; " and yet it in some measure surprises 
 me, how a person of Mr. Burchell's good sense and seeming honour 
 could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family 
 to undo it." 
 
 "My dear papa," returned my daughter, " you labour under a strange 
 mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive me. Instead 
 of that, he took every opportunity of privately admonishing me against 
 the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who, I now find, was even worse than 
 he represented him." " Mr. Thornhill !" interrupted I ; " can it be? " 
 "Yes, sir," returned she; "it was Mr. Thornhill who seduced me; who 
 employed the two ladies, as he called them, but who, in fact, were 
 abandoned women of the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up 
 to London. Their artifices, you may remember, would have certainly 
 succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed those reproaches 
 at them, which we all applied to ourselves. How he came to have so 
 much influence as to defeat their intentions, still remains a secret to 
 me ; but I am convinced he was ever our warmest, sincerest friend." 
 
 " You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I find my first 
 suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's baseness were too well grounded : but 
 he can triumph in security ; for he is rich, and we are poor. But tell 
 me, my child ; surely it was no small temptation that could thus 
 obliterate all the impressions of such an education, and so virtuous 
 a disposition as thine ?" 
 
 " Indeed, sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph to the desire I 
 had of making him, and not myself happy. I knew that the ceremony 
 of our marriage, which was privately performed by a Popish priest, was 
 no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour." 
 "What !" interrupted I, " and were you indeed married by a priest, and 
 in orders?" "Indeed, sir, we were," replied she, "though we were 
 both sworn to conceal his name." " Why then, my child, come to my 
 arms again ; and now you are a thousand times more welcome than 
 before ; for you are his wife to all intents and purposes ; nor can 
 all the laws of man, though written upon tables of adamant, lessen the 
 force of that sacred connection." 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 FATHER ANn DAUOHTKR. 
 
 ''Alas! papa," replied she, "you are but little acquainted with 
 his villanies ; he has been married already, by the same priest, to six 
 or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned " 
 " Has he so ?" cried I ; - then we must hang the priest, and you 
 shall mform against him to-morrow " " But, sir," returned she, " will 
 that be right, when I am sworn to secrecy ?" " My dear," I replied 
 " if you have made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I, tempt you to 
 break it. ^ Even though it may benefit the public, you must not inform 
 agamst him. In all human institutions a smaller evil is allowed 
 to procure a greater good : as, in politics, a province may be given 
 away to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a limb may be loppe'd off 
 to preserve the body. But In religion the law is written and inflexible 
 never to do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; for otherwise, if we 
 commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt would be 
 thus incurred In expectation of contingent advantage. And thouo-h 
 the advantage should certainly follow, yet the interval between com- 
 mission and advantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that 
 in which we are called away to answer for the things we have done, 
 
1 1 8 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 and the volume of human actions is closed for ever. But I interrupt 
 you, my dear : go on." 
 
 " The very next morning," continued she, " I found what little 
 expectations I was to have from his sincerity. That very mornini];^ he 
 introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had 
 deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too 
 tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my 
 infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I danced, dressed, 
 and talked, but still was unhappy The gentlemen who visited there 
 told me every moment of the power of my charms, and this only con- 
 tributed to increase my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power 
 quite away. Thus each day I grew more pensive and he more insolent, 
 till at last the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young 
 baronet of his acquaintance. Need I describe, sir, how this ingratitude 
 stung me ? My answer to this proposal was almost madness. I 
 desired to part. As I was going, he offered me a purse ; but I flung 
 it at him with indignation, and burst from him in a rage that for 
 awhile kept me insensible of the miseries of my situation. But 
 I soon looked round me,, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, 
 without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that interval 
 a stage-coach happening to pass by, I took a place, it being my only 
 aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. 
 I was set down here ; where, since my arrival, my own anxiety, and 
 this woman's unkindness, have been my only companions. The hours 
 of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister now grow 
 painful t^ me. Their sorrows are much • but mine are greater than 
 theirs ; for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy." 
 
 " Have patience, my child," cried I, " and I hope things will yet be 
 better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I'll carry you 
 home to your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will 
 receive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this has gone to her heart ; 
 but she loves you still, Olivia, and will forget it-" 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. ng 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM 
 
 HE next morning I took my daughter behind me, and 
 set out on my return home. As we travelled along, 
 I strove by every persuasion to calm her sorrows and 
 fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the pre- 
 sence of her offended mother. I toor every opportunity, 
 from the prospect of a fine country through which we passed, 
 to observe how much kinder Heaven was to us than we to 
 each other ; and that the misfortunes of Nature's making were but very 
 few. I assured her that she should never perceive any change in my 
 affections, and that during my life, which yet might be long, she might 
 depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the 
 censures of the world, showed her that books were sweet, unreproaching 
 companions to the miserable, and that, if they could not bring us to 
 enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it. 
 
 The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inp 
 by the way, within about five miles from my house ; and as I was 
 willing to prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined 
 to leave her that night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied 
 by my daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It was night betore 
 we reached our appointed stage ; however, after seeing her provided 
 with a decent apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare 
 proper refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. 
 And now my heart caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer I 
 approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frightened 
 from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and hovered round my 
 little fireside with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many- 
 fond things I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. 
 I already felt my wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my 
 little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace ; the 
 labourers of the day were all retired to rest ; the lights were out in 
 every cottage ; no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and the 
 deep-mouthed watch-dog, at hollow distance. I approached my little 
 abode of pleasure, and, before I^was within a furlonp; of the place, our 
 honest mastiff came runnmg to welcome me. 
 
 It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door : all was 
 
I20 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 still and silent — my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to 
 my amazement, I saw the house bursting out into a blaze of fire, and 
 every aperture red with conflagration ! I gave a loud convulsive out- 
 cry, and fell upon the pavement insensible, This alarmed my son, 
 who had till this been asleep, and he, perceiving the flames, instantly 
 awaked my wife and daughter, and all running out, naked and wild 
 with apprehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was 
 only to objects of new terror, for the flames had by this time caught 
 the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the 
 family stood with silent agony looking on as if they enj yco the blaze. 
 I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me 
 for my two little ones ; but they were not to be seen, " Oh, misery ! 
 where,' cried I, " where are my little ones ? " " They are burnt to 
 death in the flames," said my wife, calmly, " and I will die with them." 
 That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just 
 awaked by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. " Where, 
 where are my children ? " cried I, rushing through the flames, and 
 bursting the door of the chamber in which they were confined ; " where 
 are my little ones .^ " "Here, dear papa, here we are !" cried they 
 together, while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. 
 I caught them both in my arms, and conveyed them through the fire 
 as fast as possible, while, just as I was going out, the roof sunk in. 
 " Now," cried I, holding up my children, " now let the flames burn on, 
 and all my possessions perish ; here they are — I have saved my trea- 
 sure : here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet be 
 happy." We kissed our little darlings a thousand times ; they clasped 
 liS round the neck, and seemed to share our transports, while their 
 mother laughed and wept by turns. 
 
 1 now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time 
 began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a 
 terrible manner. It was, therefore, out of my power to give my son 
 any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or preventing 
 the flames spreading to our corn. By this time the neighbours were 
 alarmed, and came running to our assistance ; but all they could do 
 was to stand, like us, spectators oi the calamity My goods, among 
 which were the notes I had reserved for my daughters' fortunes, were 
 entirely consumed, except a box with some papers that stood in the 
 kitchen, and two or three things more of httle consequence, which my 
 son brought away in the beginning. The neighbours contributed. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 THE FIKB. 
 
 however, what they could to lighten our distress. They brought us 
 clothes, and furnished-one of our outhouses with kitchen utensils ; so 
 that by daylight we had another, though a wretched, dwelling to retire 
 to. My honest next neighbour and his children were not the least 
 assiduous in providing us with everything necessary, and offering what- 
 ever consolation untutored benevolence could sueeest. 
 
 When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the 
 cause of my long stay began to take place ; having, therefore, informed 
 them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception 
 of our lost one ; and, though we had nothing but wretchedness now to 
 impart, I was willing to procure her a welcome to what we had : this 
 task would have been more difficult but for our own recent calamity 
 which had humbled my wife's pride, and blunted it by more poif nant 
 afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm 
 grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon returned, 
 supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not the courage to look 
 up at her mother, whom no instructions of mine could persuade to a 
 perfect reconciliation ; for women have a much stronger sense of female 
 
122 
 
 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 error than men. " Ah, madam ! " cried her mother, " this is but a poor 
 place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and 
 I can afford but Httle entertainment to persons who have kept company 
 only with people of distinction ; yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I 
 have suffered very much of late ; but 1 hope Heaven will forgive you." 
 During this reception the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, 
 unable to weep or to reply ; but I could not continue a silent spectator 
 of her distress ; wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice 
 and manner, which was ever followed with instant submission, I said, 
 " I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for all : I 
 have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer — lier return to 
 duty demands the revival of our tenderness ; the real hardships of life 
 are now coming fast upon us ; let us not, therefore, increase them by 
 dissensions among each other : if we live harmoniously together, we 
 may yet be contented, as there are enough of us to shut out the 
 censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. The kindness 
 of Heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the 
 example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view a 
 repentant sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have supported a course 
 of undeviating rectitude : and this is right ; for that single effort by 
 which we stop short in the down-hill path to perdition is of itself a 
 greater exertion of virtue than a hundred acts of justice." 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 123 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 NONF, BUT THF. GUILTY CAN BE LOIsG AND COMPLETELY MISERABLE. 
 
 .OME assiduity was now required to make our present 
 abode as convenient as possible, and we were soon 
 again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. Being- 
 disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual 
 occupations, I read to my family from the few books 
 that were saved, and particularly from such as, by amusing 
 the imaginatioii, contributed to ease the heart. Our good 
 neighbours, too, came every day with the kindest condolence, and fixed 
 a time in which they were all to assist in repairing my former dwellino-. 
 Honest Farmer Williams was not last among these visitors, but heartily 
 offered his friendship. He would even have renewed his addresses to 
 my daughter ; but she rejected them in such a manner as totally 
 repressed his future solicitations. Her grief seemed formed for con- 
 tinuing, and she was the only person in our little society that a week 
 did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing inno- 
 cence which once taught her to respect herself, and to seek pleasure by 
 pleasing. Anxiety had now taken strong possession of her mind ; her 
 beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and neglect still 
 more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on 
 her sister brought a pang to her heart, and a tear to her eye ; and as 
 one vice, though cured, ever plants others where it has been, so her 
 former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy 
 behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot 
 my own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages 
 of history as a strono- memory and some reading could suggest. " Our 
 happiness, my dear, ' I would say, " is in the power of One who can 
 bring it about by a thousand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. 
 If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my child^ 
 told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing, historian. 
 
 " * Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman, of the 
 first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of 
 fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open 
 window of an apartment, which hung over the river Volturna, the 
 child, with a sudden spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, 
 and disappeared in a moment. The mother, struck with instant 
 
124 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 surprise, and making an effort to save him, plunged in after ; but, far 
 from being able to assist the infant, she herself with great difficulty 
 escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers were 
 plundering the country on that side, who immediately made her their 
 prisoner. 
 
 " ' As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians 
 with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to perpetrate 
 those two extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base 
 resolution, however, was opposed by a young officer, who, though their 
 retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and 
 brought her in safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught 
 his eye : her merit, soon after, his heart. They were married ; he 
 rose to the highest posts ; they lived long together, and were happy. 
 But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent : after an 
 interval of several years, the troops which he commanded having met 
 with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had 
 lived with his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length 
 was taken. Few histories can produce more various instances of 
 cruelty than those which the French and Italians at that time exercised 
 upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, 
 to put all the French prisoners to death ; but particularly the husband 
 of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in pro- 
 tracting the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed 
 almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, 
 and the executioner with his sword stood ready, while the spectators, 
 in gloomy silence, awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended 
 till the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It was 
 in this interval of anguish and expectation, that Matilda came to take 
 the last farewell of her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched 
 situation, and the cruelty of fate that had saved her from perishing by 
 a premature death in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of still 
 greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was struck 
 with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with stiil 
 stronger emotions wixen he heard her mention her former dangers. 
 He was her son, the infant for whom she had encountered so much 
 danger ; he acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her 
 feet. The rest may be easily supposed ; the captive was set free, and 
 all the happiness that love, friendship, and duty could confer on earth» 
 were united,' " 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield, 125 
 
 In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but she 
 listened with divided attention ; for her own misfortunes engrossed all 
 the pity she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. 
 In company she dreaded contempt ; and in solitude she only found 
 anxiety. Such was the colour of her wretchedness, when we received 
 certain information that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss 
 Wilmot ; for whom I always suspected he had a real passion, though 
 he took every opportunity before me to express his contempt both of 
 her person and fortune. This news served only to increase poor 
 Olivia's affliction ; for such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than 
 her courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more 
 certain information ; and to defeat, if possible, the completion of liis 
 designs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilrnot's, with instructions to 
 know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter 
 intimating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my family. My son went, in 
 pursuance of my directions, and in three days returned, assuring us of 
 the truth of the account ; but that he had found it impossible to deliver 
 the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill 
 and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were to be 
 married, he said, in a few days, having appeared together at church, 
 the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, the bride attended 
 by six young ladies, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approachmg 
 nuptials filled the whole country with rejoicing, and they usually rode 
 out together in the grandest equipage that had been seen ni the 
 country for many years. All the friends of both families, he said, were 
 there, particularly the squire's uncle. Sir William Thornhill, who bore 
 so good a character. He added, that nothing but mirth and feasting 
 were going forward ; that all the country praised the young bride's 
 beauty and the bridegroom's fine person, and that they were immensely 
 fond of each other ; concluding that he could not help thinking Mr. 
 Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world. 
 
 ** Why, let him if he can," returned I : " but, my son, observe this 
 bed of straw and unshelterine roof ; those moulderino- walls and humid 
 floor ; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping 
 round me for bread : you have come home, my child, to all this ; }"et 
 here, even here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds 
 exchange situations. Oh, my children, if you eould but learn to com- 
 mune with your own hearts, and know what noble company you can 
 make them, you would little regard the elegance and splendour of the 
 
126 Casseirs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and 
 themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be improved, when 
 we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are 
 going towards home : the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers 
 that are going into exile." 
 
 My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new 
 disaster, interrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother 
 support her, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from 
 that time more calm, and I ima^jined had trained a new degfree of 
 resolution ; but appearances deceived me ; for her tranquillity was the 
 languor of overwrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably 
 sent us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness 
 among the rest of my family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once 
 mere sprightly and at ease. It would have b en unjust to damp 
 their satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to 
 burden them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more, the 
 tale went round, and a song was demanded, and cheerfulness conde- 
 scended to hover round our little habitation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 fresh calamities. ■ 
 
 '-'S^.hI . . . ■ 
 
 "'""'|\JHE next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth 
 
 % for the season, so that we agreed to breakfast to- 
 gether on the honeysuckle bank, where, while we 
 sat, my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her 
 voice to the concert on the trees about us. It was in 
 this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, and 
 v'^^ every object served to recall her sadness. But that melancholy 
 which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of 
 harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, 
 upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, and loved her 
 daughter as before. " Do, my pretty Olivia," cried she, " let us 
 have that little melancholy air your papa was so fond of; your 
 sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child, it will please your 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield, 127 
 
 old father." She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as 
 moved me. 
 
 When lovely •woman stoops to follj, 
 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 I The only art her guilt to cover, 
 
 To hide her shame from every eye ; 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 And wring his bosom, is — to die. 
 
 As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in 
 her voice, from sorrow, gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr. 
 Thornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly 
 increased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of 
 shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In a 
 few minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and, making up to the 
 place where I was still sitting, inquired after my health vrith his usual 
 air of familiarity. "Sir," replied I, "your present assurance only 
 serves to aggravate the baseness of your character ; and there was a 
 time when I would have chastised your insolence, for presuming 
 thus to appear before me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled 
 my passions, and my calling restrains them." 
 
 " I vow, my dear sir," returned he, " I am amazed at all this ; nor 
 can I understand what it means ! I hope you do not think your 
 daughter's late excursion with me had anything criminal in it." 
 
 " Go," cried I, " thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every 
 way a liar ; but your meanness secures you from my anger. Yet, sir, 
 I am descended from a family that would not have borne this ! And 
 so, thou vile thing ! to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made 
 one poor creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had 
 nothing but honour for their portion." 
 
 "If she, or you," returned he, "are resolved to be miserable, I 
 cannot help it. But you may still be happy ; and whatever opinion 
 you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to 
 contribute to it. We can marry her to another in a short time ; and, 
 what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; for I protest I shall 
 ever continue to have a true regard for her." 
 
 I found all my passions alarm.ed at this new degrading proposal ; 
 for though the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little 
 villany can at any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 129 
 
 OFFICERS OF JUSTICE. 
 
 " Avoid my sight, thou reptile," cried I, '* nor continue to insult 
 me with thy presence. Were my brave son at home, lie would not 
 suffer this ; but I am old and disabled, and every way undone. " 
 
 "I find,'' cried he, "you are bent upon obliging me to talk in 
 a harsher manner than I intended. But, as I have shown you what 
 may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be improper to represent 
 what may be the consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to 
 whom your late bond has been transferred, threatens hard ; nor do I 
 know how to prevent the course of justice, except by paying the money 
 myself; which, as I have been at some expenses lately, previous 
 to my intended marriage, is not so easy to be done. And then 
 my steward talks of driving for the rent : it is certain he knows 
 his duty ; for I never trouble myself with affairs of that nature. Yet 
 still I could wish to serve you, and even to have you and your 
 daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be solemnised 
 with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request of my charming Arabella 
 herself, whom I hope you will not refuse." 
 
 " Mr. Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for all : as to your 
 
30 CasselPs Ilhistrated Goldsmith. 
 
 marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to ; 
 and though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or your 
 resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise bt)th. Thou 
 hast once woiully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart upon 
 thine honour, and have found its baseness. Never more, therefore, 
 expect friendship from me. Go, and possess what fortune has given 
 thee — beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, 
 infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart 
 still vindicate its dignity ; and though thou hast my forgiveness, thou 
 shalt ever have my contempt." 
 
 " If so," returned he, "depend upon it, you shall feel the effects of 
 this insolence, and we shall shortl) see which is the fittest object 
 of scorn, you or me." Upon which he departed abruptly. 
 
 My wife and son, who we-e present at this interview, seemed 
 terrified with apprehension. My daughters also, finding that he 
 was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our conference ; 
 which, when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. But as to 
 myself, I disregarded the utm_ost stretch of his malevolence — he had 
 already struck the blow, and I now stood prepared to repel every new 
 effort — like one of those instruments used in the art of war, which, 
 however thrown, still presents a point to receive the enemy. 
 
 We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain ; for 
 the very next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, 
 Avhich, by the train of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. 
 The -consequence of my incapacity was, his driving my cattle that 
 evening, and their being appraised and sold the next day for less than 
 half their value. My wife and children now, therefore, entreated me 
 to comply upon any terms, rather than incur certain destruction. 
 They even begged of me to admit his visits once more, and used 
 all their little eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to endure 
 — the terrors of a prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with 
 tlie danger that threatened my health from the late accident that 
 happened by the fire. But I continued mflexible. 
 
 "Why, my treasures," cried I, "why will vou thus attempt to 
 persuade me to the thmg that ic not right ? My duty has taught me 
 to iorgive him, but my conscience will not oermit me to approve. 
 Would you tiave me applaud to the world wnat my heart must 
 internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely sit down and flatter 
 our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid a prison, continually suffer the 
 
The Vicai" of Wakefield. 131 
 
 more galling bonds of mental confinement ? No, never. If we are 
 to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right, and 
 wlierever we are thrown we can still retire to a charming apartment, 
 where we can look round our own hearts with intrepidity and with 
 pleasure." 
 
 In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as 
 the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was 
 employed in clearing it away, and opening a passage before the door. 
 He had not been thus ens^aored loner when he came runnino- in, with 
 looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, whom he knew to be 
 officers of justice, were making towards the house. 
 
 Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where I lay, 
 after previously informing me of their employment and business, made 
 me their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the county 
 gaol, which was eleven miles off. 
 
 " My friends," said I, " this is severe weather in which you are 
 come to take me to prison ; and it is particularly unfortunate at 
 this time, as one of my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible 
 manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want clothes 
 to cover me, and I am now too weak and old to walk far in 
 such deep snow ; but if it must be so 
 
 I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get 
 together what iew things were left us, and to prepare immediately for 
 leaving this place. I entreated them to be expeditious ; and desired 
 my son to assist his eldest sister ; who, from a consciousness that she 
 was the cause of all our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish 
 in insensibility. I encouraged my wife, vv^ho, pale and trembling, 
 clasped our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom 
 in silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the meantime 
 my youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and as she received 
 several hints to use despatch, in about an hour we were ready to 
 depart 
 
132 Casseirs I llustratcd Goldsmith. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORTT OF COMFORT 
 
 ATTENDING IT. 
 
 E set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and 
 walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being en- 
 feebled by a slow fever, which had begun for some 
 days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers, 
 who had a horse, kindly took her behind him ; for 
 even these men cannot entirely divest themselves of 
 humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand 
 and my wife the other ; while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose, 
 tears fell not for her own but my distresses. 
 
 We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we 
 saw a crowd running and shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty 
 of my poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon 
 seized upon the two officers of justice, and swearing they would never 
 see their minister go to a gaol, while they had a drop of blood to shed 
 in his defence, were going to use them with great severity. The 
 consequence might have been fatal, had I not immediately interposed, 
 and with some difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the 
 enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon my delivery now 
 as certain, appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of con- 
 taining their raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon hearing 
 me address the poor deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to 
 do me service. 
 
 " What! my friends," cried I, "and is this the way you love me t 
 Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have given you 
 from the pulpit ? thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down 
 ruin on yourselves and me ? Which is your ringleader ? Show me 
 the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as he lives, he shall feel 
 my resentment. Alas ! my dear deluded flock, return back to the 
 duty you owe to God, to your country, and to me. I shall yet, 
 perhaps, one day see you in greater felicity here, and contribute 
 to make your lives more happy. But let it at le?,3t be my comfort, 
 when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one here shall be 
 wanting," 
 
 They now seemed all repentance, and melting into tears, came,, one 
 
134 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 after the other, to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, 
 and leaving them my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting 
 any further interruption. Some hours before night we reached the 
 town, or rather village ; for it consisted but of a few mean houses, 
 having lost all its former opulence, and retaining no marks of its 
 ancient superiority but the gaol. 
 
 Upon entering we put up at an inn, where we had such refreshments 
 as could most readily be procured, and I supped with my family with 
 my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly accommodated for 
 that night, I next attended the sheriff's officers to the prison, which 
 had formerly been built for the purposes of war, and consisted of one 
 large apartment, strongly grated, and paved with stone, common to 
 both felons and debtors at certain hours in the four-and-twenty. 
 Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked 
 in for the nio^ht. 
 
 I expected upon my entrance to 6nd nothing but lamentations, and 
 various sounds of misery, but it was very different The prisoners 
 seemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought 
 in merriment or clamour I was apprised of the usual perquisite 
 required upon these occasions ; and immediately complied with tlie 
 demand, though the litde money I had was very near being ail 
 exhausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole 
 prison was soon filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness. 
 
 "How!" cried I to myself, "shall men so very wicked be cheerful, 
 and shall I be melancholy ? I feel only the same confinement widi 
 them, and I think I have more reason to be happy." 
 
 With such reflections I laboured to become more cheerful; but 
 cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself painful. 
 As 1 was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the gaol, in a pensive 
 posture, one of my fellow prisoners came up, and, sitting by me, 
 entered into conversation. It was my constant rule in life never 
 'to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed to desire it ; for if 
 good, I might profit by his instructions ; if bad, he might be assisted 
 by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of strong, unlettered 
 sense, but a thorough knowledge of the world, as it is called ; or, more 
 properly speaking, of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me 
 if I had taken care to provide myself with a bed, which was a 
 circumstance I had never once attended to. 
 
 '• That's unfortunate," cried he, " as you are allowed nothing but 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. i^r 
 
 straw, and your apartment is very large and, cold. However, you 
 seem to be something- of a gentleman, and as I have been one myself 
 in my time, part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your service." 
 
 I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such humanity in a 
 gaol in misfortunes ; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, " that 
 the sage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in 
 affliction, when he said, Ton kosmon aire, ei dos to7t etai7'07i ; and, in 
 fact," continued I, " what is the world if it affords only solitude ? " 
 
 "You talk of the world, sir," returned my fellow-prisoner; "the 
 world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony, or creation of the world, 
 has puzzled the philosophers of every age. What a medley of 
 opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the world! 
 Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all 
 attempted it in vain. The latter has these words : Anarchon ara kai 
 
 atelutaion to pan, which implies " " I ask pardon, sir," cried I, 
 
 " for interrupting so much learning ; but I think I have heard all this 
 before. Have I not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Welbridcre 
 fair .? and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson .?" At this demand he 
 only sighed. " I suppose you must recollect," resumed I, " one 
 Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought a horse." 
 
 He now at once recollected me, for the gloominess of the place 
 and the approaching night had prevented his distinguishing my 
 features before. " Yes, sir," returned Mr. Jenkinson, " I remember 
 you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your 
 neighbour Flamborough is the only prosecutor I am any way afraid of 
 at the next assizes ; for he intends to swear positively against me as a 
 coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any 
 man ; for you see," continued he, pointing to his shackles, " what my 
 tricks have brought me to." 
 
 "Well, si-," replied I, "your kindness in offering me assistance, 
 when you could expect no return, shall be repaid with my endeavours 
 to soften or totally suppress Mr. Flamborough 's evidence, and I will 
 send my son to him for that purpose the first opportunity : nor do I in 
 the least doubt but he will comply with my request ; and as to my 
 own evidence, you need be under no uneasiness about that." 
 
 "Well, sir," cried he, "all the return I can make shall be yours. 
 You shall have more than half my bed-clothes to-night, and I'll take 
 care to stand your friend in the prison, where I think I have some 
 influence." 
 
136 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 . /i thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the present 
 youthful change in his aspect ; for at the time I had seen him before 
 he appeared at least sixty. " Sir," answered he, " you are little 
 acquainted with the world. I had at that time false hair, and have 
 learned the art of counterfeiting every age from seventeen to seventy. 
 Ah, sir ! had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade, that I 
 have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at 
 this day. But, rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and that, 
 perhaps, when you least expect it." 
 
 We were now prevented from further conversation by the arrival of 
 the gaoler's servants, who came to call over the prisoners' names, and 
 lock up for the night. A fellow also with a bundle of straw for my 
 bed attended, who led me along a dark narrow passage into a room 
 paved like the common prison, and in one corner of this I spread my 
 bed, and the clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner ; which done, my 
 conductor, who was civil enough, bade me a good night. After my 
 usual meditations, and having praised my heavenly Corrector, I laid 
 myself down and slept with the utmost tranquillity until morning. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 137 
 
 THE VILAK l.N iKlbON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL — TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, THEY SHOULD REWARD AS 
 
 WELL AS PUNISH. 
 
 HE next morning early I was awakened by my 
 family, whom I found in tears at my bed-side. The 
 gloomy appearance of everything about us, it seems, 
 had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, 
 assuring them I had never slept with greater tranquillity, 
 and next inquired after my eldest daughter, who was not 
 among them. 'They informed me that yesterday's uneasi- 
 ness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged proper to 
 leave her behind. My next care was to send my son to procure 
 a room or two to lodge my family in, as near the prison as conveniently 
 could be ound. He obeyed, but could only find one apartment, 
 which was hired at a small expense for his mother and sisters, the 
 gaoler with humanity consenting to let him and his two little brothers 
 
CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared for them in 
 a corner of the room, which I thought answered very conveniently. I 
 was willing, however, previously to know whether my little children 
 chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon entrance. 
 
 " Well, cried I, " my good boys, how do you like your bed ? I 
 hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears." 
 
 *' No, papa," says Dick ; " I am not afraid to lie anywhere where 
 you are. 
 
 " And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years old, " love every 
 place best that my papa is in." 
 
 After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to 
 do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her sister's 
 declining health ; my wife was to attend me ; my little boys were 
 to read to me : " And as for you, my son," continued I, "it is by the 
 labour of your hands we must all hope to be supported. Your wages 
 as a day-labourer will be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to 
 maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years old, 
 and hast strength, and it was given thee, my son, for very useful 
 purposes ; for it must save from famine your h^lplQss parents and 
 family. Prepare then this evening to look out for work against to- 
 morrow, and bring home every night what money you earn for our 
 support." 
 
 Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked down to 
 the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and room. But I 
 was not long there when the execrations, lewdness, and brutality that 
 invaded me on every side, drove me back to my apartment again. 
 Here I sat for some time pondering upon the strange infatuation of 
 wretches who, finding all mankind in open arms against them, were 
 labouring to make themselves a future and tremendous enemy. 
 
 Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted my 
 own uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent 
 upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, therefore, once more 
 to return, and i:i spite of their contempt, to give them my advice, and 
 conquer them by perseverance. Going therefore among them again, I 
 informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed heartily, 
 but communicated it to the rest. The proposal was received with the 
 greatest good humour, as it promised to afford a new fund of enter- 
 tainment to persons who had now no other resource for mirth but 
 what could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. 
 
The Vicar of Wakepeld. i ^(^ 
 
 I therefore read them a portion of the service, with a loud, unaffected 
 voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. 
 Lewd whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, winking, and coughing, 
 alternately excited laughter. However, I continued with my natural 
 solemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might amend some, 
 but could itself receive no contamination from any. 
 
 After reading, I entered upon my exhortation, which was rather 
 calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I previously observed 
 that no other motive but their welfare could induce me to this ; that I 
 was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching. I was 
 sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane ; because they got nothing 
 by it, and might lose a great deal : " For, be assured, my friends," 
 cried I (" for you are my friends, however the world may disclaim your 
 friendship), though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would 
 not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling every 
 moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find 
 how scurvily he uses you } He has given you nothing here, you find, 
 but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly ; and, by the best accounts 
 I have of him he will give you nothing that's good hereafter. 
 
 " If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere. 
 Were it not worth your while, then, just to try how you may like the 
 usage of another Master, who gives you fair promises, at least, to come 
 to him ? Surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must be 
 the greatest who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for 
 protection. And yet how are you more wise } You are all seeking 
 comfort from one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more 
 malicious being than any thief-taker of them all ; for they only decoy 
 and then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of all, 
 will not let you loose after the hangm.an has done." 
 
 When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my audience, 
 some of whom came and shook me by the hand, swearing that I was 
 a very honest fellow, and that they desired my further acquaintance. 
 I therefore promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually 
 conceived some hope of making a reformation here ; for it had ever 
 been my opinion that no man was past the hour of amendment, every ^*^ 
 heart lying open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a 
 proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my 
 apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr Jenkinson 
 begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as 
 
The Vuar of Wakefield. 141 
 
 he was kind enough to express it, of my conversation. He had not 
 yet seen my family, for as they came to my apartment by a door in 
 the narrow passage already described, by this means they avoided the 
 common prison. Jenkinson at the first interview, therefore, seemed 
 not a little struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, which her 
 pensive air contributed to heighten, and my little ones did not pass 
 unnoticed. 
 
 " Alas ! doctor," cried he, " these children are too handsome and 
 too good for such a place as this." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, "thank Heaven, my children are 
 pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they be good, it matters little for 
 the rest." 
 
 " I fancy, sir," returned my fellow-prisoner, " that it must give you 
 a great comfort to have all this little family about you." 
 
 " A comfort ! Mr. Jenkinson," replied I ; " yes, it is indeed a comfort, 
 and I would not be without them for all the world ; for they can make 
 a dungeon seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of 
 wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring them." 
 
 " I am afraid then, sir," cried he, " that I am in some measure cul- 
 pable ; for I think I see here " (looking at my son Moses) " one that 
 I have injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven." 
 
 My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though he 
 had before seen him in disguise, and taking him by the hand, with a 
 smile forgave him. " Yet," continued he, " I can't help wondering 
 at what you could see in my face, to think me a proper mark for 
 deception." 
 
 "My dear sir," returned the other, " it was not your face, but your 
 white stockings, and the black riband in your hair, that allured me. 
 But, no disparagement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than 
 you in my time ; and yet with all my tricks the blockheads have been 
 too many for me at last." 
 
 " I suppose," cried my son, " that the narrative of such a life as yours 
 must be extremely instructive and amusingf." 
 
 " Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson. " Those relations 
 which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increasing 
 our suspicion in life, retard our success. The traveller that distrusts 
 every person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every 
 man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives in time at his journey's 
 end. 
 
142 CasselVs " Illusti^ated Goldsmith. 
 
 " Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that the knowing one is 
 the silhest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning from my very 
 childhood ; when but seven years old, the ladies would say that I was 
 a perfect little man ; at fourteen, I knew the w^orld, cocked my hat, and 
 loved the ladies ; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every 
 one thou^rht me so cunninof that no one would trust me. Thus I was 
 at last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever 
 since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart 
 palpitating with fears of detection. I used often to laugh at your 
 honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and one way or another 
 generally cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest man went 
 forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy 
 and cunning, and was poor without the consolation of being honest. 
 However," continued he, " let me know your case, and what has 
 brought you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a gaol 
 myself, I may extricate my friends." 
 
 In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole train 
 of accidents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, 
 and my utter inability to get free. 
 
 After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapped his 
 forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, and took his leave, 
 saying he would try what could be done. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 143 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 
 
 HE next morning I communicated to my wife and 
 children the schemes I had planned of reforming the 
 prisoners, which they received with universal disap- 
 probation, alleging the impossibility and impropriety 
 it ; adding that my endeavours would no way con- 
 tribute to their amendment, but might probably disgrace 
 my calling. 
 
 " Excuse me." returned I ; '* these people, however fallen, are still 
 men ; and that is a very good title to my affections. Good counsel 
 rejected returns to enrich the giver's bosom ; and though the in- 
 struction I communicate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly 
 mend myself. If these wretches, my children, were princes, there 
 would be thousands ready to offer their ministry ; but in my opinion 
 the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon 
 a throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, I will ; perhaps 
 they will not all despise me : perhaps I may catch up even one from 
 the gulf, and that will be great gain ; for Is there upon earth a gem so 
 precious as the human soul ? " 
 
 Thus saying, I left them and descended to the common prison, 
 where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival ; and 
 each prepared with some gaol-trick to play upon the doctor. Thus,' as 
 I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry as if by accident, and 
 then asked my pardon. A second, who stood at some distance, had 
 a knack of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my 
 book. A third would cry " Amen!" in such an affected tone as gave 
 the rest great delight. A fourth had silly picked my pocket of my 
 spectacles. But there was one whose trick gave more universal plea- 
 sure than all the rest ; for observing the manner in which I had 
 disposed my books on the table before me, he very dexterously 
 displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his own In the 
 place. However, I took no notice of all that this mischievous group 
 of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was 
 ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the first or second 
 time, while what was serious would be permanent. My design sue- 
 
144 Casseirs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 ceeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, and all were 
 attentive. 
 
 It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, at thus 
 giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling, and now 
 began to think of doing them temporal services also, by rendering 
 their situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto 
 been divided between famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter 
 repining. Their only employment was quarrelling among each other, 
 playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this last 
 mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting such as chose to work 
 at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood 
 being bought by a general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold 
 by my appointment ; so that each earned something every day ; a 
 trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. 
 
 I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of im- 
 morality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less than a 
 fortnight I had formed them into something social and humane, and 
 had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had brought 
 men from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience. 
 
 And it were highly to be wished that legislative power would thus 
 direct the law rather to reformation than severity ; that it would seem 
 convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making 
 punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead of our present 
 prisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches for 
 the commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted 
 for the perpetration of thousands, we should see, as in other parts of 
 Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be 
 attended by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or new 
 motives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increasing 
 punishments, is the way to mend a state : nor can I avoid even ques- 
 tioning the validity of that right which social combinations have 
 assumed of capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. Incases 
 of murder their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the 
 law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for 
 the life of another. Against such all nature rises in arms, but it is not 
 so against him who steals my property. Natural law gives me no 
 right to take away his life, as by that the horse he steals is as much 
 his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it must be from a 
 compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 145 
 
 shall die. But this is a false compact ; because no man has a right to 
 . barter his life, any more than to take it away, as it is not his own. 
 And, besides, the compact is inadequate, and would be set aside even 
 in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling- 
 convenience, since it is far better that two men should live than that 
 one man should ride. But a compact that is false between two men 
 is equally so between a hundred or a hundred thousand ; for as ten 
 millions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of 
 myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is 
 thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. 
 Savages, that are directed by natural law alone, are very tender 
 of the lives of each other ; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate 
 former cruelty. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few 
 executions in times of peace ; and in all commencing governments, that 
 have the print of nature still strong upon them, scarce any crime is 
 held capital. 
 
 It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws, 
 which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Govern- 
 ment, while it grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age ; 
 and as if our property were become dearer in proportion as it increased, 
 as if the more enormous our wealth the more extensive our fears, all 
 our possessions are paled up with new edicts every day, and Xwxno- 
 round with gibbets to scare every invader. 
 
 I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or the 
 licentiousness of our people, that this country should show more 
 convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps 
 it is owing to both ; for they mutually produce each other. When by 
 indiscriminate penal laws a nation beholds the same punishment 
 affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in 
 the penalty the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the 
 crime, and this distinction is the bulwark of all moralitv : thus the 
 multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh 
 restraints. 
 
 It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriving new 
 laws to punish vice, instead of drawing hard the cords of society till a 
 convulsion come to burst them, instead of cutting away wretches as 
 useless before we have tried their utility, instead of converting 
 correction into vengeance, it were to be wished that we tried the 
 
£46 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 restrictive arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the 
 tyrant, of the people. We should then find that creatures whose souls 
 are held as dross only wanted the hand of a refiner; we should then 
 find that wretches, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should 
 feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the 
 state in times of danger ; that as their faces are like ours, their hearts 
 are so too ; that few minds are so base as that perseverance cannot 
 amend ; that a man may see his last crime without dying for it ; and 
 that very little blood will serve to cement our security.* 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE THAN OF VIRTUE IN THIS 
 LIFE ; TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING REGARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS 
 MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRIFLING, AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION. 
 
 HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but 
 had not since my arrival been visited by my dear 
 Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having 
 communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morn- 
 ing the poor girl entered my apartment leaning on her 
 sister's arm. The change which I saw in her countenance 
 struck me. The numberless graces that once resided 
 there were now fled, and the hand of Death seemed to have moulded 
 every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was 
 tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek. 
 
 " I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I ; "but why this dejection, 
 Livy ? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me to 
 permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my 
 own. Be cheerful, child, and we yet may see happier days." 
 
 " You have ever, sir," replied she, " been kind to me, and it adds to 
 my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that 
 
 * One cannot read the views and reflections on prisons contained in this chaptet without being impressed with their 
 ■wisdom, sagacity, and philanthropy, so much in advance of the day. Even the great heart of Howard was as yet 
 untouched by the misery of English gaols, which he had not commenced to visit till seven years afterwards. " I may 
 remark," said the Earl of Carlisle, speaking of the "Vicar of Wakefield," at the inauguration of Goldsmith's statue ia 
 Dublin, January 5, 1S64, "that the prison scene in that excellent novel precejci certainly, and perhaps suggested* 
 some of the benevolent exertions of Howard and Fr>'." 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield- 147 
 
 happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for 
 me here, and I long to be rid of a place where I have only found 
 distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make a proper submission to 
 Mr. Thornhill : it may in some measure induce him to pity you, and it 
 will give me relief in dying." 
 
 " Never, child," replied I, "never will I be brought to acknowledge 
 my daughter a prostitute ; for though the world may look upon your 
 offence with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, 
 not of guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place, however 
 dismal it may seem ; and be assured that while you continue to bless 
 me by living, he shall never have my consent to make you more 
 wretched by marrying another." 
 
 After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who was by 
 at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated upon my obstinacy 
 in refusing a submission which promised to give me freedom. He 
 observed, that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the 
 peace of one child alone, and she the only one who had offended me. 
 " Beside," added he, " I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the 
 union of man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent 
 to a match you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the man that oppresses 
 us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure 
 me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a 
 debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. But though 
 my submission and approbation could transfer me from hence to 
 the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I would grant 
 neither, as something whispers me that it would be giving a sanction 
 to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall 
 ever be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the 
 basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting 
 asunder those who wished for a union. No ; villain as he is, I should 
 then wish him married, to prevent the consequences of his future 
 debaucheries. But now should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to 
 sign an instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to 
 avoid a prison myself ; and thus, to escape one pang, break my 
 child's heart with a thousand } " 
 
 He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid 
 observing, that he feared my daughters life was already too much 
 wasted to keep me long a prisoner. " However," continued he, 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 149 
 
 THE vicar's only COMi'ANlONS. 
 
 *' though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have 
 no objections to laying your case before the uncle, who has the first 
 character in the kingdom for everything that is just and good. I 
 would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all 
 his nephew's ill usage, and, my life for it, that in three days you 
 shall have an answer." I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set 
 about complying ; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money 
 had been laid out that morning in provisions : however, he supplied 
 me. 
 
 For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to know 
 what reception my letter might meet with ; but in the meantime was 
 frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than 
 remain here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the decline 
 of my daughter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I 
 received no answer to my letter : the complaints of a stranger against 
 a favourite nephew were no way likely to succeed ; so that these hopes 
 soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, still supported 
 itself, though confinement and bad air began to make a visible 
 
150 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered in the fire grew 
 worse. My children, however, sat by me, and, while I was stretched 
 on my straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my 
 instructions. But my daughter's health declined faster than mine : 
 every message from her contributed to increase my apprehensions and 
 pain. The fifth morning after I had written the letter which was sent 
 to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was 
 speechless. Now it was that confinement was truly painful to me ; my 
 soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pillow of my child, 
 to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and teach her 
 soul the way to heaven. Another account came — she was expiring, 
 and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. My 
 fellow-prisoner, some time after, came with the last account. He bade 
 me be patient — she was dead ! The next morning he returned, and 
 found me with my two little ones, now my only companions, who were 
 using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated to 
 read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I was nOw too old to weep. 
 ** And is not my sister an angel now, papa } " cried the eldest ; " and 
 why then are you sorry for her ? I wish I were an angel, out of this 
 frightful place, if my papa were with me." " Yes," added my youngest 
 darling, " heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and 
 there are none but good people there, and the people here are very 
 bad." 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle, by observing tha.t, 
 now my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of 
 my family, and attempt to save my own life, which was every day 
 declining for want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added that 
 it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my 
 own to the welfare of those who depended on me for support ; and 
 that I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile 
 my landlord. 
 
 ** Heaven be praised !" replied I, " there is no pride left me now. 
 I should detest my own heart, if I saw either pride or resentment 
 lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my 
 parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpolluted soul 
 at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no resentment now; and 
 though he has taken from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, 
 though he has wrung my heart, for I am sick almost to fainting, 
 very sick, my fellow-prisoner, yet that shall never inspire me with 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield, 151 
 
 vengeance. I am now willing to approve his marriage, and if this 
 submission can do him any pleasure, let him know, that if I have done 
 ftim any injury I am sorry for it." Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, 
 and wrote down my submission nearly as I have expressed it, to 
 which I signed my name. My son was employed to carry the letter 
 to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went, 
 and in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some 
 difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants were 
 insolent and suspicious ; but he accidentally saw him as he was going 
 out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in 
 three days. He continued to inform us that he stepped up in the 
 humblest manner, and delivered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill 
 had read, he said that all submission was now too- late and un- 
 necessary : that he had heard of our application to his uncle, which 
 met with the contempt it deserved : and, as for the rest, that all future 
 applications should be directed to his attorney, not to him. He 
 observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion of the 
 discretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the most 
 agreeable intercessors. 
 
 "Well, sir," said I, to my fellow-prisoner, "you now discover the 
 temper of the man who oppresses me. He can at once be facetious 
 and cruel ; but, let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite 
 of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode 
 that looks brighter as I approach it ; this expectation cheers my 
 afflictions, and though I leave a helpless family of orphans behind me, 
 yet they will not be utterly forsaken ; some friend, perhaps, will be 
 found to assist them, for the sake of their poor father, and some may 
 charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly Father." 
 
 Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, 
 appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to 
 speak. "Why, my love," cried I, "why will you thus increase my 
 afflictions by your own .-* What though no submissions can turn our 
 severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this place of 
 wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still }'ou 
 will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no more." 
 *' We have indeed lost," returned she, " a darling child ! My Sophia, 
 my dearest is gone — snatched from us, carried off by ruffians." 
 
 " How, madam 1" cried my fellow-prisoner ; " Miss Sophia carried off 
 by villains ! Sure it cannot be ! " 
 
152 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith, 
 
 She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But 
 one of the prisoner's wives, who was present, and came in with her, 
 gave us a more distinct account ; she informed us, that as my wife, my 
 daughter, and herself were taking a walk together on the great road a 
 little way out of the village, a postchaise and pair drove up to them, 
 and instantly stopped. Upon which a well-dressed man, but not 
 Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, 
 and, forcing her in, bid the postilion drive on, so that they were out 
 of sight in a moment. 
 
 ^' Now," cried I, " the sum of my miseries is made up ; nor is it in 
 the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. What ! 
 not one left ! not to leave me one ! the monster ! the child that was 
 next my heart ! she had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom 
 of an angel. But support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave 
 me one ! " " Alas ! my husband," said my wife, " you seem to want 
 comfort even more than I, Our distresses are great; but I could 
 bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away my 
 children, and all the world, if they leave me but you." 
 
 My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate her grief; 
 he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have, reason 
 to be thankful. "■ My child," cried I, "look round the world, and see 
 if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort 
 shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave } " 
 " My dear father," returned he, " I hope there is still something that 
 will give you an interval of satisfaction, for I have a letter from my 
 brother George." " What of him, child ? " interrupted I ; " does he 
 know our misery .'* I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what 
 his wretched family suffers." " Yes, sir," returned he, " he is perfectly 
 gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news ; 
 he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the 
 very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant." 
 
 " And are you sure of all this ? " cried my wife ; '^ are you sure that 
 nothing ill has befallen my boy } " " Nothing, indeed, madam," 
 returned my son ; " you shall see the letter, which will give you the 
 highest pleasure : and, if anything can procure you comfort, I am sure 
 that will." " But are you sure," still repeated she, " that the letter is 
 arom himself, and that he is really so happy ? " " Yes, madam," replied 
 iie, " it is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support 
 of our family." " Then I thank Providence," cried she, " that my last 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 15. 
 
 G20KGE MEETS HIS FATHER. 
 
 letter to him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," continued she, turning 
 to me, " I will now confess that though the hand of Heaven is sore 
 upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. By the last 
 letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired 
 him, upon his mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to 
 see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But, 
 thanks be to Him who directs all things, it has miscarried, and I 
 am at rest." " Woman," cried I, " thou hast done very ill, and at 
 another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh ! what 
 a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried both thee 
 and him in endless ruin ! Providence, indeed, has here been kinder to 
 us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father and 
 protector of my children when I shall be away. How unjustly did I 
 complain of being stripped of every comfort, when still I hear that he 
 is happy, and insensible of our afflictions ; still kept in reserve to 
 support his widowed mother, and to protect his brothers and sisters ! — 
 But what sisters has he left ? he has no sisters now ; they are all gone. 
 
154 C as sell's Illuslrated Goldsmith 
 
 robbed from me, and I am undone ! " " Father," interrupted my son, 
 " I beg you will give me leave to read this letter : I know it will 
 please you " Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows : — 
 
 " Honoured Sir, — 
 
 " I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures that 
 surround me, to fix it upon objects :hc.t are still more pleasing — the dear little fireside at 
 home. My fancy draws that harmless group as listening to every line of this with great 
 composure. I view those faces with delight, which never felt the deforming hand of ambition 
 or distress. But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition 
 to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy here. 
 
 " Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the kingdom ; the colonel, who 
 professes himself my friend, takes me with him to all companies where he is acquainted, and, 
 after my first visit, I generally find myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. 
 
 I danced last night with Lady G , and, could I forget you know whom, I might perhaps 
 
 be successful. But it is my fate still to remember others, while I am myself forgotten by 
 most of my absent friends, and in this number I fear, sir, that I must consider you, for I have 
 long expected the pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia, too, 
 promised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them that they are two arrant little 
 baggages, and that I am at this moment in a most violent passion with them ; yet still, I 
 know not how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. 
 Then tell them, sir, that after ail I love them affectionately ; and be assured of my ever 
 remaining 
 
 Your dutiful Son. 
 
 " In all our miseries," cried I, " what thanks have we not to return, 
 that one at least of our family is exempted from what we suffer ! 
 Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to be the support 
 of his widowed mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all 
 the patrimony I can now bequeath him ! May he keep their innocence 
 from the temptations of want, and be their conductor in the paths of 
 honour ! " I had scarcely said these words, when a noise like that of 
 a tumult seemed to proceed from the prison below ; it died away soon 
 after, and a clanking of fetters was heard along the passage that led to 
 my apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all 
 bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest irons. I looked with 
 compassion upon the wretch as he approached me, but with horror 
 when I found it was my own son ! "My George ! my George ! and 
 do I behold thee thus ! wounded ! fettered '^ Is this thy happiness .'* 
 Is this the manner you return to me ? Oh, that this sight would break 
 my heart at once, and let me die ! " 
 
 " Where, sir, is your fortitude .? " returned my son, with an Intrepid 
 voice; " I must suffer : my life is forfeited, and let them take it." 
 
 I tried to restrain my passion for a few minutes in silence, but I 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 155 
 
 thought I should have died with the effort. " Oh, my boy, my heart 
 weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it ! In the 
 moment that I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to behold 
 thee thus again, chained, wounded ! And yet the death of the youthful 
 is happy. But I am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this 
 day ; to see my children all untimely falling about me, while ^ continue 
 a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin ! May all the curses that 
 ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my children ! May 
 he live, like me, to see " 
 
 " Hold, sir," replied my son, "or I shall blush for thee. How, sir ! 
 forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the justice of 
 Heaven, and fling those curses upward that must soon descend to 
 crush thy own grey head with destruction ! No, sir, let it be your care 
 now to fit me for that vile death I must shortly suffer, to arm me with 
 hope and resolution, to give me courage to drink of that bitterness 
 which must shortly be my portion." 
 
 " My child, you must not die 1 I am sure no offence of thine can 
 deserve so vile a punishment. My George could never be guilty of 
 any crime to -make his ancestors ashamed of him." 
 
 " Mine, sir," returned my son, " is, I fear, an unpardonable one. 
 When I received my mother's letter from home, I immediately came 
 down, determined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him 
 an order to meet me, which he answered, not in person, but by 
 dispatching four of his domestics to seize me. I wounded one who 
 first assaulted me, and I fear desperately ; but the rest made me their 
 prisoner. The coward is determined to put the law in execution 
 against me ; the proofs are undeniable : I have sent a challenge, and 
 as I am the first aggressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. 
 But you have often charmed me with your lessons of fortitude ; let me 
 now, sir, find them in your example." 
 
 "And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above this 
 world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From this moment I 
 break from my heart all the ties that held it down to earth, and will 
 prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the 
 way, and my soul shall guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our 
 flight together. I now see and am convinced you can expect no 
 pardon here, and I can only exhort you to seek it at that greatest 
 tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. But let us not l^e 
 niggardly in our exhortations, but let all our fellow-prisoners have a 
 
1.5^ Cassclls Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 share. Good gaoler, let them be permitted to stand here, while I 
 attempt to improve them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise 
 from my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline 
 against the wall. The prisoners assembled themselves according to 
 my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel ; my son and his 
 mother supported me on either side ; I looked and saw that none were 
 wanting, and then addressed them with the following exhortation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX, 
 
 The equal dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to the happy 
 
 AND the miserable HERE BELOW. THAT FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND 
 PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE 
 LIFE HEREAFTER. 
 
 Y friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when I 
 reflect on the distribution of good and evil, here 
 below, I find that much has been given man to 
 enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should 
 examine the whole world, we shall not find one man so 
 happy as to have nothing left to wish for : but we daily see 
 thousands who by suicide show us they have nothing left 
 t J hope. In this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely blest ; 
 but yet we may be completely miserable. 
 
 " Why man should thus feel pain ; why our wretchedness should be 
 requisite in the formation of universal felicity ; why, when all other 
 systems are made perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, 
 the great system should require for its perfection parts that are not 
 only subordinate to others, but imperfect in themselves — these are 
 questions that never can be explained, and might be useless if known. 
 O.i this subject Providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, 
 satisfied with erantine us motives to consolation. 
 
 "In this situation, man has called in the friendly assistance of 
 philosophy ; and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console him, 
 has given him the aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy are 
 very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us that life is filled with 
 comforts, if we will but enjoy them ; and on the other hand, that 
 
158 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 though we unavoidably have miseries here, hfe is short, and they will 
 soon be over. Thus do these consolations destroy each other ; for if 
 life is a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery ; and if 
 it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak ; but 
 religion comforts in a higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up 
 his mind, and preparing it for another abode. When the good man 
 leaves the body, and is all a glorious mind, he will find he has been 
 making himself a heaven of happiness here ; while the wretch that 
 has been maimed and contaminated by his vices shrinks from his body 
 with terror, and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of 
 Heaven. To religion, then, we must hold in every circumstance of 
 life for our truest comfort ; for, if already we are happy, it is a pleasure 
 to think that we can make that happiness unending ; and, if we are 
 miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. 
 Thus, to the fortunate, religion holds out a continuance of bliss ; to the 
 wretched, a change from pain. 
 
 " But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised 
 peculiar rewards to the unhappy ; the sick, the naked, the houseless, 
 the heavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises 
 in our sacred law. The Author of our religion everywhere professes 
 himself the wretch's friend ; and, unlike the false ones of this world, 
 bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have 
 censured this as partiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. 
 But they never reflect, that it is not in the power even of Heaven 
 itself to make the offer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the happy 
 as to the miserable. To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, 
 since, at most, it but increases what they already possess. To the 
 latter, it is a double advantage ; for it diminishes their pain here and 
 rewards them with heavenly bliss hereafter. 
 
 " But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than to 
 the rich ; for as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, so it 
 smooths the passage there. The wretched have had a long familiarity 
 with every face of terror The man of sorrow lays himself quietly 
 down, with no possessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his 
 departure ; he feels only nature's pang in the final separation, and this 
 is no way greater than he has often fainted under before ; for, after a 
 certain degree of. pain, every new breach that death opens in the 
 constitution, nature kindly covers with insensibility. 
 
 " Thus Providence has given to the wretched two advantages over 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. I59 
 
 the happy in this life — ^greater felicity in dying, and in heaven all that 
 superiority of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoyment. And 
 this superiority, my friends, is no small advantage, and seems to be 
 one of the pleasures of the poor man in the parable ; for though he 
 was already in heaven, and felr all the raptures it could give, yet it was 
 mentioned as an addition to his happiness, that he had once been 
 wretched, and now was comforted , that he had known what it was 
 to be miserable, and now felt what it was to be happy 
 
 " Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy could 
 never do : it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the happy 
 and the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to nearly the same 
 standard. It gives to both rich and poor the same happiness hereafter, 
 and equal hopes to aspire after Jt ; but if the rich have the advantage 
 of enjoying pleasure here, the poor have the endless satisfaction of 
 knowinof what it was once to be miserable, when crowned with endless 
 felicity hereafter ; and even though this should be called a small 
 advantage, yet, being an eternal one, it must make up by duration 
 what the temporal happiness of the great may have exceeded by 
 intenseness. 
 
 " These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched have 
 peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the rest of man- 
 kind ; in other respects they are below them They who would know 
 the miseries of the poor must see life and endure it. To declaim on 
 the temporal advantages they enjoy, is only repeating what none either 
 believe or practise. The men who have the necessaries of living are 
 not poor; and they who want them must be miserable. Yes, my 
 friends, we must be miserable. No vain eftbrts of a refined imagina- ] 
 tion can soothe the wants of nature, can give elastic sweetness to the '- 
 dank vapour of a dungeon, or ease to the throbbings of a broken 
 heart. Let the philosopher from his couch of softness tell us that we • 
 can resist all these. Alas ! the effort by which we resist them is stilj 
 the greatest pain Death is slight, and any man may sustain it ; but""'' 
 torments are dreadful, and these no man can endure. 
 
 " To us, then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven 
 should be peculiarly dear, for if our reward be in this life alone, we 
 are, indeed, of all men the most miserable. When I look round these 
 gloomy walls, made to terrify, as well as to confine us ; this light, that 
 only serves to show the horrors of the place ; those shackles, that 
 tyranny has imposed, or crime made necessary ; when I survey these 
 
i^o Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 emaciated looks, and hear those groans : — oh, my friends, what a 
 glorious exchange would heaven be for these ! To fly through regions 
 unconfined as air — to bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss — to carol 
 over endless hymns of praise — to have no master to threaten or Insult 
 us, but the form of Goodness himself for ever in our eyes : when 
 I think of these things, death becomes the messenger of very glad 
 tidings ; when I think of these things, his sharpest arrow becomes the 
 staff of my support ; when I think of these things, what is there in life 
 worth having ? when I think of these things, what is there that should 
 not be spurned away ? Kings in their palaces should groan for such 
 advantages ; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn for them. 
 
 " And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will certainly be, if 
 we but try for them ; and what is a comfort, we are shut out from 
 many temptations that would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for 
 them, and they will certainly be ours ; and what is still a comfort, 
 shortly too ; for if we look back on a past life, it appears but a very 
 short span ; and whatever we may think of the rest of life, it will yet 
 be found of less duration : as we grow older, the days seem to grow 
 shorter, and our intimacy with time ever lessens the perception of his 
 stay. Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our 
 journey's end ; we shall soon lay down the heavy burden laid by 
 Heaven upon us ; and though death, the only friend of the wretched, 
 for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and, like the 
 horizon, still flies before him, yet the time will certainly and shortly 
 come when we shall cease from our toil ; when the luxurious great 
 ones of the world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when we shall 
 think with pleasure of our sufferings below ; when we shall be sur- 
 rounded with all our friends, or such as deserved our friendship ; when 
 our bliss shall be unutterable> and still, to crown all, unendin;^ " 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 i6i 
 
 SOPHIA S RETURN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. — LET US HE INFLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL 
 AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOUR. 
 
 IHEN I had thus finished, and my audience was 
 ^ retired, the gaoler, who was one of the most humane 
 of his profession, hoped I would not be displeased, 
 as what he did was but his duty ; observing, that he 
 must be obliged to remove my son into a stronger cell, 
 but that he should be permitted to visit me every morn- 
 S^<5:^^^^ ing. I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping my 
 boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that 
 was before him. 
 
 I again therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sat by my 
 bed-side reading, when Mr. Jenkinson, entering, informed me that 
 there was news of my daughter ; for that she was seen by a person, 
 about two hours before, in a strange gentleman's company, and that 
 
1 62 Casseirs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 they had stopped at a neighbouring village for refreshment, and 
 seemed as if returning to town. He had scarcely delivered this news, 
 when the gaoler came, with looks of haste and pleasure, to inform me 
 that my daughter was found ! Moses came running in a moment 
 after, crying out that his sister Sophy was below, and coming up with 
 our old friend Mr. Burchell. 
 
 Just as he delivered this news my dearest girl entered, and, with 
 looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of affec- 
 tion. Her mother's tears and silence also showed her pleasure. 
 
 " Here, papa," cried the charming girl, " here is the brave man to 
 whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted 
 
 for my happiness and safety " A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose 
 
 pleasure seemed even greater than hers, interrupted what she was going 
 to add. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Burchell!" cried I, "this is but a wretched habitation you 
 now find us in ; and we are now very different from what you last saw 
 us. You were ever our friend : we have long discovered our errors with 
 regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage 
 you then received at my hands, I am almost ashamed to behold your 
 face ; yet I hope you'll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base, 
 ungenerous wretch, who under the mask of friendship has undone me." 
 
 " It is impossible," replied Mr. Burchell, " that I should forgive you, 
 as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your delusion 
 then, and, as it was out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it." 
 
 " It was ever my conjecture," cried I, " that your mind was noble ; 
 but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how hast thou been 
 relieved, or who the ruffians were that carried thee away." 
 
 " Indeed, sir," replied she, " as to the villain who carried me off I 
 am yet ignorant. For as my mamma and I were walking out he came 
 behind us, and almost before I could call for help, forced me into the 
 post-chaise, and in an instant the horses drove away. I met several 
 on the road to whom I cried out for assistance, but they disregarded 
 my entreaties. In the meantime the ruffian himself used every art to 
 hinder me from crying out ; he flattered and threatened me by turns, 
 and swore that, if I continued but silent, he intended no harm. In the 
 meantime I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and whom 
 should I perceive at some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, 
 walking along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick for which 
 we used so much to ridicule him ! As soon as we came within hearing, 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 163 
 
 I called out to him by name, and entreated his help. I repeated my 
 exclamation several times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he 
 bade the postilion stop ; but the boy took no notice, but drove on 
 with still greater speed. I now thought he could never overtake us, 
 when in less than a minute I saw Mr. Burchell come running up by 
 the side of the horses, and with one blow knock the postilion to the 
 ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of themselves, 
 and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and menaces, drew his sword, 
 and ordered him, at his peril, to retire ; but Mr. Burchell, running up, 
 shivered his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter 
 of a mile ; but he made his escape. I was by this time come out 
 myself willing to assist my deliverer ; but he soon returned to me in 
 triumph. The postilion, who was recovered, was going to make his 
 escape too : but Mr. Burchell ordered him, at his peril, to mount again, 
 and drive back to town. Finding it impossible to resist, he reluctantly 
 complied, though the wound he had received seemed to me at least to 
 be dangerous. He continued to complain of the pain as we drove 
 along, so that he at last excited Mr, Burchell's compassion ; who, at 
 my request, exchanged him for another at an hin where we called on 
 our return." 
 
 " Welcome, then," cried I, "my child ! and thou her gallant deliverer, 
 a thousand welcomes ! Though our cheer is but wretched, yet our 
 hearts are ready to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have 
 delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she is yours : if you 
 can stoop to an alliance with a family so poor as mine, take her; obtain 
 her consent, as I know you have her heart, and you have mine. And 
 let me tell you, sir, that I give you no small treasure ; she has been 
 celebrated for beauty, it is true ; but that is not my meaning : I give 
 you a treasure in her mind." 
 
 " But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. Burchell, " that you are apprised 
 of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to support her as she 
 deserves ? " 
 
 " If your present objection," replied I, " be meant as an evasion of 
 my offer, I desist ; but I know no man so worthy to deserve her as 
 you ; and if I could give her thousands, and thousands sought her 
 from me, yet my honest, brave Burchell should be my dearest choice !" 
 
 To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying refusal ; 
 and, without the least reply to my offer, he demanded if he could not 
 be furnished with refreshments from the next inn ; to which, being 
 

 
 
 
 ^^^ ^ /& c fi V ^ ' l-j^KB^P^ ^^^^S^ -^ V" Htm 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 165 
 
 answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to send in the best 
 dinner that could be provided upon such short notice. He bespoke 
 also a dozen of their best wine, and some cordials for me ; adding, 
 with a smile, that he would stretch a little for once ; and though in a 
 prison, he was never better disposed to be merry. The waiter soon 
 made his appearance with preparations for dinner ; a table was lent 
 us by the gaoler, who" seemed remarkably assiduous ; the wine was 
 disposed in order, and two very well-dressed dishes were brought in. 
 
 My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melancholy 
 situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the 
 relation. But it was in vain that I attempted to appear cheerful, the 
 circumstances of my unfortunate son broke through all efforts to 
 dissemble ; so that I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating 
 his misfortunes, and wishing he might be permitted to share with us in 
 this little interval of satisfaction. After my guests were recovered 
 from the consternation my account had produced, I requested also that 
 Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-prisoner, might be admitted; and the gaoler 
 granted my request with an air of unusual submission. The clanking 
 of my son's irons was no sooner heard along the passage than his 
 sister ran impatiently to meet him ; while Mr. Burchell, in the mean- 
 time, asked me if my son's name were George ; to which replying in 
 the affirmative, he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered 
 the room I could perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of 
 astonishment and reverence. " Come on," cried I, " my son ; though 
 we are fallen very low, yet Providence has been pleased to grant us 
 some small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and 
 there is her deliverer; to that brave man it is that I am indebted for 
 yet having a daughter ; give him, my boy, the hand of friendship — he 
 deserves our warmest gratitude." 
 
 My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and still 
 continued fixed at a respectful distance. " My dear brother," cried his 
 sister, " why don't you thank my good deliverer .^ the brave should 
 ever love each other." 
 
 He still continued his silence and astonishment ; till our guest at 
 last perceived himself to be known, and assuming all his native dignity, 
 desired my son to come forward. Never before had I seen anything 
 so truly majestic as the air he assumed upon this occasion. The 
 greatest object in the universe, says a certain philosopher, is a good 
 man struggling with adyersity ; yet there is a still greater, which is the 
 
1 66 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 good man that comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my son for" 
 some time with a superior air, " I again find," said he, " unthinking 
 
 boy, that the same crime " But here he was interrupted by one 
 
 of the gaoler's servants, who came to inform us that a person oi 
 distinction, who had driven into town with a chariot and several 
 attendants, sent his respects to the gentleman that was with us, and 
 begged to know when he should think proper to be waited upon. 
 " Bid the fellow wait," cried our guest, " till I shall have leisure tc 
 receive him : " and then turning to my son, " I again find, sir," 
 proceeded he, " that you are guilty of the same offence for which you 
 once had my reproof, and for which the law is now preparing its justest 
 punishments. You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own 
 life gives you a right to take that of another : but where, sir, is the 
 difference between the duellist, who hazards a life of no value, and the 
 murderer, who acts with greater security ? Is it any diminution of the 
 gamester's fraud when he alleges that he has staked a counter } " 
 
 " Alas, sir ! " cried I, " whoever you are, pity the poor misguided 
 creature : for what he has done was in obedience to a deluded mother, 
 who, in the bitterness of her resentment, required him, upon her 
 blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is the letter, which will 
 serve to convince you of her imprudence, and diminish his guilt." 
 
 He took the letter, and hastily read it over. " This," said he, 
 though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his fault as induces 
 me to forgive him. And now, sir," continued he, kindly taking my 
 son by the hand, " I see you are surprised at finding me here ; but I 
 have often visited prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now 
 come to see justice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most 
 sincere esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator of thy father's 
 benevolence. I have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect uncon- 
 taminated by flattery, and have received that happiness which courts 
 could not give, from the amusing simplicity round his fire-side. My 
 nephew has been apprised of my intention of coming here, and I find 
 is arrived ; it would be wronging him ,and you to condemn him 
 without examination ; if there be injury, there shall be redress ; and 
 this I may say without boasting, that none have ever taxed the 
 injustice of Sir William Thornhill." 
 
 We now found that the personage whom we had so long entertained 
 as a harmless, amusing companion, was no other than the celebrated 
 Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarcely any 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 167 
 
 were strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a man of large 
 fortune and great interest, to whom senates listened with applause, 
 and whom party heard with conviction ; who was the friend of his 
 country, but loyal to his king. My poor wife, recollecting her former 
 familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehension ; but Sophia, who a 
 few moments before thought him her own, now perceiving the immense 
 distance to which he was removed by fortune, was unable to conceal 
 her tears. 
 
 " Ah, sir ! " cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, " how is it possible 
 that I can ever have your forgiveness ? the slights you received from 
 me the last time I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the 
 jokes which I so audaciously threw out — these, sir, I fear, can never 
 be forgiven." 
 
 " My dear good lady," returned he, with a smile, " if you had your 
 joke, I had my answer. I'll leave it to all the company if mine were 
 not as good as yours. To say the truth, I know nobody whom I am 
 disposed to be angry with at present but the fellow who so frightened 
 my little girl here. I had not even time to examine the rascal's person 
 so as to describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, 
 my dear, whether you s^^ould know him again ? " 
 
 " Indeed, sir," replied she, " I cannot be positive ; yet, now I 
 recollect, he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows." " I ask 
 pardon, madam," interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, "but be so good 
 as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair." " Yes, I think 
 so," cried Sophia. " And did your honour," continued he, turning to 
 Sir William, " observe the length of his legs } " " I can't be sure of 
 their length," cried the baronet ; " but I am convinced of their swift' 
 ness ; for he outran me, which is what I thought few men in the king- 
 dom could have done." " Please your honour," cried Jenkinson, " I 
 know the man ; it Is certainly the same ; the best runner in England ; 
 he has beaten PInwire, of Newcastle ; Timothy Baxter is his name : 
 I know him perfectly, and the very place of his retreat this moment. 
 If your honour will bid Mr. Gaoler let two of his men go with me, I'll 
 engage to produce him to you in an hour at farthest." Upon this the 
 gaoler was called, who Instantly appearing, Sir William demanded if 
 he knew him. " Yes, please your honour," replied the gaoler, " I 
 know Sir William Thornhill well ; and everybody that knows any- 
 thing of him will desire to know more of him." " Well, then," said 
 the baronet, " my request is, that you will permit this man and two of 
 
1 68 CasseWs Iltustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 your servants to go upon a message by my authority, and as I am in 
 the commission of the peace, I undertake to secure you." " Your 
 promise is sufficient," repHed the other ; " and you may, at a minute's 
 warning, send them over England whenever your honour thinks fit." 
 
 In pursuance of the gaoler's compliance, Jenkinson was dispatched 
 in pursuit of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused with the 
 assiduity of our youngest boy, Bill, who had just come in and climbed 
 up to Sir William's neck in order to kiss him. His mother was 
 immediately going to chastise his familiarity, but the worthy man 
 prevented her ; and taking the child, all ragged as he was, upon his 
 knee, " What, Bill, you chubby rogue ! " cried he, " do you remember 
 your old friend Burchell ? And Dick, too, my honest veteran, are you 
 here ? you shall find I have not forgot you," So saying, he gave each 
 a large piece of gingerbread, which the poor fellows ate very heartily, 
 as they had got that morning but a very scanty breakfast. 
 
 We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold ; but previously, 
 my arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for 
 he had made the study of physic his amusement, and was more than 
 moderately skilled in the profession : this being sent to. an apothecary, 
 who lived in the place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost 
 instantaneous relief. We were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler 
 himself, who was willing to do our guest all the honour in his power. 
 But before we had well dined, another message was brought from his 
 nephew, desiring permission to appear, in order to vindicate his 
 innocence and honour ; with which request the baronet complied, and 
 desired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 169 
 
 THE BARONET AND THE SOUIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXT. 
 
 FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEXPECTED INTEREST. 
 
 .R. THORNHILL made his entrance with a smile, 
 S which he seldom wanted, and was eoinof to embrace 
 his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air of 
 disdain. " No fawning, sir, at present," cried the 
 baronet, with a look of severity ; " the only way to my 
 heart is by the road of honour ; but here I only see com- 
 plicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression. 
 How is it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you professed a 
 friendship, is used thus hardly ? His daughter vilely seduced as 
 a recompense for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into prison, 
 perhaps but for resenting the insult ; his son, too, whom you feared to 
 
 face as a man 
 
 " Is it possible, sir," interrupted his nephew, *' that my uncle should 
 
I/O CasselVs Illustrated Golds-mith. 
 
 object that as a crime which his repeated instructions alone have 
 persuaded me to avoid ? " 
 
 " Your rebuke," cried Sir WiUiam, " is just ; you have acted in this 
 instance prudently and well, though not quite as your father would 
 have done ; my brother, indeed, was the soul of honour, but thou — • 
 yes, you have acted in this instance perfectly right, and it has my 
 warmest approbation." 
 
 " And I hope," said his nephew, " that the rest of my conduct will 
 not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, with this gentle- 
 man's daughter at some places of public amusement ; thus, what was 
 levity, scandal called by a harsher name, and it was reported that I 
 had debauched her. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear 
 the thmg to his satisfaction, and he received me only with insult and 
 abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his being here, my attorney 
 and steward can best inform you, as I commit the management of 
 business entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and is unwilling, 
 or even unable, to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this 
 manner ; and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal 
 means of redress." 
 
 " If this," cried Sir William, " be as you have stated it, there 
 is nothing unpardonable in your offences ; and though your conduct 
 might have been more generous in not suffering this gentleman 
 to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least 
 equitable." 
 
 "He cannot contradict a single particular," replied the squire ; " I 
 defy him to do so, and several of my servants are ready to attest what 
 I say. Thus, sir," continued he, finding that I was silent, for in fact I 
 could not contradict him ; " thus, sir, my own innocence is vindicated : 
 but though at your entreaty I am ready to forgive this gentleman 
 every other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem excite 
 a resentment that I cannot govern ; and this, too, at a time when his 
 son was actually preparing to take away my life : this. I say, was such 
 guilt that I am determined to let the law take its course. I have here 
 the challenge that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove it ; one of 
 my servants has been wounded dangerously ; and even though my 
 uncle himself should dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will 
 see public justice done, and he shall suffer for it." 
 
 "Thou monster!" cried my wife, "hast thou not had vengeance 
 enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty } I hope 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. i 7 1 
 
 that good Sir William will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a 
 child ; I am sure he is, and never did harm to man." 
 
 " Madam," replied the good man, " your wishes for his safety are 
 not greater than mine ; but I am sorry to find his guilt too plain ; and 
 
 if my nephew persists " But the appearance of Jenkinson and the 
 
 gaoler's two servants now called off our attention, who entered hauline 
 in a tall man, very genteelly dressed, and answering the description 
 already given of the rufhan who had carried off my daughter. 
 " Here," cried Jenkinson, pulling him in, "here we have him : and, 
 if ever there was a candidate for Tyburn, this is one." 
 
 The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jenkinson, 
 who. had him in custody, he seemed to shrink backward with terror. 
 His face became pale with conscious guilt, and he would have with- 
 drawn ; but Jenkinson, who perceived his design, stopped him. 
 " What ! squire," cried he, " are you ashamed of your two old ac- 
 quaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter ? But this is the way that all 
 great men forget their friends, though I am resolved we will not 
 forget you. Our prisoner, please your honour," continued he, turning 
 to Sir William, " has already confessed all. This is the gentleman 
 reported to be so dangerously wounded ; he declares that it was Mr. 
 Thornhill who first put him upon this affair ; that he gave him the 
 clothes he now wears to appear like a gentleman, and furnished him 
 with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between them that he should 
 carry off the young lady to a place of safety, and that there he should 
 threaten and terrify her ; but Mr. Thornhill was to come in in the 
 meantime, as if by accident, to her rescue, and that they should fight 
 awhile, and then he was to run off, by which Mr. Thornhill would have 
 the better opportunity of gaining her affections himself under the 
 character of her defender." 
 
 Sir William remembered the coat to have been frequently worn by 
 his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by a more 
 circumstantial account ; concluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often 
 declared to him that he was in love with both sisters at the same time. 
 
 " Heavens ! " cried Sir William, " what a viper have I been fostering 
 in my bosom ! And so fond of public justice, too, as he seemed to be ! 
 But he shall have it — secure him, Mr. Gaoler — yet hold, I fear there 
 is no legal evidence to detain him." 
 
 Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated that 
 two such abandoned wretches mieht not be admitted as evidences 
 
172 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith, 
 
 against him ; but that his servants should be examined. " Your 
 servants!" replied Sir William ; "wretch ! call them yours no longer; 
 but come, let us hear what those fellows have to say ; let his butler be 
 called." 
 
 When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his former 
 master's looks that all his power was now over. " Tell me," cried 
 Sir William, sternly, " have you ever seen your master and that 
 fellow dressed up in his clothes in company together ? " " Yes, 
 please your honour," cried the butler, " a thousand times : he was 
 the man that always brought him his ladies." "How!" interrupted 
 young Mn Thornhill, " this to my face ? " " Yes," replied the 
 butler ; " or to any man's face. To tell you a truth, Master 
 Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and I don't 
 care if I tell you now a piece of my mind." " Now then," cried 
 Jenkinson, "tell his honour whether you know anything of me." 
 " i can't say," replied the butler, "that I know much good of you. 
 The night that gentleman's daughter was deluded to our house, you 
 were one of them." "So, then," cried Sir William, " I find you have 
 brought a very fine witness to prove your innocence ; thou stain to 
 humanity ! to associate with such wretches ! But," continuing his 
 examination, " you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the nerson who 
 brought him this old gentleman's daughter." " No, please your 
 honour," replied the butler, " he did not bring her, for the squire 
 himself undertook that business : but he brought the priest that pre- 
 tended to marry them." 
 
 " It is but too true," cried Jenkinson ; " I cannot deny it ; that was 
 the employment assigned to me ; and I confess it to my confusion." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " exclaimed the worthy baronet, " how every new 
 discovery of his villany alarms me ! All his guilt is now too plain, and 
 I find his present prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and 
 revenge : at my request, Mr. Gaoler, set this young officer, now your 
 prisoner, free, and trust to me for the consequences. I'll make it my 
 business to set the affair in a proper light to my friend the magistrate 
 who has committed him. But where is the unfortunate young lady 
 herself ? Let her appear, to confront this wretch ; I long to know by 
 what arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is 
 she '^. " 
 
 ' Ah . sir," said I, "that question stings me to the heart; I was 
 once indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries — " Another 
 
J 74 Cassell's Illustrated GoldsTnith. 
 
 interruption here prevented me ; for who should make her appearance 
 but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was the next day to have been married 
 to Mr. Thornhlll, Nothing could equal her surprise at seeing Sir 
 William and his nephew here before her ; for her arrival was quite 
 accidental. It happened that she and the old gentleman, her father, 
 were passing through the town, on their way to her aunt's, who had 
 insisted that her nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be consummated 
 at her house : but, stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at 
 the other end of the town. It was there, from the window, that the 
 young lady happened to observe one of my little boys playing in the 
 street, and, instantly sending a footman to bring the child to her, she 
 learnt from him some account of our misfortunes, but was still kept 
 ignorant of young Mr. Thornhill's being the cause. Though her 
 father made several remonstrances on the impropriety of her going 
 to a prison to visit us, yet they were ineffectual ; she desired the child 
 to conduct her, which he did : and it was thus she surprised us at a 
 juncture so unexpected. 
 
 Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental meetings, 
 which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprise but 
 uDon some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence 
 do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives ! How 
 many seeming accidents must unite before we can be clothed or fed ! 
 The peasant must be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the 
 wind fill the merchant's sail ; or numbers must want the usual supply. 
 
 We all continued silent for some moments, while my charming pupil, 
 which was the name I generally gave this young lady, united in her 
 looks compassion and astonishment, which gave new finishing to her 
 beauty. " Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill," cried she to the squire, 
 who she supposed was come here to succour and not to oppress us, " I 
 take it a little unkindly that you should come here without me, or never 
 inform me of the situation of a family so dear to us both ; you know I 
 should take as much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my 
 reverend old master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But 
 I find that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret." 
 
 " He find pleasure in doing good ! " cried Sir William, interrupting 
 her : " no, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You see in 
 him, madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity* A 
 wretch who, after having deluded this poor man's daughter, after 
 plotting against the innocence of her sister, has thrown, the father into 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 175 
 
 prison, and the eldest son into fetters, because he had the courage to 
 face her betrayer ! And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate 
 you upon an escape from the embraces of such a monster," 
 
 " Oh, goodness V cried the lovely girl, " how have I been deceived ! 
 Mr. Thornhill informed me, for certain, that this gentleman's eldest 
 son, Captain Primrose, was gone off to America with his new-married 
 lady." 
 
 *' My sweetest miss," cried my wife, "h3 has told you nothing but 
 falsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor ever was 
 married. Though you have forsaken him, he has always loved you 
 too well to think of anybody else : and I have heard him say he 
 would die a bachelor for your sake." She then proceeded to expatiate 
 upon the sincerity of her son's passion ; she set his duel with Mr. 
 Thornhill in a proper light, from thence she made a rapid digression 
 to the squire's debaucheries, his pretended marriages, and ended with 
 a most insulting picture of his cowardice. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! " cried Miss Wilmot, " how very near have I been 
 to the brink of ruin ! but hov. great is my pleasure to have escaped 
 it ! Ten thousand falsehoods has this o-entleman told me ! He had at 
 
 <z> 
 
 last art enough to persuade me that my promise to the only man I 
 esteemed was no longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By 
 his falsehoods I was taught to detest one equally brave and generous." 
 By this time my son was freed from the incumbrances of justice, as 
 the person supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. 
 Mr. Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet-de-chambre, had 
 dressed up his hair, and furnished him with whatever was necessary 
 to make a genteel appearance. He now, therefore, entered, hand- 
 somely dressed in his regimentals, and without vanity (for I am above 
 it) he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. 
 As he entered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for 
 he was not as yet acquainted with the change which the eloquence of 
 his mother had wrouofht in his favour. But no decorums could restrain 
 the impatience of his blushing mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, 
 her looks, all contributed to discover the real sensations of her heart, 
 for having forgotten her former promise, and having suffered herself to 
 be deluded by an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her con- 
 descension, and could scarcely believe it real. " Sure, madam," cried 
 he, " this is but delusion ; I can never have merited this ! To be 
 blest thus is to be too happy !" " No, sir," replied she, " I have been 
 
176 
 
 CasselVs Illu'sltrated Goldsmitk. 
 
 deceived, basely deceived, else nothing could have ever made me 
 unjust to my promise. You know my friendship, you have long 
 known it ; but forget what I have done ; and, as you once had my 
 warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have them repeated ; and 
 be assured, that if your Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be 
 another's." "And no other's you shall be," cried Sir William, "if I 
 have any influence with your father." 
 
 This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to 
 the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every cir- 
 cumstance that had happened. But in the meantime the squire, 
 perceiving that he was on every side undone, now finding that no 
 hopes were left from flattery or dissimulation, concluded that his 
 wisest way would be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus laying 
 aside all shame, he appeared the open, hardy villain. " I find then," 
 cried he, "that I am to expect no justice here; but I am resolved it 
 shall be done me. You shall know, sir," turning to Sir William, " I 
 am no longer a poor dependent upon your favours. I scorn them. ' 
 Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her 
 father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles and a bond for her 
 fortune are signed, and safe in my possession. It was' her fortune, not 
 her person, that induced me to wish for this match ; and, possessed of 
 the one, let who will take the other. 
 
 This was an alarming blow : Sir William was sensible of the justice 
 of his claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the marriage- 
 articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that her fortune 
 was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, asked if the loss of fortune 
 could lessen her value to him. " Though fortune," said she, " is out 
 of my power, at least I have my hand to give." 
 
 "And that, madam," cried her real lover, "was indeed all that yon 
 ever had to give ; at least, all that I ever thought worth the acceptance. 
 And I now protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of 
 fortune this moment increases my pleasure, as it serves to convince my 
 sweet girl of my sincerity." 
 
 Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the 
 danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a dis- 
 solution of the match. But finding that her fortune, which was 
 secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing 
 could exceed his disappointment. He now saw that his money must 
 all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his own. He could bear 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 ARABELLA AND GEORGE. 
 
 his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent to his daughter's fortune 
 was wormwood. He sat, therefore, for some minutes employed in 
 the most mortifying speculations, till Sir William attempted to lessen 
 his -anxiety. " I must confess, sir," cried he, " that your present dis- 
 appointment does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate passion 
 for wealth is now justly punished. But though the young lady cannot 
 be rich, she has still a competence sufficient to give content. Here 
 you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to take her without 
 fortune ; they have long loved each other ; and, for the friendship I 
 bear his father, my interest shall net be wanting in his promotion. 
 Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit 
 that happiness which courts your acceptance." 
 
 " Sir William," replied the old gentleman, " be assured I never yet 
 forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love 
 this young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is 
 still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will make it 
 something more. Only let my old friend here " (meaning me) " give 
 
 12 
 
178 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith, 
 
 me a promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he 
 should come to his fortune, and I am ready this night to be the first to 
 join them together." 
 
 As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I 
 readily gave a promise of making the settlement he required ; which, 
 to one who had such little expectations as I, was no great favour. We 
 had now, therefore, the satisfaction of seeing them fly into each other's 
 arms in a transport. " After all my misfortunes," cried my son 
 George, " to be thus rewarded : Sure this is more than I could ever 
 have presumed to hope for. To be possessed of all that's good, and 
 after such an Interval of pain ! my warmest wishes could never rise so 
 high ! " " Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride, now let the 
 wretch take my fortune : since you are happy without it, so am I. Oh, 
 what an exchange have I made from the basest of men to the dearest^ 
 best ! Let him enjoy our fortune ; I now can be happy even in. 
 indigence." " And I promise you," cried the squire, with a malicious 
 grin, "that I shall be very happy with what you despise." "Hold, 
 hold, sir!" cried Jenkinson ; "there are two words to that bargain. As 
 for that lady's fortune, sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of It. 
 Pray, your honour," continued he to Sir William, " can the squire 
 have this lady's fortune if he be married to another '^. " " How can 
 you make such a simple demand .-* " replied the baronet : " undoubtedly 
 he cannot." " I am sorry for that," cried Jenkinson : " for as this 
 gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters, I have a friendship for 
 him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that his contract is not 
 worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married already." " You lie like a 
 rascal," returned the squire, who seemed roused by this insult ; " I 
 never was legally married to any woman." " Indeed, begging yout 
 honour's pardon," replied the other, " you were ; and I hope you will 
 show a proper return of friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who 
 brings you a wife ; and if the company restrain their curiosity a feW 
 minutes, they shall see her." So saying, he went off with his usual 
 celerity, and left us all unable to form any probable conjecture as to 
 his design,. " Ay, let him go," cried the squire ; "whatever else I may 
 have done, I defy him there. I am too old now to be frightened with 
 squibs." 
 
 " I am surprised," said the baronet, " what the fellow can intend by 
 this. Some low piece of humour, I suppose." " Perhaps, sir, ' replied 
 I, "he may have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. i 79 
 
 the various schemes this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence^ 
 perhaps some one, more artful than the rest, has been found able to 
 deceive him. When we consider what numbers he has ruined, how- 
 many parents now feel with anguish the infamy and the contamination 
 which he has brought into their families, it would not surprise me if 
 
 some one of them Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter ? Do 
 
 I hold her ? It is, it is my life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, my 
 Olivia, yet still I hold thee, and still thou shalt live to bless me." The 
 warmest transports of the fondest lover were not greater than mine, 
 when I saw him introduce my child, and held my daughter In my arms, 
 whose silence only spoke her raptures. " And art thou returned to 
 me, my darling } " cried I, " to be my comfort in age ! " " That she 
 is," cried Jenkinson, " and make much of her, for she is your own 
 honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole room, 
 let the other be who she will. And as for you, squire, as sure as you 
 stand there, this young lady Is your lawful wedded wife : and, to con- 
 vince you that I speak nothing but the truth, here Is the licence by 
 which you were married together." So saying, he put the licence into 
 the baronet's hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. 
 *' And now, gentlemen," continued he, " I find you are surprised at all 
 this ; but a very few words will explain the difficulty. That there 
 squire of renown, for whom I have a great friendship, but that's 
 between ourselves, has often employed me In doing odd little things 
 for him. Among the rest he commissioned me to procure him a false 
 licence, and a false priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as 
 I was very much his friend, what did I do, but went and got a true 
 licence and a true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth 
 could make them. Perhaps you'll think It was generosity made me do 
 all this. But, no. To my shame I confess It, my only design was to 
 keep the licence, and let the squire know that I could prove It upon 
 him whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down whenever 
 I wanted money." A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole 
 apartment ; our joy even reached the common room, where the 
 prisoners themselves sympathised, 
 
 " And shook their chains 
 In transport and rude harmony." 
 
 Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheeks 
 seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to 
 
CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 ibi 
 
 friends and- fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress 
 of decay, and restore former health and vivacity. But, perhaps, among 
 all, there was not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I, Still holding 
 the dear-loved child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports 
 were not delusion. " How could you," cried I, turning to Jenkinson, 
 " how could you add to my miseries by the story of her death ? But 
 it matters not : my pleasure at finding her again is more than a 
 recompense for the pain." 
 
 " As to your question," replied Jenkinson, '* that is easily answered. 
 I thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison was by 
 submitting to the squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other 
 young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while youi* 
 daughter was living ; there was, therefore, no other method to bring 
 things to bear, but by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed 
 on your wife to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity 
 of undeceiving you till now." 
 
 In the whole assembly there now appeared only two faces that did 
 not glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill's assurance had entirely 
 forsaken him ; he now saw the gulf of infamy and want before him 
 and trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on his knee:* 
 before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing misery implored compassion. 
 Sir William was going to spurn him away, but at my request he raised 
 him, and after pausing a few moments, " Thy vices, crimes, and 
 ingratitude," cried he, " deserve no tenderness ; yet thou shalt not be 
 entirely forsaken ; a bare competence shall be supplied to support the 
 wants of life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall be 
 put in possession of a third part of that fortune which once was thine ; 
 and from her tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary 
 supplies for the future." He was going to express his gratitude for 
 such kindness in a set speech ; but the baronet prevented him, by 
 bidding him not aggravate his meanness, which was already but too 
 apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be gone, and from all 
 his former domestics to choose one, and such as he should think proper, 
 which was all that should be granted to attend him. 
 
 As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up to his 
 new niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His example was followed 
 by Miss Wilmot and her father ; my wife, too, kissed her daughter 
 with much affection, as, to use her own expression, she was now 
 made an honest woman of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and 
 
(82 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be admitted to that honour. 
 Our satisfaction seemed scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, 
 whose greatest pleasure was In doing good, now looked round with a 
 countenance open as the sun, and saw nothing but joy in the looks of 
 all, except that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we 
 could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. " I think 
 now," cried he, with a smile, " that all the company, except one or 
 two, seem perfectly happy. There only remains an act of justice for 
 me to do. You are sensible, sir," continued he, turning to me, '* of 
 the obligations we both owe to Mr. Jenkinson ; and it Is but just we 
 should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make 
 him very happy, and he shall have five hundred pounds as her 
 fortune ; and upon this I am sure they can live very comfortably 
 together. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my 
 making ? will you have him ?" My poor girl seemed almost sinking 
 into her mother's arms at the hideous proposal. " Have him, sir!" 
 cried she, faintly : "no, sir, never!" "What!" cried he again, "not 
 Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor ; a handsome young fellow, with five 
 hundred pounds, and good expectations ?" "I beg, sir," returned 
 she, scarcely able to speak, " that you'll desist, and not make me so 
 very wretched." " Was ever such obstinacy known ?" cried he again, 
 " to refuse the man whom the family has such Infinite obligations to, 
 who has preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds ? 
 What ! not have him ?" " No, sir, never," replied she, angrily ; "I'd 
 sooner die first I" "' If that be the case, then," cried he, " If you will 
 not have him, I think I must have you myself." And so saying, he 
 caught her to his breast with ardour. " My loveliest, my most 
 sensible of girls," cried he, " how could you ever think your own 
 Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thornhill could ever 
 cease to admire a mistress that loved him for himself alone ? I have 
 for some years sought for a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, 
 could think I had merit as a man. After having tried In vain, even 
 among the pert and ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to 
 have made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly beauty ! " 
 Then turning to Jenkinson, " As I cannot, sir, part with this young 
 lady myself, for she has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the 
 recompense I can make is, to give you her fortune, and you may call 
 upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds." Thus we had 
 all our compliments to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 183 
 
 same round of ceremony that her sister had done before. In the 
 meantime Sir WilHam's gentleman appeared, to tell us that the 
 equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything was 
 prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left those 
 gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet ordered forty 
 pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, 
 inxluced by his example, gave half that sum. We were received 
 below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw and shook by the 
 hand two or three of my honest parishioners, who were among the 
 number. They attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertain- 
 ment was provided, and coarser provisions were distributed in great 
 quantities among the populace. 
 
 After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation of 
 pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked 
 permission to withdraw ; and leaving the company in the midst of 
 their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out my heart in 
 gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept un- 
 disturbed till morni|ig. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 HE next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my 
 eldest son sitting by my bed-side, who came to in- 
 crease my joy with another turn of fortune in my 
 favour. First having released me from the settle- 
 ment that I had made the day before in his favour, he 
 ^ let me know that my merchant, who had failed in town, 
 was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to 
 a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy's 
 generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for good 
 fortune. But I had some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept 
 his offer. While I was pondering upon this. Sir William entered the 
 room, to whom I communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as 
 my son was already possessed of a very affluent fortune by his 
 marriage, I might accept his offer without hesitation. His business, 
 
184 Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 however, was to inform me, that as he had the night before sent for 
 the Hcences, and expected them every hour, he hoped that I would not 
 refuse my assistance in making all the company happy that morning. 
 A footman entered while we were speaking, to tell us that the 
 messenger was returned ; and as I was by this time ready, I went 
 down, where I found the whole company as merry as affluence and 
 innocence could make them. However, as they were now preparing 
 for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I 
 told them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they should 
 assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them two homilies and a 
 thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they 
 still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we were 
 going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity had quite 
 forsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in indignation. 
 In church a new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. 
 This was, which couple should be married first ; my son's bride 
 warmly insisted that Lady Thornhill (that was to be) should take the 
 lead ; but this the other refused with equal ard(|Ur, protesting she 
 would not be guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argument 
 was supported for some time between both with equal obstinacy and 
 good breeding. But as I stood all this time with my book ready, I 
 was at last quite tired of the contest, and shutting it, " I perceive," 
 cried I, " that none of you have a mind to be married, and I think we 
 had as good go back again ; for I suppose there will be no business 
 done here to-day." This at once reduced them to reason. The 
 baronet and his lady were first married, and then my son and his 
 lovely partner. 
 
 I had previously that morning given orders that a coach should be 
 sent for my honest neighbour Flamborough and his family, by which 
 means, upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the 
 two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his 
 hand to the eldest, and my son Moses led up the other ; and I have 
 since found that he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent 
 and bounty he shall have, whenever he thinks proper to demand them.. 
 We were no sooner returned to the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, 
 hearing of my success, came to congratulate me ; but among the rest 
 were those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with 
 such sharpness. I told the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who 
 went out and reproved them with great severity ; but, finding them 
 
1 86 CasselL's IlliLstrated Goldsmith. 
 
 quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half a guinea 
 a-piece to drink his health, and raise their dejected spirits. 
 
 Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, 
 which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it may not be 
 improper to observe, with respect to that gentleman, that he now 
 resides in quality of companion at a relation's house, being very well 
 liked, and seldom sitting at the side-table, except when there is no 
 room at the other, for they make no stranger of him. His time is 
 pretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who is a little melan- 
 choly, in spirits, and in learning to blow the French horn. My eldest 
 daughter, however, still remembers him with regret ; and she has 
 even told me, though I make a great secret of it, that when he 
 reforms she may be brought to relent. But to return, for I am not apt 
 to digress thus, when we were to sit down to dinner, our ceremonies 
 were going to be renewed. The question was, whether my eldest 
 daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above the two young 
 brides ; but the debate was cut short by my son George, who pro- 
 posed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman 
 by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, except- 
 ing my wife, who I could perceive was not perfectly satisfied, as she 
 expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table, 
 and carving all the meat for all the company. But notwithstanding 
 this, it is impossible to describe our good-humour. I can't say whether 
 we had more wit among us now than usual, but I am certain we had 
 more laughing, which answered the end as well. One jest I particu- 
 larly remember : old Mr. Wilmot drinking to Moses, whose head was 
 turned another way, my son replied, " Madam, I thank you." Upon 
 which the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, 
 observed that he was thinking of his mistress. At which jest I 
 thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. 
 As soon as dinner was over, according to my old custom, I requested 
 that the table might be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all 
 my family assembled once more by a cheerful fireside. My two little 
 ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company by their partners ; 
 I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish for — all my cares 
 were over, my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only remained that 
 my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former submission in 
 adversity. 
 
"o^^t^v' 
 
 ''^^^v 
 
 
 
 
 ^■.~^iln<^ 
 
 -^ eASbrt iM (sIg 
 
 ■'^fjr^^5f>^ 
 
y^^ 
 
 
 ""^•^^ 
 
 ^^a.N/r,R^o,D u^c T,^o^N>^: 
 
 HEN one gazes on a landscape of Turner or of Wilson, 
 till his eyes are filled with all the charms of scenery, all 
 the beauties of light and shadow, all the harmonies and 
 contrasts of form and colour, and his heart is touched with a 
 sense of the glories of Nature, and the skill of the limner, with 
 what a feeling of dissatisfaction does he find his sleeve plucked 
 by some critic, who assu»es him that such a piece of scenery 
 never really existed — ^^that the artist " has produced something 
 which never was, and never will be, seen in any part of the world." In 
 vain do you assure him that you have seen trees, and mountains, and 
 stream, and verdure, and sky, and every other accessory of the picture 
 over and over again in your wanderings through the world. Nay, that 
 you can recall more than one scene that bears a strong resemblance 
 to the whole landscape. You are met by the remark, " Quite true ; but, 
 nevertheless, suc/i a tree never grew beside suc/i a stream ; S2(c/i a sky 
 never hung over suck a mountain. The river belongs to England, the sky to 
 Italy, the forest to Germany, the meadow to Ireland." "Well," you say, 
 " but they might have all concurred in some lovely spot of earth without 
 violating the harmonies of Nature." The critic answers you with a smile 
 of triumph, "Oh! certainly: but, then, they didn't." You turn from him 
 with a conviction that he is impertinent and a trifler, and console yourself 
 by gazing once more on the object of his criticism. With feelings akin 
 to these do we regard the endless disputes upon the locality of " The Deserted 
 
igo Casseirs Illustrated GoldsTnith. 
 
 Village," and the reality of its delineations. "Was Auburn in Ireland, or 
 in England ? Was it Lissoy, or Ballyoughter, or Springfield near Chelms- 
 ford ? Was it anywhere? Could it be anywhere?" Let us answer: "It 
 could well have existed. It did exist just where it alone needed to 
 have existed — in the imagination of the poet, and on the page of his poem." 
 In the details we recognise well-known features of the poet's early haunts, 
 both of Lissoy, and Ballymahon, and Ballyoughter \ not alone of scenery, but 
 also of the manners and customs of the people. With these may have been 
 associated remembered beauties from other scenes to complete the compo- 
 sition, and make it a consistent and beautiful whole. Poetry has its truth as 
 well as history. In neither must truth be violated ; but the laws by which 
 each is to be judged are essentially different. The test of the former is its 
 accordance with an Idea, that of the latter with a Fact. When Lord Macaulay, 
 in one of his " Lays of Ancient Rome," describes Castor and Pollux fighting 
 in the Roman ranks, he is not poetically false ; when he exaggerates the 
 virtues of WilHam III., or the vicas of Charles II., he is historically untrue. 
 Goldsmith had an idea, a theory (whether politically true or not is immaterial) 
 that the depopulation of the country was the result of the increase of luxuries. 
 This he illustrated by a picture of a village in its two conditions of prosperity 
 and ruin. Enough that his ideal picture is not incongruous ; but it is more — ■ 
 it has an enduring locaHty, as enduring and real as if we could point out its 
 ruins on the map ; and the beings with which he has peopled it are as real to 
 the mind as if we could read their names and epitaphs on the churchyard 
 tombstones. The village school, with its merry urchins ; the mill, with its 
 babbling brook ; the snug farmstead ; the wayside inn ; the church and the 
 manse — are they not all realities ? — verities poetical and natural ? Do we not 
 know the village preacher personally ? Can we not say. This is no fancy 
 portrait ? Is not the pedagogue one who flourished within the memory of 
 many a living man ? Even to-day we see dances and athletic sports on the 
 greensward, as we read of them in the poem. Is not the village, too, a 
 reality ? — pourtrayed with a charming power in its day of happiness, to make 
 the picture more profoundly touching in its ruin. 
 
 As a poetical composition, no critic has impugned the high merits of 
 " The Deserted Village." The whole world, learned and unlearned — all who 
 have hearts to feel, and sensibilities to be moved — own its power. In versifi- 
 cation, it is exquisitely harmonious ; in language, it is polished, elegant, and 
 vigorous. It teems with tender and pathetic sentiment, and touches of the 
 finest humour ; with high moral feeling ; with noble and effective imagery ; 
 with portraitures of character that exhibit the conception of a genius, and 
 the hand of a master. In fine, it abounds with all the elements that make 
 
The Deserted Village. 191 
 
 a great poem, and won for its author from the greatest of contemporary bards, 
 the curt yet high eulogy, " That man is a POET." 
 
 We subjoin the Dedication, both for its d'egance and as the best exposition 
 of the Author's object : — 
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I can have no expectation in an address of this kind, either to add to 
 your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as 
 I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the 
 severity of your judgment, as fe have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, 
 therefore, asid , to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in 
 following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I 
 loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this 
 poem to you. 
 
 How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this 
 attempt, I do not pretend to inquire : but I know you will object — and indeed several of 
 my best and wisest friends concur in the opinion — that the depopulation it deplores is 
 nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own 
 imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I believe what I have 
 written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or 
 five years past, to be certain of what I allege ; and that all my views and inquiries have 
 led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not 
 the place to enter into an inquiry whether the country be depopulating, or not ; the 
 discussion would take up "too much room ; and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent 
 politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to 
 a long poem. 
 
 In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our 
 luxuries : and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty 
 or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest 
 national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. 
 Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head ; and continue to think 
 those luxuries prejudicial to tastes by which so many vices are introduced, and so many 
 kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other 
 side of tlie question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes 
 wish to be in the right. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, your sincere friend and ardent admirer, 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 
 MOTB. — llJe text of the sixth edition has been adopted in this Work. 
 

 ^'^ 
 
 illSiiffllfli 
 
 .J^ -^-^C^jt^'' -^ 
 
 
 WEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 i^i^^ Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain ; 
 -4*3 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 '^%'^K$'^i I And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd ; 
 -^'^w ^f'K Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 ^^("V Seats of my youth, ^ when every sport could please ; 
 
 '? 
 
 V 
 
 How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. 
 
 '<^'' Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
 How often have I paused on every charm — 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm. 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring liill ; 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 How often have I bless'd the coming day,^ 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 
 ' Seii/s of my youth. — This epithet would indicate Lissoy or Eallyoughter, a"; Auburn, which was a name then unkni)'":i 
 in Ireland. The objects and features of the landscape were certainly to be found in the former locality. There are some \. no 
 contend that the description is equally appropriate to the latter. 
 
 2 The coming day. — There is no reason to suppose that the poet alluded here to saints' days. The sports a:iJ ;ecrcaiions 
 described were all customary on a Sunday in Ireland at and subsequent to the date of this poeiu. 
 
 13 
 
i94 CasselTs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 ijto^ . _____ 
 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ! 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old survey'd , 
 And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground. 
 And sleiofhts of art, and feats of streno^th went round '. 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 
 - By holding out to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 
 The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love ; 
 The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove ; 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And Desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain^^ 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
 
 1 One only master gj-asf>s the -whole domain. — General Robert Napier, to whom these lines seem to refer, purchased the 
 estates of Lord Dillon, including Lissoy, in 1/30. Desiring to enclose a demesne of nine miles, he ejected all the tenants (with 
 the exception of the Goldsmiths), to the number of some hundred persons, many of whom emigrated to America. The Napier 
 estate became the subject of a protracted litigation about a century ago, which was not brought to a close till after 1838, when 
 Lissoy was sold. A professional gentleman concerned in the sale thus concludes some interesting details with which he 
 kindly furnished me : — " When we were preparing the advertisement, it was a question whether or not it should be stated that 
 the place was the scene of ' The Deserted Village , ' but on full consideration, it was decided that such a reference might have 
 a verydiscouraging effect on the majority of intending purchasers, and the allusion was abandoned." 
 
The Deserted Village, 195 
 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,^ 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began,^ 
 When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
 For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
 His best companions, innocence and health ; 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain" ; 
 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
 And every want to luxury allied, 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentler hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room. 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
 Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green ; 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful hour, 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view^ 
 Where once the cottaee stood, the hawthorn erew. 
 
 • Ill/ares the latid, to hastening ills a prey — This line betrays a want of care, unusual with Goldsmith, in the use of 
 nearly the same word twice. It is to be regretted that anything sliould mar the beauty of this justly celebrated passage. 
 
 2 A time there was, ere England's grie/s began.— It is plain that, wherever the scene of the poem was laid, the principle 
 intended to be illustrated was applied to England as well as to Ireland. 
 
 * A nd, many a year elapsed, return to view. —There is no reason to suppose fas some infer from this line) that Goldsmith 
 ever re-visited the scenes of his youth, though he certainly intended to do so, after his travels. This and the following exquisite 
 paragraph breathe that inextinguishable love of home (amounting to pain) which pervades so many of the poet's letters and 
 compositions.' 
 
'9^ CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to. pain. 
 
 In all my wanderings through this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill ; 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw : 
 And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 Oh, blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreat from cares, that never must be mine, 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
 And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 Nor surly porter stands in guilty state, 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation^ gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close. 
 Up yonder hilP the village murmur rose ; 
 
 1 Resignation. — This description suggested to Reynolds his picture of " Resignation," which he dedicated to Goldsmith. 
 
 ^ Up yonder hill. — In front of the old parsonage house at Lissoy is a hill called Knockaruadh (the Red Hill), and now 
 " Goldsmith's Mount.'' which superstition peopled with fairies. The poet, as a boy, loved to loiter there, and, as he says, " take 
 in to me the most pleasing horizon in Nature." From it the scenery and objects described in the poem were all visible. 
 
The Deserted Village. 
 
 197 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 There, as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow, 
 
 The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, 
 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 
 The playful children just let loose from school, 
 
 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, 
 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 
 And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the eale, 
 
 No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread; 
 
 For all the bloomy flush of life is fied : 
 
 All but yon widow'd, solitary thing/ 
 
 ' AU but yon Tvuio-a'if. ioliiary thing — Dr Strean, who was curate of Lissoy in 1S07, remembered a poor widow there, 
 named Catherine Geraghty, whom he believed to be the person her^ alluded 10. 
 
198 Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
 She, wretched matron, forced, in age, for bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 To seek her nightly shade, and weep till morn ; 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden-flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose.^ 
 A man he was, to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place ; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.; 
 The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 
 The oroken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, 
 
 - Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 
 
 - And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 / ' And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
 
 ^ The village preacher i Kwdest mansion rose. — The original of the charming portrait of a coi-.'.itry parson that follows is 
 doubtless the poef s father, Charles. The v.rtues of J..s brother Henry v/ere probably also present to his mind, to complete the 
 'elineation. 
 
The Deserted Villacre. '99 
 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. 
 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. 
 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies ; 
 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. 
 And his last faltering accents whisper d praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.^ 
 The service past, around the pious man. 
 With steady zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd : 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head.^ 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 
 • Andfooh, -who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. — Prior cites a line in the opening of Dryden's ' Britannia Rediviva "— 
 •' And sent us back to praise who came to pray " — as presenting a resemblance m expression, though not in thought, to the 
 line in the text. 
 
 ^ lernai sunshine settles on its head.— The range of English poetry presents nothmg grander than the simile which 
 tW~* »tjis noble picture. It was probably suggested, as the Rev Gilbert Wakefield remarks, by the fine imes of CUudian>» 
 
 Ut aitus Olympi 
 
 Vertex qui spatio vetitos hyemque telitiquit, 
 Perpetuum nulla temeratus nube serenum, 
 Celsior ex^urgit pluviis, auditque recentes 
 Sub pedibus niii^bos, et ratica ionitrua calcat,'' &C. 
 
200 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
 
 There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, 
 The village master^ taught his little school ; 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn' d to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he : 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learnino- was in fault : 
 
 1 772^ Tillage mnsler — This acImiraWe and humorous sketch of - village pedagogue has all the marks of being taken from 
 ^1 - li:c. Ill it \re ha\e. no doubt, the portrait of the clever and eccentric Llssoy schoolmaster, Quarter-.naster Thomas 
 JJyrnc, Oliver's first male instructor. 
 
202 Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain he could write and cypher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And even the story ran that he could gauge ; 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
 For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound, 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head should carry all he knew. 
 
 But past is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. 
 Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired ; 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
 " And news much older than their ale vv^ent round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
 The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor. 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
 The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use ; 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 
 The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ; 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.^ 
 
 Vain transitory splendours ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
 
 ' Ranged o'er ike chimney, glistened m a row. — This description has, upon the whole, niore the character of an English 
 than an Irisn village inn. Guod Mr Hogan, however, piously restored " The Three Jolly Pigeons " at Lissoy, and furnished 
 II. to sun the descriptive catalogue as above. 
 
The Deserted Village. 203 
 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer s news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman s ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the manthng bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, halt willing to be press'd, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
 These simple blessmgs of the lowly tram , 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 
 Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 
 The soul adopts, and owns their hrst born sway ; 
 Lightly they Irolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array d. 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, e'en while fashion s brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride. 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
 
204 CasselVs Illnstj^ated Goldsmith. 
 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
 
 The robe that wraps his hmbs in silken sloth 
 
 Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; 
 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; 
 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
 
 While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, 
 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
 
 Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
 
 She then shines forth solicitous to bless, 
 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 
 Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd : 
 
 In Nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 
 And while he sinks without one arm to save, 
 
 The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped — What waits him thereof* 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxury and thin piankind ; 
 
The Deserted Village. 
 
 205 
 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 To see those joys the sons of pleasure know- 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display. 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign. 
 Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train : 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine eyes 
 Where the poor houseless, shivering female lies. 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
 
 / 
 
2o6 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 
 
 And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 
 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
 
 She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
 Ah ! no To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe ' 
 Far different there from all that charm 'd before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters chng ; 
 Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd. 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 Far different these from every former scene, 
 The cooling brook, the grassy -vested green, 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, 
 That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
 
 ' where ivild Altama murmurs to their woe. — "I remember no English poet," said Lord Carlisle, referring to these 
 lines \n\ a recent occasion, " except, indeed, it be Milton, who made more harmonious use of proper names in his verses. I 
 remember consoling myself with that couplet for a whole day while I was becalmed off the mouth of the Altama." 
 
The Deserted Village. ^^7 
 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 
 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 
 Return d and wept, and still return'd to weep ! 
 
 The good old sire the first prepared to go 
 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; 
 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
 
 And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 
 And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 
 In all the silent manliness of orrief, 
 
 O Luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 
 At every draught large and more large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; 
 Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun. 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 E'en now methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural Virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 
 That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale, 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 
The Deserted Village. 209 
 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
 And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
 And piety with wishes placed above, 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry ! thou loveliest maid, 
 Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
 U .fit in these degenerate times of shame 
 To catch the heart or strike for honest fame , 
 Dear charming- nymph, neglected and decried, 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, 
 That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
 Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well !^ 
 Farewell ; and, oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
 Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still, let thy voice prevailing over time, 
 Redress the rigours of th' Inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him that states, of native strength possess'd, 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay ,^ 
 As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
 ' Thou nurse of ,-T/T>y 7>ir-tiie. fare tlu-e ivell /—Lord C-iriisle, in quot. rig. this passage, observes, "It seems to me tc o.- 
 strung to the highe-t chor.l ni the whole compass of his lyre." 
 
 2 That trade's proud empire hastes 10 s-in/l decity. — Boswell states that Dr Johnson marked foi- him with a pencil the 
 last four lines of thiS poem as having been written by huii. Boswell's "Life of Johnion," by Croker, vol ii.. p. 309; 
 £dit. 1835. 
 
 14 
 
V 
 
 
 OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 HE Traveller"' is memorable as the first of Goldsmith's 
 publications which appeared with his own name. It was 
 yVClf the experiences and the reflections of his Continental travel. 
 Upon it he spent, during eight years of ungrateful labour, 
 many an hour of deep yet pleasant meditation. To it he 
 looked, in hope and in fear, as that which was to give him name 
 and fame. And he was not disappointed. The charms of its 
 composition, elegant yet simple ; the power of its descriptions, 
 true to Nature, lively, pathetic, and picturesque ; the moral, philosophic, and 
 social opinions propounded ; the vigour and loftiness of expression which it 
 occasionally displays — all these commended "The Traveller" to the judg- 
 ment of every critic as a work of the highest merit. Great names endorsed 
 the popular praise. Johnson pronounced it a poem " to which it would not be 
 easy to find anything equal since the days of Pope ;" and Charles Fox said it 
 was one of the finest poems in the Enghsh language. Time has confirmed the 
 criticism of contemporaries. Every year " THE TRAVELLER" has grown in 
 favour. It is now read everywhere and by every one. 
 
 Two great moralities are inculcated in this poem. One, a deep moral 
 feeling — Home-love, the very soul of all patriotism, as it was an abiding 
 passion in Goldsmith's heart; the other, a high moral principle of universal 
 truth and application — that man finds his greatest happiness not in any 
 particular region, or under any particular form of government, but in his own 
 mind ; a thought finely expressed by Milton — 
 
 " The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven :" 
 
 and that the worst of ills humanity everywhere endures are to be cured, not by 
 human laws, but by a Divine philosophy that humanity cannot teach. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Dear Sir,— I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from 
 
 the ceremonies of a Dedication ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name 
 
 tc my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was 
 
 formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed 
 
The Traveller. 211 
 
 to vou. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it when the reader understands that it 
 is addressed to a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and 
 obscurity with an income of forty pounds a year. 
 
 I now perceive, my dear brother, tlie wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered 
 upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few ; while \ou 
 have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth 
 carrying away. But, of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from 
 different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame 
 is the wildest. 
 
 Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations ; but in a country verging 
 to the extremes of refinement. Painting and Music come in for a share. As these offer the 
 feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, and at length supplant 
 her ; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and, though but younger sisters, seize 
 upon the elder's birthright.' 
 
 Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in greater danger from 
 the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have not been heard of late 
 in favour of blank verse and Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests, and iambics, alliterative care and 
 happy negligence ! Every absurdity has pow a champion to defend it ; and as he is generally 
 in the wrong, so he has always much to say ; for error is ever talkative. 
 
 But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous — I mean, Party. Party entirely 
 distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this 
 disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the 
 tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the 
 reader who has once gratified his appetite with calumny makes ever after the most agreeable 
 feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who 
 wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify 
 with the name of a poet ; his tawdry lampoons are called satires ; his turbulence is said to be 
 force, and his frenzy fire. 
 
 What reception a poem may find which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to 
 support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing 
 the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to 
 show that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own ; 
 that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be 
 carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these 
 positions are illustrated in this poem. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 1 Elder's hirthright.—'Vnz complaint which Goldsmith (following Dryden) here makes against the sister arts of Music 
 and Painting can scarcely be sustained. They follow the muse of Song to compete with, not to rival— to sustain, not to 
 supplant. The painter and sculptor draw much of their inspiration from the poet, and repay him by presenting his thoughts 
 through the medium of another sense In our days, assuredly, the elder sisters do not engross, though they largely share, the 
 public favour. 
 
 
 
f 
 
 EMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,^ 
 ^^ Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
 /^ Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
 ^S^^>C^ Aorainst the houseless stranger shuts the door ; 
 '"^^^3^^ Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
 ^^^ A weary waste expanding to the skies ; 
 
 J"7 Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
 My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee : 
 Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend! 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair ; 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 
 ' Siow. — Notwithstanding Johnson's contradiction of Goldsmith as to what he meant by this word, 1 am disposed 
 to think the poet really knew what he intended to express by the term " slow " better than the lexicographer. The context 
 is certainly in favour of " tardiness of locomotion," and to modern ears Johnson's interpretation would savour of slang. 
 Probably the Doctor differed from his friend for the pleasure of doing so. 
 
214 Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 And learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 But me, not destined such delights to share, 
 My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; 
 Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue 
 Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view ; 
 That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; 
 My fortune leads to raverse realms alone, 
 And find no spot of all the world my own. 
 
 E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
 I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
 And, placed on high above the storm's career, 
 Look downward where a hundred realms appear; 
 Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. 
 The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 
 
 When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
 Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? 
 Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
 That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
 These little things are great to little man ; 
 And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
 Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
 Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd ; 
 Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
 Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
 Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale ; 
 For me your tributary stores combine : 
 Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine! 
 
 As some lone miser visiting his store, 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ; 
 Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
 Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
 
The Traveller. 2 t 5 
 
 Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
 
 Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies : 
 
 Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
 
 To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
 
 And oft I wish amidst the scene to find 
 
 Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
 
 Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 
 
 May gather bliss to see my fellows blest 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below, 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
 The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease : 
 The naked negro, panting at the line, 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
 Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave. 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
 His first, best country, ever Is at home. 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
 And estimate the blessings which they share, 
 Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
 - An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
 As different good, by Art or Nature given. 
 To different nations makes their blessings even. 
 
 Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
 Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call ; 
 With food as well the peasant is supplied 
 On Idra's cliffs as Arno's sheivy side ; 
 And though the rocky-crested summits frown. 
 These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 
 From Art more various are the blessings sent — 
 Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content ; 
 Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
 That either seems destructive of the rest. 
 
2l6 
 
 CasseWs Ilbistrated Goldsmith. 
 
 As Su.iie lone miser visiting his store, 
 
 Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er. 
 
 Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails ; 
 And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
 Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone, 
 Conforms and models life to that alone ; 
 Each to the favourite happiness attends. 
 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
 Till, carried to excess in each domain. 
 This favourite good begets peculiar pain. 
 
 But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
 And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
 Here for a while, my proper cares resign'd. 
 Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
 Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast. 
 That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 
 
 Far to the right, where Apennlne ascends, 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
 
2i8 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
 Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride ; 
 While oft some temple's mouldering tops between, 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes were found, 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
 These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
 And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
 Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain j 
 Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
 And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
 All evils here contaminate the mind. 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date 
 When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state 
 At her command the palace learnt to rise, 
 Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
 The canvas glow'd, beyond e'en Nature warm. 
 The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
 Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
 While nought remain'd of all that riches gave. 
 But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
 
The Traveller. 219 
 
 And late the nation found with fruitless skill, 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 
 Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind, 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array 'd, 
 The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
 Processions form'd for piety and love, 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguiled; 
 The sports of children satisfy the child ;^ 
 Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 While low delights succeeding fast behind, 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
 As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, 
 Defaced by time, and tottering in decay. 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
 And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 My soul, turn from them ; turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display ; 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
 But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May ; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 
 ' The sports of children satisfy the child. - Prior relates an anecdote, very characteristic of Goldsmith, which gives us 
 the origin of this couplet on his own confession. A friend surprised the poet at his desk, occupied between the intervals of 
 composition in teaching a favourite dog to sit on his haunches " begging." The lines above were just recently written. 
 
220 
 
 CasscWs Illustraied Goldsmith, 
 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast tho' small ; 
 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil ; 
 
 Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, 
 
 Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes ; ^ 
 
 With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 
 
 Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep ; 
 
 Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the wayj, 
 
 And drags the struggling savage into day. 
 
 At night returning, every labour sped 
 
 He sits him down, the monarch of a shed ; 
 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
 
 His children's looks that brighten at the blaze ; 
 
 While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard 
 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
 
 And haply, too, some pilgrim thither led. 
 
 With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
 
 Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
 Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
 And e'en those hills that round his mansion rise, 
 Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
 Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
 And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; 
 And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
 Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
 So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
 But bind him to his native mountains more. 
 
 1 B-'easU the keen air. ^^c.—K similar use of this word is to be found in Siiakespeare : — 
 
 " Breasted 
 The surje most swoln that met \i\m.." — Tetnpcst, Act ii., Scene i. 
 " Breasting the lofty surge." — Henry V., Act iii. 
 
 In some editions " breathes" has been substituted — a corruption that greatly injures the strength and beauty of the- line. 
 
The Traveller. 
 
 221 
 
 May sit, like falcons, cowering on the nest. 
 
 Such are the charms to barren states assign'd ; 
 Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. 
 Yet let them only share the praises due ; 
 If few their wants, their pleasures are but few : 
 For every want that stimulates the breast, 
 Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd ; 
 Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
 That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
 Unknown to them when sensual pleasures cloy, 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
 Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
 Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
 Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
 Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; 
 Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer 
 On some high festival of once a year, 
 In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
 Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 
 
222 Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; 
 Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low : 
 For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
 Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run; 
 And Love's and Friendship's finely-pointed dart 
 Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
 Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
 May sit, like falcons, cowering on the nest ; 
 But all the gentler morals, such as play 
 Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way, 
 These, far dispersed on timorous pinions fly, 
 To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
 
 To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
 I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
 Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please ! 
 How often have I led thy sportive choir. 
 With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! ^ 
 Where shading elms along the margin grew. 
 And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew ; 
 And haply, though my harsh touch faltering still. 
 But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill, 
 Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. 
 And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
 Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
 Have led their children through the mirthful maze; 
 And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore. 
 Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 
 
 So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
 Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
 For honour forms the social temper here. 
 
 • With iutteless pipe beside i/ie /iiurmuri/ig Loire. — Goldsmith describes, under the character of the Philosophic Vagabond 
 in the " Vicar of Wakefield," his wanderings in Flanders and France, winning a night's lodging and food, by his performance 
 «n the flute, from the simple peasants, who "were poor enough to be very merry ; " while "people of fashion," he says, 
 "always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle." 
 
The Traveller. 
 
 223 
 
 Honour, that praise which real merit o-ains 
 
 Ur een imaginary worth obtains, 
 
 Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, 
 
 It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land. 
 
 From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
 
 And all are taught an avarice of praise; 
 
 They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem, 
 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. ' 
 
 But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
 It gives their follies, also, room to rise ; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; " 
 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
 Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
 Here vanity assumes her pert erimace 
 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; 
 Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once a year : 
 The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 
 
 To men of other minds my fancy flics, 
 Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies : 
 Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
 Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
 And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
 Lifts the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
 Onward, methinks, and diligendy slow, 
 The firm connected bulwark seems to grow. 
 Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
 Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore : 
 While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile. 
 Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
 The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale. 
 The willow-tufted bank, the glidino- sail, 
 
2 24 Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 The crowded mart, the cuhivated plain, 
 A new creation rescued from his reign. ^ 
 
 Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
 Impels the native to repeated toil, 
 Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
 And industry begets a love of gain. 
 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
 With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 
 Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts 
 Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
 But view them closer, craft and fraud appear^ 
 E'en liberty itself is barter'd here ; 
 At gold's superior charms, all freedom flies, 
 The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
 A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
 Here wretches seek dishonourable graves. 
 And calmly bent, to servitude conform. 
 Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
 
 Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old! 
 Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
 War in each breast, and freedom on each brow : 
 How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 
 
 Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring \ 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
 There all around the gentlest breezes stray> 
 There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined. 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind. 
 Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,^ 
 With daring aims irregularly great. 
 
 ' A new creation rescued from his reign. — There are few passages to be found in the range of English poetry more 
 condensed, harmonious, and vigorous, than this felicitous description of Holland. 
 
 2 Slern o'er each bosom, <5t--c. — Bosweil tells us that when Dr Johnson was in Oban,he repeated the passage beginning with 
 this line to the end of the paragraph with such energy, that the tear started into his &ys.—Croker's " Boswell," 1839, 
 ■vol. v., p. 85. 
 
The Traveller. 21^ 
 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
 
 IntQnt on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
 
 By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand, 
 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, '■ 
 
 True to imagined right, above control, 
 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan. 
 
 And learns to venerate himself as man. / 
 
 Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, ' 
 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
 Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, 
 But fostered e'en by Freedom, ills annoy : 
 That independence Bntons prize too high, 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie. 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
 Here by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 
 Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
 Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore, 
 Till, over-wrought, the general system feels 
 Its motions stop, or frenzy fires the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay. 
 As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : 
 Till time may come, when stript of all her charms, 
 The land of scholars and the nurse of arms, 
 Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
 Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. 
 
 15 
 
226 CasscU's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
 
 Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; 
 
 And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 
 By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun. 
 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
 
 I only would repress them to secure : 
 
 For just experience tells, in every soil. 
 
 That those who think must govern those who toil ; 
 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
 
 Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
 
 Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
 
 Its double weight must ruin all below. 
 
 Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, 
 Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. 
 Except when fast-approaching danger warms : 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
 Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
 Pillaged from slaves, to purchase slaves at home ; 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart , 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 
 
 Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
 When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 And, thus polluting honour in its source. 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
 Her useful sons exchanq-ed for useless ore; 
 
The Traveller. 227 
 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. 
 Like flaring tapers, brightening as they waste ; 
 Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
 Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
 And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
 \\\ barren, solitary pomp repose ? 
 Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
 The smiling, long-frequented village fall ? 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay d, 
 The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
 Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
 To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around. 
 And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 
 
 E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways. 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
 And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim; 
 There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
 And all around distressful yells arise, 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,^ 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
 And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 
 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind ; 
 Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose. 
 To seek a good each government bestows ? 
 In every government, though terrors reign, 
 Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain. 
 How small, of all that human hearts endure. 
 That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! 
 Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
 Our own felicity we make or find : 
 
 ' To stop too fearful, and too faint /t) ^o — Boswell tells us that this line was written by Dr. Johnson One may well 
 believe the statement. Goldsmith would scarcely have written a line so inharmonious as to produce in the compass of nine 
 word.- the same sound four times. Bo->well states that Johnson marked with a pencil also the concluding ten lines of the poem, 
 except the last couplet but one ; and that the Doctor added — " These are all of which I cau be sure." 
 

 
 ^f^^/^- . ^ Ave 
 
 A^--,. ^>>: 
 
 
 » / 
 
 9r eJwAMl V«S|^^v-^ 
 
 V 
 
 Where beasts^ witK man dividea empire claim, 
 And -he brown Indian marks with muraerous aun. 
 
The Traveller. 
 
 229 
 
 With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
 GHdes the smooth current of domestic joy. 
 The lifted axe, the agonising wheel, 
 Luke's iron crown,^ and Damien's bed of steel,^ 
 To men remoLc from power but rarely known, 
 Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. 
 
 ^Sti^^:i:^:S^£::i^I^:{'-^ an i„s™ion or.He Hun,.ian peasants (called S.ekle.s or 
 they were defeated upon several occasiol by the Veivo V f T T P™'^'^";'^^ '..ng. They committed great cruelties, till 
 and his brother Luke were tak .Hsoners GeorX fr l- '"'J """' ■^°''" ^^P"''"^'' ^^ fi"a"y ^"bdued, when George 
 and a sceptre in his '>and a^of ^edToni- wh f s ,ran:e hi" Iv '°"' "" "'T^ °.7 ^°"^' ^^"'^ ^ "-^•" °" "^^ ''"^ 
 that flowed from them. The horrible tortureTwhich [ «- 7 T'■^°P'="'=d, and Luke was forced to drink the blood 
 
 ....Dosa. The name of Szekle^s bvio^y ;aveti e to :L:^^^^ '\''^ : ""^^^1!^ ^'"^"^'^''^ Universelle." 
 
 remarkable that in the Abbd Brenner's " Histofre delR vnl, ^ ^ „ " ^"^ '''°"'"'' ^^ "^^ "^'"^ "^ ^^^^^k. It is 
 
 called by the name of Szeke'v. Revolutions de Honganes," La Haye, 1739, vol. i. , p. 99, George is 
 
 displi2rS?ri:ri^;:iS'%Sn^'^^^:r;:;!;:rv^ Tr. '- ^t'^',r; ™^" °^ --- -^ --^^ 
 
 with a knife as h was goin^ into his carriage dILph ^' 7"'. ^""'"P'^'^ '^^ ''f"^ °f Louis XV., by wounding him 
 
 plices, but in vain. He was pu^to d a h o'n "he Xh of m' T ' '"' '"' '° ''' '"""-"^ '" '"'^^'^^ ^ "=°"^"^'- °f ^is accom- 
 unHinching firmness. See •■ Luve'le I l^nhie WeSf^ '" ' T""'' '""I^^-"";"^ *° detail, and bore his tortures w.th 
 by the ' bedofsteel"Go,dst,uthn.eLt tu; rack ^"""^^"^' '"''' '^^""^ -t'"- i>av.s, in a letter to Granger, says that 
 
\y 
 
 A PUETIGAL EPiSTLS TO LQRiJ ULAaS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 AMONGST the intimate friends of Goldsmith was one Robert Nugent — ■ 
 an Irishman, jovial, social, and not over refined — -tall, awkward, good- 
 humoured, and bold — possessed of a ready wit and no mean poetical ability. 
 He was for many years an active member of the House of Commons, and on 
 the accession of the Chatham Administration he was raised to the peerage, in 
 1766, as Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, and ten years afterwards created 
 Earl Nugent. The poet passed much time with the peer at his seat at 
 Gosfield Park, in Essex, in unrestrained and joyous intercourse. On one 
 occasion — probably early in 1771 — the peer sent the poet a haunch of venison, 
 and received in return the poem which follows, and which was not published 
 till 1776. 
 
 This charming little piece has done more to preserve the memory of Lord 
 Nugent than either his politics or his poetry. His peerage of Clare is extinct, but 
 the name of the donor of * the haunch of venison ' will be always remembered. 
 
 Lively, graceful, and finished ; harmless in its satire, and comic in its 
 delineations of character, no doubt drawn from the life, it nowhere violates 
 good taste or good feeling. Mr. Croker observes that Goldsmith " ought to 
 have confessed that he borrowed the idea and some of the details from 
 Boileau." Such a confession was needless ; and to whom should it have been 
 made .■* Th^jeu d' esprit was for the eye of a friend, and, when published after 
 his death, it was unnecessary to draw attention to (what every scholar would 
 have recognised) the resemblance to the few lines quoted by Croker, for it goes 
 no farther. 
 
 HANKS, my lord, for your ven'son, for finer or fatter 
 Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter, 
 The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
 Th6 fat M^as so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
 Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting 
 To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
 I had thoughts in my chamber to place it In view, 
 To be shown to my friends as a piece of vertu ; 
 
The Haunck of Veriison. 231 
 
 As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, 
 One gammon of bacon hangs up f^r a show ; 
 But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
 They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
 But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce, 
 This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ? 
 Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 
 But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest in my turn, 
 It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.^ 
 To go on with my tale, as I gazed on the haunch, 
 I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; 
 So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest. 
 To paint it or eat it, just as he liked best. 
 Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : " 
 But in parting with these I was puzzled again. 
 With the how and the who, and the where and the wheiv 
 There's H— d,' and C— y,* and H— rth,^ and H— ff," 
 I think they love ven'son — I know they love beef ; 
 There's my countryman Higgins — oh ! let him alone, 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
 But hang it ! to poets who seldom can eat 
 Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
 Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. 
 It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. 
 While thus I debated, in reverie centred. 
 An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd : 
 An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
 And he smiled as he look'd at the ven'son and me. 
 
 1 Mr. ^^r>/<r.— Michael Byrne, Esq., of Cabinteely, in the county of DubHn ; son of Robert Byrne and Clare, sister of 
 Lord Clare. 
 
 '■^ Monroe's. — Dorothy Monroe, a celebrated beauty of the day. 
 
 ^ ^ ^.—Possibly the Hon. Charles Howard, afterwards tenth duke of Norfolk, one of the literary men of the day. 
 
 * ^ -^.—George Coleman, the celebrated dramatic writer, and lessee of Covent Garden Theatre, and afterwards of the 
 
 Haymarket; born in 1733, and died in 1794. 
 
 * ^ »-//«.— The great painter, William Hogarth, cannot be intended, as he died in 1764. previous to the elevation of 
 
 Nugent to the peerage. Probably the person meant was Dr. John Hawkesworth, well known for hi.'? papers in "The 
 Adventurer," and his tale of " Almoran and Hamet." He was born in 1715, and died in 1773. 
 
 H -ff.—VaxA Hiffernan, a dramatic and periodical writer, born in Dublin in 1719. He was educated for the priest- 
 hood in France, and returned to his native city to practise medicine. He went to London, became known to Garrick and 
 Murphy, and wrote four plays, one of which was successful. He was a man of some genius, but of coarse mind and offensive 
 njanners, led a dissipated and disreputable life, and died in poverty in London, 1777. 
 
232 
 
 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 " What have we got here ? — Why, this Is good eating \ 
 Your own, I suppose, or is it in waiting ?" 
 " Why, whose should it be ?" cried I, with a flounce ; 
 " I get these things often" — but that was a bounce : 
 " Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
 Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 
 
 " If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay, 
 " I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. 
 To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
 iMo words — I insist on't — precisely at three : 
 We'll have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will be where? 
 My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
 And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
 We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. 
 
The Haunch of Venison. 
 
 What say you ? — a pasty, it shall and it must, 
 And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
 Here, porter — this ven'son with me to Mile-end : 
 No stirring, I beg, my dear friend — my dear friend !" 
 Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, 
 And the porter and eatables foUow'd behind. 
 
 Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
 And " nobody with me at sea but myself;" 
 Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
 Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty, 
 Were things that I never disliked in my life. 
 Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
 So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. 
 When come to the place where we all were to dine 
 (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine). 
 My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, 
 With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come !^ 
 *' For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail. 
 The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; 
 But no matter, I'll warrant we make up the party, 
 With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
 The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 
 They're both of them merry, and authors like you ; 
 The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge : 
 Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge." 
 While thus he described them by trade and by name, 
 They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 
 
 At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, 
 At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen ; 
 At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; 
 In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. 
 Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion. 
 And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
 
 ' With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come. — "Goldsmith's p lelry presents one well-known and rjii-.ar.:- 
 able instance of how he appreciated Burke and Johnson. In ' The Haunch of Wnison,' partially an imitation of the 1 h.rJ 
 Satire of Boileau, when Goldsmith came to the P'rench poet's hne announcing the non-arrival of the promised grand guests— 
 
 ' Nous n'avons, m'a-t-il dit, ni Lambert ni Moli'ere '— 
 he put in the place of the original names those of the two supreme objects of his own ^.HxmxsX^avi." —Serjeant Burke'i Li/e oj 
 Edmumi Burke. 
 
2 34 Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, 
 
 While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 
 
 But what vex'd me most, was that d — 'd Scottish rogue, 
 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue ; 
 
 And " Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, 
 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ! 
 
 Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
 
 But I've ate of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." 
 
 ** The tripe !" quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
 
 " I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week • 
 
 I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; 
 
 But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." 
 
 " Oh, ho !" quoth my friend, " he'll come on m a trice, 
 
 He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
 
 There's pasty." — " A pasty !" repeated the Jew; 
 
 " I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 
 
 "What the de'il, mon, a pasty !" re-echoed the Scot; 
 
 " Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." 
 
 " We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
 
 " We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. 
 
 While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd. 
 
 With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ; 
 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright. 
 
 Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. 
 
 But we quickly found out (for who could mistake her ?) 
 
 That she came with some terrible news from the baker : 
 
 And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 
 
 Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
 
 Sad Philomel thus- — but let similes drop — 
 
 And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 
 
 To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced, 
 
 To send such good verses to one of your taste : 
 
 You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning — 
 
 A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 
 
 At least, it's your temper, as very well known, 
 
 That you think very slightly of all that's your own : 
 
 So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss. 
 
 You may make a mistake^ and think slightly of this. 
 

 AT 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 jHIS poen; is invested with more than ordinary interest, for 
 it is the last production of Goldsmith's pen. Written at 
 intervals, during bodily suffering, and Avhile his mind was 
 often ill at ease — left, indeed, unfinished when the hand of 
 Death was laid upon him — it still exhibits his genius in 
 undiminished brightness. Had he not left this composition 
 behind him, posterity could not have formed an adequate estimate 
 of the powers of Goldsmith. Without it we could not have known 
 what a high order of wit, in its truest sense, he possessed ; with what an 
 accurate sense for discriminating character lie was endowed, and with what 
 terse and epigrammatic vigour he could delineate it. The portraits are all 
 drawn with force — some of them with the skill and truth of a master. The 
 strokes of satire, interspersed, are, like boreal lightning, luminous yet 
 innocuous ; and the praise which he bestows, though occasionally of the 
 highest, is never offensive. A gentler vengeance was never inflicted, a 
 kindlier retaliation never administered. 
 
 We cannot better introduce the poem than by transcribing Garrick's 
 account of its origin, first given to the world by Mr. Peter Cunningham in his 
 admirable edition of Goldsmith's works : — 
 
 At a meeting' of a company of gentlemen, who were well known to each other, and 
 diverting themselves, among many other things, with the peculiar oddities of Dr. Cioldsmith, 
 who never would allow a superior in any art, from writing poetry down to dancing a hornpipe, 
 the Doctor with great eagerness in?istcd upon trying his epigrammatic powers with Mr. Garrick, 
 and each of them was to write the other's epitaph. Mr. Garrick immediately said that his 
 epitaph was finished, and spoke the following distich extempore : — 
 
 " Here lies Noi l.Y Goldsmith, for shortness call'd Noll, 
 Who wrote like an angel, but talk'd like poor Poll." 
 
 Goldsmith, upon the company's laughing very heartily, grew very thoughtful, and either 
 would not, or could not, write anytlung at that time ; however, he went to work, and some 
 weeks after produced the following printed poem, called " Retaliation," which has been 
 much admired, and gone through several editions. The publick in general have been 
 mistaken in imagining that this poem was written in anger by the Doctor; it was just the 
 contrary ; the whole on all sides was done with the greatest good humour ; and the following 
 poems in manuscript were written by several of the gentlemen on purpose to provoke the 
 Doctor to an answer, which came forth at last with great credit to him in " RETALIATION." 
 
 D GARRICK [MS.] 
 
 ' The place referred to w.is not the 'Turk's Ho.id," as sometimes supposed, but "St. James's Coffee House," 
 frequented by Addison and Steele ; and, in later times, by Goldsmith, Garrick, and their friends. It was the last house 
 but one on the south-west corner of St. James's Street. It was taken di>wn about 1806, and a large pile of buildings, 
 looking down Pall Mall, erected on its sue. 
 

 
 y. 
 
 >-^ .^ 
 
 ^^:^^0 
 
 
 iri|ToIjO|N:.^i4^ 
 
 ^^'^i^^^^s^s^y 
 
 *3^ 
 
 -2i8» 
 
 F old, when Scarron^ his companions invited, 
 
 Each guest brought h.'s dish, and the feast was united; 
 If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, 
 Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish 
 1^ Our dean^ shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
 
 Our Burke^ shall be tongue, with the garnish cf brains ; 
 
 Our Will* shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour. 
 
 And Dick,^ with his pepper, shall heighten the savour ; 
 
 Our Cumberland's^ sweet-bread its place shall obtain, 
 
 And Douglas^ is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 
 Our Garrick's^ a salad — for in him we see 
 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ; 
 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am. 
 
 That Ridge^ is anchovy, and Reynolds^^ is lamb ; 
 
 ' Scarron. — Paul Scarron, known by the sobriquet of '■ Cul de Jatte," from his deformity, was one of the wittiest writers 
 of comedy in Fr^ince in the seventeenth century Despite of his physical infirmities and suffermgs, he passed through life 
 laughing and making others laugh, and died (1660) with a joke about death on his lips. Goldsmith translated his " Roman 
 Comique. " 
 
 * Our Dean. — Dr. Thomas Barnard, Dean of Derry and a member of the Literary Club. He was a student in Trinity 
 College, Dublin, at the same time as Goldsmith, though it does not appear that they were acquainted there. He was a man 
 of wit and learning, and a great friend of Johnson's, whose rudeness to him, notwithstanding, on one occasion, gave rise to 
 some clever verses of Barnard's. He was afterwards Bishop of Killaloe. and, finally, of Limerick. 
 
 3 Our Burke. — Edmund Burke, the great statesman, then rising high in public estimation as "the first man m tlie 
 Commons." He was an original member of the Literary Club. 
 
 * Our IVtll. — Wilha.aa Burke, a cousin of Edmund's, and a man of considerable learning. He wrote many pieces uf 
 merit both in prose and in verse, some of which, under the signature of " Valens," were attributed to Edmund. He died in 
 1798. See Prior's " Life of Burke. " 
 
 ' And Dick — Richard Burke, a younger brother of Edmund, distinguished as a wit, a politician, a writer and a lawyer, 
 of whom Lord Mansfield had a high opinion. He became one of the Secretaries of State in 1782, and afterwards Recorder of 
 Bristol. He was celebrated for his wit and humour, and used to play off practical jokes on Edmund and other friends. Both 
 his leg and arm were fractured. He died in 1794. 
 
 ^ Our Cumieriaud.— Richard Cumberland, dramatist, novelist, and poet. He accompanied Lord Halifax to Ireland. 
 and was subsequently sent on a mission to Spam. He is now best known by hii memoirs. He was a generous and honourable 
 m.-in, but vain and irritable, and was the original of Sir Fretful Plagiary, in Sheridan's ' Critic " He died in iSi i. 
 
 ' Douglas. — John Douglas, afterwards Bishop of Carlisle, whence he was translated to Salisbury. He was a good 
 scholar, and possessed of taste and a sound, logical understanding. He published an able defence of Milton, against Lauder's 
 charge of plagiary ; a powerful essay, in answer to Hume, on the subject of miracles ; and many miscellaneous works. He 
 died in 1807, 
 
 ^ Our Garrzck.—'Da.vXd Garrick, the greatest histrionic genius that England has produced. To him the Stage owes, i.i 
 a great measure, the restoration of Shakespeare, and its purification from the gross licentiousness which disgraced it from the 
 time ol Charles H. He was for many years manager of Drury Lane ; and besides some farces and prologues, he wrote 
 occasional pieces, songs, and epigrams. He died in 1799. 
 
 ' Rtcige. — John Ridge was called to the Irish Bar m 1762, and retired from practice in 1776. As he disappears from the 
 list of the profession in 177S, I presume that he was then dead. 
 
 "> Reynolds. — Sir Joshua Reynolds, the founder of the English School of Painting, the first President of the Royal 
 Academy, the Romulus of the Literary Club, and the affable host of the celebrated Leicester Square dinners. " One of the 
 most memorable mea uf his time. There was uo more amiable man or delightful companion than Reynolds." When Studying 
 
Rctzliation. 
 
 ^11 
 
 DAVID GAKRICK. 
 
 That Mickey's* a capon, and by the same rule. 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
 At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
 Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
 Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able, 
 Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
 Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
 Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 
 
 Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth, 
 Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : 
 
 in Rome he caught cold, which resulted in permanent deafness, and obliged him to use an ear-trumpet. This, and his habit of 
 taking snuff, are pleasantly alluded to in the last lines that Goldsmith ever wrote. Sir Joshua was a distinguished art-writer, 
 and left fifteen discourses delivered at the Academy, and some contributions to general literature. He died in 1792. 
 
 1 Hickcy. — Thomas Hickey, an Irishman, and an attorney and friend of Goldsmith, at whose expense he v/as ;'-. the 
 habit of indulging his somewhat coarse raillery. He joined Goldsmith at Paris in 1770, and did not fail to bring back some 
 ludicrous stories of the poet. I cannot find his name amongst the Irish practitioners, I presume he was a member of :'io pro- 
 fession in England. 
 
238 
 
 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 If he had any fauhs, he has left us in doubt ; 
 At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out * 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
 That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much ; 
 Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend^ to lend him a vote ; 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. 
 And thought of convincing while they thought of dining : 
 Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
 Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
 For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient, 
 And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
 
 Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint. 
 While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; 
 The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
 His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; 
 Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none : 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 
 
 Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at-, 
 Alas ! that such frolic should now be so quiet -. 
 What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim o 
 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ; 
 Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; 
 Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
 
 ' Tommy Townskend. — "One of the most active of the second-rate politicians, and the great go-between of the 
 attempted alliance between the Chatham and Rockingham Whigs. Tommy Townshend so called, not satirically, but to 
 distinguish him from his father. "—Forster. He sat for Whitchurch, and was afterwards Lord Sidney. 
 
Retaliation. 
 
 239 
 
 In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 
 We wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick; 
 
 But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
 
 As often we wish'd to have Dick back ao-ain. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
 , The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
 
 A flattering painter, who made it his care 
 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
 
 His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,' 
 
 And Comedy wonders at being so fine • 
 
 Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
 
 Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
 
 His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
 
 Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud; 
 And coxcombs alike in their failings alone. 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
 Say where has our poet this malady caught. 
 Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
 Say, was it that, vainly directing his view. 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few. 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
 He grew lazy at last, and drew for himself.? 
 
 Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
 Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. 
 Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
 I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
 Our Dodds^ shall be pious, our Kenricks" shall lecture; 
 Macpherson'^ write bombast, and call it a style. 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; 
 
 ' Our Dodcis.-^\,^ Rev. Wm. Dodd, LL D , a man of learning and eloquence, but without principle or integrity. He 
 was a popular preacher wrote a novel of doubtful morality, pubh.hed numerous compilations, and edited the '• Christian 
 Magazuie. He ended a discreditable life on the gallows, for forgery, on the 24th of February 1 777 
 
 ' Our KeHruks.-m\\.^m Kenrick, a hack-writer of moderate ability and immoderate m'alignity. He a.ssailed Johnson, 
 who treated him with silent contempt ; and attacked Goldsmith on several occasions, in reviews and magazines Bickerstaff 
 describes him as "the vilest miscreant that ever dishonoured a pretension to literature." Boswell says he obtained his 
 u.^ree of LL D, from a Scotch university. " He used to lecture," says Mr. Forster. - on every conceivable subject, from 
 bhakespeare to perpe iial motion." Finally, he took to drinking, destroyed his constitution, and died in 1779 
 
 » Mac/>her,o- - lames Macpherson, the author of the poems of Ossian, of a prose translation of the " Ili.id " of Homer 
 
240 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 Kew Lauders^ and Bowers" the Tweed shall cross over, 
 No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
 And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. 
 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man • 
 As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; 
 
 and other work?;. Dr. Johnson denounced the former to be " as gross an imposition as ever the world was troubled with." 
 Macpherson wrote an angry letter ; and Johnson, in reply, called him a cheat and a ruffian. Macpherson never produced 
 the Ossian MSS , and the authenticity of the poems is still an unsettled question. He died in 1796. 
 
 ' Landers. — William Lauder, a Scotchman, who is now remembered only for his attack upon Milton, whom he accused 
 of plagiarisms. Dr. Douglas, in his defence of Milton, convicted Lauder of forgery and imposture in his quotations, who was 
 forced by Dr Johnson to subscribe a confession, which was published. Lauder lost character, was ruined and despised, and 
 went to Barbadoes, where he died in 1771. 
 
 * Bowers.— kxchXbsSA Bower, Scotch Roman Catholic. He entered, as a noviciate, the Order of Jesuits, at Roma : 
 became a professor, at Macerata ; and after various adventures came to England, was introduced to Clarke and 
 Berkeley, and conformed to the Church of England. L ird Lyttleton gave him the custody of his sons, and he wrote for the 
 booksellers. He rejoined the Jesuits, and again left the.n. His principal work was a history of the Popes. He died in 1766, 
 
Retaliation. 241 
 
 Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
 
 The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
 
 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 
 He turned and he varied full ten times a day ; 
 
 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, 
 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
 
 He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, 
 
 For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them back. 
 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came. 
 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. 
 
 Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
 
 But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
 
 If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 
 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,^ and Woodfalls," so grave, 
 
 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! 
 
 How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
 
 While he was be-Roscius'd and you were be-praised ! 
 
 But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 
 To act as an angel, and mix with the skies : 
 
 Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, • 
 
 Shall still be his flatterers, eo where he will : 
 
 Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, 
 
 And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature. 
 And slander itself must allow him Qfood-nature : 
 He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper. 
 Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper ! 
 Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
 I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. 
 
 ' I'l? Kellys. — Hugh Kelly, an Irishman, who went to London, and took to writing for periodicals. Garrick patronised 
 him, and under his auspices he produced his first comedy. " False Delicacy, ' which was very successful. " A Vv'^.J to the 
 AVise" (for which, after his death, Johnson wrote a prologuei, "Clementina," "The School for Wives," and other pieces, 
 were written by him. He was called to the Bar in 1774, and was making rapid proficiency, when he died, after a short illness, 
 m 1777. 
 
 2 Wood/alls.— V^\\!i\2Lm. Woodfall, the printer of "Junius's Letters" in the Public Advertiser, and subsequently 
 proprietor and editor of the Morning Chronicle. He died in 1803. 
 
 16 
 
242 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 
 His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
 
 Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
 
 And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! 
 
 Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye. 
 
 He was — could he help it ? — a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; 
 Still born to improve us in every part. 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
 When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing! 
 When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE. 
 
 MIDST the clamour of exulting joys. 
 
 Which triumph forces from the patriot heart. 
 Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice. 
 
 And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 
 
 O Wolfe ! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 
 
 Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; 
 
 Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
 While thy sad fate extorts the heart- wrung tear. 
 
 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, 
 
 And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes ; 
 
 Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead. 
 Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 
 
An Elegy. 24^ 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 
 ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLATZE. 
 
 00 D people all, with one accord, 
 Lament for Madam Blaize, 
 
 Who never wanted a good word, 
 
 From those who spoke her praise. 
 
 The needy seldom pass'd the door, 
 
 And always found her kind • 
 She freely lent to all the poor,— 
 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighbourhood to please, 
 
 With manners wondrous winnino- ; 
 And never follow'd wicked ways, 
 
 Unless when she was sinnino-. 
 
 At church ifi silks and satins new, 
 
 With hoop of monstrous size, 
 She never slumber'd in her pew, 
 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver, , ' 
 
 By twenty beaux and more ; 
 The king himself has follow'd her,— 7 
 
 When she has walk'd before. 
 
 But now her wealth and finery fled, 
 
 Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
 The doctors found, when she was dead, 
 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 
 ,., ^^^ ^^"^t Street well may say, 
 Thar had she lived a twelvemonth more- 
 She had not died to-day. 
 
244 
 
 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 K HIDBIGIL. 
 
 KEEPING, murmuring, complaining, 
 Lost to every gay delight ; 
 Mira, too sincere for feigning, 
 Fears th' approaching bridal night. 
 
 Yet why impair thy bright perfection, 
 
 Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 
 Had Mira follow'd my direction, 
 
 She long had wanted cause of fear. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 WHATEVER be the relative merits of the two Comedies that Goldsmith has left us— 
 and each has its advocates for the superiority — there is no doubt that "She Stoops to 
 Conquer" is that upon which his character as a dramatic writer most securely rests. It was 
 produced for the first time on the 15th of March, 1773, at Covent Garden ; was received with 
 a heartiness of applause that carried everything — even the solitary hiss of an envious enemy — 
 beforeit, and secured its triumph — a triumph that was nightly renewed till the end of the season. 
 The main incident in the piece, round which all the others revolve, is the mistaking Squire 
 Hardcastle's house for a country inn, an idea suggested by a joke played off on Goldsmith in 
 his sixteenth year by a wag in Ardagh, who directed him to Squire Fetherstone's, as the village 
 inn, where the joke was humoured and undiscovered till night. The play is full of broad, 
 farcical humour, relieved with some passages of a sentimental nature ; and, with one or two 
 exceptions, there is no violation of decorum. Tony Lumpkin is a character sui generis; one 
 that has come to have an individual reality, as well known to us as " Bob Acres" or "Scrub." 
 Old Hardcastle, with all his old-fashioned whimsicalities, is true to nature — overdrawn just 
 enough for stage effect ; and the extravagances of his wife are highly entertaining. There is 
 a constant vivacity in the dialogue that amuses, and a frequent recurrence of the ludicrous, 
 which is irresistibly provocative of laughter, and makes us feel the truth of Dr. Johnson's 
 criticism : " I know no comedv, for many years, that has so much exhilarated an audience j 
 that has answered so much the great end of comedy^ making an audience merry." 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 Sir Charles Marlow. 
 Young Marlow (his son). 
 Hardcastle. 
 Hastings. 
 Tony Lumpkin. 
 
 DlGGORY. 
 
 Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 Miss Hardcastle. 
 Miss Neville. 
 Maid. 
 
 Landlord, Servants, «Scc. &c. 
 
c*" 
 
 
 
 
 
 /^ 
 
 -^THS 1 MISTAKES^ OF (i ^NIGHTy^ 
 
 ~^^^^;^"^'^^|^^^^.^^c3^^^ 
 
 ACT L 
 
 SCENE I. — A scene in an old-fashioned house. 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a 
 creature in the whole country, but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town 
 now and then to rub off the rust a little .'' There's the two Miss Hoggs, and 
 our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. 
 
 Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole 
 year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, 
 the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a 
 stage-coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as inside passengers, but in the 
 very basket. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ky, yotcr times were fine times, indeed ; you have been telling 
 us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, 
 that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our 
 best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the 
 lame dancing-master ; and all our entertainment, your old stories of Prince 
 Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 
 
 Hard. And I love it. I love everything that's old : old friends, old times, 
 old manners, old books, old wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy {taking her hand), 
 you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys, and your 
 old wives. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so 
 old as you'd make me, by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, 
 and make money of that. 
 
 Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, makes just fifty and seven. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle : I was but twenty when Tony, that 
 I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband, was born ; and he's not come to years 
 of discretion yet. 
 
 Hard, Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him 
 finely. 
 
248 Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. No matter, Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not 
 to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend 
 fifteen hundred a year. 
 
 Hard. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition of tricks and mischief. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear : nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hard- 
 castle, you must allow the boy a little humour. 
 
 Hard. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footman's shoes, 
 frighting the maids, worrying the kittens— be humour, he has it. It was but 
 yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to 
 make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame .'' The poor boy was always too sickly to 
 do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little 
 stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him ? 
 
 Hard. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, no, the ale-house and the 
 stable are the only schools he'll ever go to. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I believe we 
 shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he's 
 consumptive. 
 
 Hard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms. 
 
 JlTrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes. 
 
 Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 
 
 Hard. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet. 
 
 — (Tony hallooing behind the scenes) — Oh, there he goes — a very consumptive 
 
 figure, truly. 
 
 Enter ToNY, crossing the stage. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer } Won't you give 
 papa and me a little of your company, lovee t 
 
 Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear ; you look 
 most shockingly. 
 
 Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every 
 moment. There's some fun going forward. 
 
 Hard. Ay ; the ale-house, the old place : I thought so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows. 
 
 Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman. Jack 
 Slang the horse-doctor, little Aminadab that grinds the music-box, and Tom 
 Twist that spins the pewter platter. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at least. 
 
 Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind ; but I can't 
 abide to disappoint myself. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Detaining him) You shan't go. 
 
 Tojiy. I will, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't. 
 
2 5^ CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or I ! 
 
 {Exit, haiding her out.) 
 Hardcastle, solus. 
 
 Hard. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the 
 whole age in a combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors? There's 
 my pretty darling Kate; the fashions of the times have almost infected her too. 
 By living a year or two in town, she is as fond of gauze, and French frippery, as 
 the best of them. 
 
 Efiter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! Drest out as usual, my Kate. 
 Goodness ! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! 
 I could never teach the fools of this age that the indigent world could be 
 clothed out of the trimmings of the vain. 
 
 Miss Hard. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the morning to 
 receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening, I 
 put on my housewife's dress to please you. 
 
 Hard. Well, remember I insist on the terms of our agreement; and, by the 
 bye, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning. 
 
 Hard. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young gentleman I 
 have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I have his father's 
 letter, in which he informs me Jiis son is set out, and that he intends to follow 
 himself shortly after. 
 
 Miss Hard. Indeed \ I wish I had known something of this before. Bless 
 me, how shall I behave .'' It's a thousand to one I shan't like him; our meeting 
 wall be so formal, and so like a thing of business, that I shall find no room for 
 friendship or esteem. 
 
 Hard. Depend upon it, child, I'll never control your choice ; but Mr. 
 Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend. Sir Charles 
 Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young gentleman has 
 been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in the service of his 
 country. I am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. 
 
 Miss Hard. Is he .? 
 
 Hard. Very generous. 
 
 Miss Hard. I believe I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. Young and brave. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure I shall like him. 
 
 Hard. And very handsome. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, say no more {kissing his hand) ; he's mine, I'll 
 have him ! 
 
 Hard. And to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and reserved 
 young fellows in all the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. Eh ! you have frozen me to death again. That word reserved 
 
She Stoops to Conquer 251 
 
 has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, 
 always makes a suspicious husband. 
 
 Hard. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that is not 
 enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his character that first 
 struck me. 
 
 Miss Hard. He must have more striking features to catch me, I promise 
 you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so everything, as you 
 mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll have him. 
 
 Hard. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more thaH an even 
 wager, he may not ha.vej/ou. 
 
 Miss Hard. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so t Well, if he 
 refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my 
 glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and look out for some 
 less difficult admirer. 
 
 Hard. Bravely resolved ! In the meantime I'll go prepare the servants for 
 his reception ; as we seldom see company, they want as much training as a 
 company of recruits the first day's muster. {Exit) 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, sola. 
 
 Miss Hard. This news of papa's puts me all in a flutter. Young — hand- 
 some : these he puts last ; but I put them foremost. Sensible — good-natured : 
 I like all that. But then — reserved, and sheepish : that's much against him. 
 Yet, can't he be cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife } 
 Y"es; and can't I — But, I vow, I'm disposing of the husband, before I have 
 secured the lover. 
 
 Enter MiSS NEVILLE. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me, Constance : 
 how do I look this evening } Is there anything whimsical about me.'' Is it one 
 of my well-looking days, child .'' Am I in face to-day ? 
 
 Miss Nev. Perfectly, my dear. Yet, now I look again — bless me ! — sure no 
 accident has happened among the canary birds, or the gold fishes. Has your 
 brother or the cat been meddling .-' Or, has the last novel been too moving ? 
 
 Miss Hard. No ; nothing of all this. I have been threatened — I can 
 scarce get it out — I have been threatened with a lover. 
 
 Miss Nev. And his name 
 
 Miss Hard. Is Marlow. 
 
 Miss Nev. Indeed ! 
 
 Miss Hard. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 Miss Nev. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my admirer. 
 They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him when we lived in 
 town. 
 
 Miss Hard. Never. 
 
 ATiss Nev. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among women of 
 reputation and virtue, he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give 
 
252 Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 him a very different character among creatures of another stamp: you under- 
 stand me. 
 
 Miss Hard. An odd character, indeed. I shall never be able to manage 
 him. What shall I do ? Tshaw, think no more of him, but trust to occurrences 
 for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear .-• Has my mother been 
 courting you for my brother Tony, as usual .'' ' 
 
 Miss Nev. I have just come from one of our agreeable tete-a-tetes. She 
 has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as 
 the very pink of perfection. 
 
 Miss Hard. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A 
 fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole manage- 
 ment of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. 
 
 Miss Nev. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such 
 mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I 
 make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that 
 I am in love with her son, and she never once dreams that my affections are 
 fixed upon another. ... 
 
 Miss Hard. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him 
 for hating you so. 
 
 Miss Nev. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm sure would 
 wish to see me married to anybody but himself But my aunt's bell rings for 
 ""our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allons ! Courage is necessary, 
 as our affairs are critical. 
 
 Miss Hard. Would it were bed-time, and all were well. {Exeunt) 
 
 SCENE II. — An ale-house room. Several shabby Fellows, with punch and tobacco. 
 Tony at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest: a mallet in his 
 hand. ' ' . 
 
 Onines. Hurrea, hurrea, hurrea, bravo ! 
 
 I Fel. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'squire is going to knock 
 
 himself down for a song. 
 
 Ouines. Ay, a song, a song ! 
 
 Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this ale-house, 
 
 the Three Pigeons. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, 
 
 With grammar, and nonsense, and learning*, 
 Good liquor, 1 stoutly maintam, 
 
 Gives ^/';7i/j a better discerning. 
 Let them brag of their heathenish gods, 
 
 Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians; 
 Their qu'is, and their quaes, and their quods. 
 
 They're all but iS. parcel of pigeons. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 253 
 
 When Methodist preachers come down, 
 
 A preaching that drinking is sinful, 
 I'll wager the rascals a crowrt, 
 
 .Thev always preach best w"ith a skin-full. 
 But when you come down with your pence. 
 
 For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
 I'll leave it to all men of sense, 
 
 But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, torolL 
 
 Then come, put the jorum about, 
 
 And let us be merry and clever; 
 Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 
 
 Here's the Three jolly Pigeons for ever'. 
 Let some cry up woodcock or hare. 
 
 Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons-, 
 But of all the birds in the air, 
 
 Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons ! 
 
 Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 
 
 Omncs. Bravo ! bravo ! 
 
 1 Fel. The 'squire has got spunk in him. 
 
 2 Fet. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that's low. 
 
 3 Fel. Oh, nothing that's low, I cannot bear it. 
 
 4 Fel. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time. If so be that a 
 gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. 
 
 3 FeL I like the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What though I am 
 obligated to dance a bear .? a man may be a gentleman for all that. May this 
 be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes ; 
 "Water parted," or " The minuet in Ariadne." 
 
 2 FeL What a pity it is the 'squire is not come to his own ! It would be 
 well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd then show what it was to 
 keep choice of company. 
 
 2 FeL Oh, he takes after his own father for that. To be sure, old 'squire 
 Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding the 
 straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, he never had his fellow. It was 
 a saying in the place, that he kept the best horses and dogs in the whole 
 county. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age I'll be my father's son, I promise you ! 
 I have been thinking of Bet Bouncer, and the miller's grey mare to begin with. 
 But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckoning.— 
 Well, Stingo, what's the matter ? 
 
 Enter LANDLORD. 
 Lanel. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They have 
 lost their way upo' the forest ; and they are talking something about Mr. Hard- 
 castle. 
 
2 54 CasselV s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's coming 
 down to court my sister. Do they .seem to be Londoners ? 
 
 Land. I beHeve they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen. 
 
 Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a 
 twinkling. {Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough 
 company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you in the squeezing 
 of a lemon. {Exeunt mob.) 
 
 Tony, solns. 
 
 Tony. Father-in-law has been calling me whelp, and hound, this half year. 
 Now if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But 
 then I'm afraid — afraid of what } I shall soon be worth fifteen hundred a year, 
 and let him frighten me out of that if he can. 
 
 Enter LANDLORD conducting Marlow attd HASTINGS. 
 
 Marl. What a tedious, uncomfortable day have we had of it ! We were 
 told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above three- 
 score. 
 
 Hast. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours, that 
 would not let us inquire more frequently on the way. 
 
 Marl. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an obligation 
 to every one I meet : and often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 
 
 Hast. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any answer. 
 
 To7iy. No offence, gentlemen ; but I'm told you have been inquiring for one 
 Mr. Hardcastle, in those parts. Do you know what part of the country you are in "i 
 
 Hast. Not in the least, sir ; but should thank you for information. 
 
 Tony. Nor the way you came .-* 
 
 Hast. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 
 
 Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor 
 where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, 
 that — you have lost your way. 
 
 Marl. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 
 
 Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask the place from whence 
 you came ? 
 
 Marl. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go. 
 
 Tony. No offence ; tgat question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, 
 gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical 
 fellow with an ugly face ; a daughter, and a pretty son .'' 
 
 Hast. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he has the family you 
 mention. 
 
 Tony. The daughter, a tall trapesing, trolloping, talkative May-pole. The 
 son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of 
 
 Marl Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well- 
 bred and beautiful ; the son an awkward booby, reared up, and spoiled at his 
 mother's apron-string. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 255 
 
 Tony. He-he-hem ! Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you 
 won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe. 
 
 Hast. Unfortunate ! 
 
 Tony. It's a long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the 
 gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's {winking- upon the landlord)', Mr. 
 Hardcastle's of Quagmire Marsh ; you understand me. 
 
 Land. Master Hardcastle's ? Lack-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a 
 deadly deal wrong ! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should 
 have crossed down Squash Lane. 
 
 Marl. Cross down Squash Lane } 
 
 Land. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to four roads. 
 
 Marl. Come to where four roads meet ! 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one of them. 
 
 Marl. Oh, sir, you're facetious. 
 
 Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come 
 upon Crack-skull Common : there you must look sharp for the track of the 
 wheel, and go forward, till you come to farmer Murrain's barn. Coming to the 
 farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the left, and then to the 
 right-about again, till you find out the old mill 
 
 Marl Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out the longitude ! 
 
 Hast, What's to be done, Marlow ? 
 
 Marl. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the land- 
 lord can accommodate us. 
 
 Land. Alack ! master, we have but one spare bed in the whole house. 
 
 Tony. And, to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already 
 {After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted) I have hit it. Don't you 
 think. Stingo, our landlady would accommodate the gentlemen by the fire-side, 
 with — three chairs and a bolster .'' 
 
 Hast. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 
 
 Marl. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster. 
 
 To7iy. You do, do you .'' Then let me see — what if you go on a mile 
 further, to the Buck's Head ; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best 
 inns in the whole county .'* 
 
 Hast. Oh, ho ! so we have escaped an adventure for this night, however. 
 
 Land. {Apart to Tony) Sure, you ben't sending them to your father's as 
 an inn, be you .<* 
 
 Tony. Mum, you fool you! Let tlLcni find that out. {To them) — You have 
 only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old house by the road- 
 side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's the sign. Drive 
 up the yard, and call stoutly about you. 
 
 Hast. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the way. 
 
 To7iy. No, no. But I tell you, though, the landlord is rich and going to 
 leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, 
 he ! he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company, and ecod, if you mind him, 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 
 
 '57 
 
 Hardcastle. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching you these three days. 
 
 Act II. Scene I. 
 
 he'll persuade you that his mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of 
 peace. 
 
 Land. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but a keeps as good wines 
 and beds as any in the whole country. 
 
 Marl. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no further connec- 
 tion. We are to turn to the right, did you say } 
 
 Tony. No, no ; straight forward. I'll just step myself, and show }'ou a 
 piece of the way. (To the landlord.) Mum, 
 
 Land. Ah, you are a sweet, pleasant=»-mischievous humbug. {Exeunt^ 
 
 ICT IL 
 
 SCENE I. — An old-fashioned house. 
 
 Enter }iiART>CAS>i:'LE, followed I?y three or four aivkward Servants. 
 
 Hard. Well, I hopeyou're perfect in the table exercise I have been teaching 
 you these three days. You all know your posts and your places ; and can show 
 that you have been used to good company, without ever stirring from home. 
 
 f7 
 
258 Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Omnes. Ay, ay. 
 
 Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then 
 run in again, like frighted rabbits in a warren. 
 
 Omnes. No, no. 
 
 Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a 
 show at the side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the 
 plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, 
 with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger ; 
 and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. 
 They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. 
 
 Digg. Ay ; mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, 
 when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill 
 
 Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be all attention 
 to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see 
 us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of 
 eating. 
 
 Digg. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible. Whenever 
 Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a mouthful 
 himself 
 
 Hard. Blockhead ! is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as a belly-full 
 in the parlour .'' Stay your stomach with that reflection. 
 
 Digg. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay my stomach 
 with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. 
 
 Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if I happen to say a good 
 thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if 
 you made part of the company. 
 
 Digg. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell the story of Ould Grouse in 
 the gun-room : I can't help laughing at that — he ! he ! he! — for the soul of me. 
 We have laughed at that these twenty years — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, 
 you may laugh at that — but still remember to be attentive. Suppose 
 one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave ? 
 A glass of wine, sir, if you please. (To DiGGORY) — Eh, why don't you 
 move \ 
 
 Digg. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and 
 drinkables brought upon the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. 
 
 Hard. What, will nobody move .'' 
 
 1 Serv. I'm not to leave this pleace. 
 
 2 Scrv. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine. 
 
 3 Scrv. Nor mine, for sartain. 
 
 Digg. Wauns, and I'm sure, it canna be mine. 
 
 Hard. You numsculls ! and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling 
 for places, the guests must be starved. Oh, you dunces ! I find I must begin 
 all over again. But don't I hear a coach drive into the yard "i To your 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 2^<^ 
 
 posts, you blockheads ! I'll go in the meantime, and give my old friend's son a 
 hearty reception at the gate. {Exit HardcaSTLE.) 
 
 Digg. By the elevens, my pleace is gone quite out of my head. 
 
 Roger. I know that my pleace is to be everywhere. 
 
 1 Serv. Where is mine } 
 
 2 Serv. My pleace is to be nowhere at all ; and so I'ze go about my 
 business. {Exeunt Servants, running about as if frighte7icd, different ways.) 
 
 Enter Servant ivith candles, shozvijig in Marlow and Hastings. 
 Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way. 
 Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, 
 to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well- 
 looking house ; antique, but creditable. 
 
 Marl. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master 
 by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. 
 
 Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these fineries. 
 I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not 
 actually put in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly 
 
 Majd. Travellers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is, 
 that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries ; in bad inns you are fleeced and 
 starved. 
 
 Hast. You have lived very much among them. In truth, I have been 
 often surprised, that you, who have seen so much of the world, with your 
 natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a 
 requisite share of assurance. 
 
 Ma}'l The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George, where could I have 
 learned that assurance you talk of.? My life has been chiefly spent in a 
 college, or an inn ; in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that'chiefly 
 teach men confidence. I don't know that I was ever familiarly acquainted with 
 a single modest woman — except my mother. 
 
 Hast. In the company of women of reputation, I never saw such an idiot, 
 such a trembler: you look, for all the world, as if you wanted an opportunity of 
 stealing out of the room. 
 
 Ma7-l. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the room ! I 
 have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. 
 But I don't know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally 
 overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counterfeit modesty ; but I'll 
 be hanged if a modest man can ever counterfeit impudence. 
 
 Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I have heard 
 you lavish upon the barmaid of an inn. 
 
 Marl Why, George, I can't say fine things to them. They freeze, they 
 petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such 
 bagatelle : but to me, a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is the most 
 tremendous object of the whole creation. 
 
26o CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Hast. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to 
 marry ? 
 
 Marl. Never, unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be 
 courted by proxy. If, indeed, Hke an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be 
 introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go 
 through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the episode of aunts, 
 grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the broad-star question of — 
 Madam, will you marry me ? No, no ; that's a strain much above me, I assure 
 you. 
 
 Hasf. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you are 
 come down to visit at the request of your father } 
 
 Marl. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very low ; answer yes, or no, to 
 all her demands. But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to look in her 
 face, till I see my father's again. 
 
 Hast. I am surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so cool a 
 lover. 
 
 Marl. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was to 
 be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves 
 you ; the family don't know you ; as my friend you are sure of a reception, and 
 let honour do the rest. 
 
 Hast. My dear Marlow ! — But I'll suppress the emotion. \Vere I a wretch, 
 meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world 
 I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's person is all I ask ; and 
 that is mine, both from her deceased father's consent, and her own inclination.. 
 
 Marl, Happy man ! You have talents and art to captivate any woman. 
 I am doomed to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I 
 despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward prepossessing visage 
 of mine, can never permit me to soar Pshaw ! this fellow here to interrupt 
 
 us. 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. 
 Marlow .-' Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to receive my 
 friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception, in the 
 old style, at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks taken care of. 
 
 Marl. [Aside.) He has got our names from the servants already, ( To him) 
 — We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. {To HASTINGS) — I have been 
 thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am 
 grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. 
 
 Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. 
 
 Hast. I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first blow is half the battle. I 
 intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. 
 
 Hard. Mr, Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentlemen — pray be underno restraint 
 in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please 
 here. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 
 
 261 
 
 Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when he went to 
 besiege Denain. He first fummoned the garrison Act II. Scene 1. 
 
 Marl. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may 
 want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure 
 a retreat. 
 
 Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the Duke 
 of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the 
 garrison 
 
 Marl. Don't you think the z/^«/?r^^'<?r waistcoat wiH do with the plain brown ? 
 
 Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five 
 thousand men 
 
 Hast. I think not : brown and yellow mix but very poorly. 
 
 Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, 
 which might consist of about five thousand men 
 
 Marl. The girls like finery. 
 
 Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed 
 with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of 
 Marlborough to George Brooks that stood next to him — you must have heard 
 of George Brooks — " I'll pawn my dukedom," says he, " but I'll take that 
 garrison, without spilling a drop of blood." So 
 
 Marl. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the mean- 
 time .'' It would help us to carry on the siege with vigour. 
 
262 CasselVs Illustrated Golds^nith. 
 
 Hard. Punch, sir! {Aside) — This is the most unaccountable kind of 
 modesty I ever met with. 
 
 Marl. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch,' after our journey, will be 
 comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know. 
 
 Hard. Here's a cup, sir. 
 
 Marl. {Aside) So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let us have just 
 what he pleases. 
 
 Hard. ( Taking the cup) I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have pre- 
 pared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are 
 tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir } Here, Mr. Marlow, here 
 is to our better acquaintance. {Drinks.) 
 
 Marl {Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ! but he's a character, and I'll 
 humour him a little. {To hhn) — Sir, my service to you. {Drinks) 
 
 Hast. {Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and forgets 
 that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a gentleman. 
 
 Marl. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have 
 a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, 
 at elections, I suppose. 
 
 Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have 
 hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there's no business _/"^r lis that sell 
 ale. 
 
 Hast. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find. 
 
 Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted myself about 
 the mistakes of Government, like other people ; but, finding myself every day 
 grow more angry, and the Government growing no better, I left it to mend 
 itself Since that, I no more trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally 
 Catvn, than about Ally Croker. — Sir, my service to you. 
 
 Hast. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below ; with receiving 
 your friends within, and amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, 
 bustling life of it. 
 
 Hard. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the differences of 
 the parish are adjusted in this very parlour. 
 
 Marl. {After drinking) And you have an argument in your cup, old gentle- 
 man, better than any in Westminster Hall. 
 
 Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. 
 
 Marl. {Aside) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an innkeeper's 
 philosophy ! 
 
 Hast. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every 
 quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with >cur 
 philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this.— 
 Here's your health, my philosopher. {Drinks) 
 
 Ha7'd. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! Your generalship puts me 
 in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. 
 You shall hear. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 263 
 
 Marl. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk 
 about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper ? 
 
 Hard. For supper, sir ! {Aside)— ^z.?, ever such a request to a man in his 
 own house ? 
 
 Marl. Yes, sir; supper, sir: I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make sad 
 work to-night in the larder, I promi.se you. 
 
 Hard. {Aside) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. {To him) 
 — Why, really, sir, as for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook- 
 maid settle these things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely 
 to them. 
 
 Marl You do, do you } 
 
 Hard. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation, 
 upon what's for supper, this moment in the kitchen. 
 
 Marl Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a way 
 I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let 
 the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir. 
 
 Hard. Oh, no, sir, none in the least ; yet I don't know how, our Bridget, 
 the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we 
 send for her, she might scold us all out of the house. 
 
 Hast. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favour. I always 
 match my appetite to my bill of fare. 
 
 Marl { To Hardcastle, %vho looks at them with surprise.) Sir, he's very 
 right, and it's my way too. 
 
 Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the 
 bill of fare for to-night's supper. I believe it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr. 
 Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle. Colonel Wallop. It was a saying 
 of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it. 
 
 Hast. {Aside.) All upon the high ropes ! His uncle a colonel ! we shall 
 soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the bill 
 of fare. 
 
 Marl {Perusing.) What's here t For the first course ; for the second 
 course ; for the dessert. Sir, do you think we have brought down the whole 
 joiners' company, or the corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a supper.' Two 
 or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do. 
 Hast. But let's hear it. 
 
 Marl {Reading) For the first course at the top, a pig and prunesauce. 
 Hast. I hate your pig, I say. 
 Marl And I hate your prunesauce, say I. 
 
 Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prunesauce, 
 is very good eating. 
 
 Marl At the bottom, a calf's tongue and brains. 
 
 Hast Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir ; I don't like them. 
 
 Marl Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. I do. 
 
 Hard. {Aside) Their impudence confounds me. {To them) — Gentlemen, 
 
264 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is there anything else 
 you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen ? 
 
 Marl. Item, a pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a florentine, a 
 shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff — taff — taffety cream ! 
 
 Hasft. Confound your made dishes ! I shall be as much at a loss in this 
 house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm 
 for plain eating. 
 
 Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like ; but if there be 
 anything you have a particular fancy to 
 
 Marl. Why, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one part of it is 
 full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much for supper : and 
 now to see that our beds are aired and properly taken care of. 
 
 Hard. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. 
 
 Marl. Leave that to you } I protest, sir, you must excuse me ; I always 
 look to these things myself. 
 
 Hard. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head. 
 
 Marl. You see I'm resolved on it. {Aside) — A very troublesome fellow 
 this, as ever I met with. 
 
 Hard. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. {Aside) — This may 
 be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so like old-fashioned 
 impudence. {Exeunt MARL, and Hard.) 
 
 Hastings, solus. 
 
 Hast. So I find, this fellow's civilities begin to grow troublesome. But who 
 can be angry at these assiduities, which are meant to please him ? Ha ! v/hat 
 do I see } Miss Neville, by all that's happy ! 
 
 Enter Miss Neville. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear Hastings ! To what unexpected good fortune, to what 
 accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting .'' 
 
 Hast. Rather, let me ask the same question, as I could never have hoped 
 to meet my dear Constance at an inn. 
 
 Miss Nev. An inn ! sure you mistake ! my aunt, my guardian, lives here. 
 What could induce you to think this house an inn .'' 
 
 Hast. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have been 
 sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we accidentally 
 met at a house hard by, directed us hither. 
 
 Miss Nev. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's tricks, of whom 
 you have heard me talk so often, ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hast. He whom your aunt intends for you .-' He of whom I have such 
 just apprehensions ? 
 
 Miss Nev. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You'd adore 
 him, if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has 
 undertaken to court me for him ; and actually begins to think she has made a 
 conquest. 
 
266 Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Hast. Thou dear dissembler! You must know, my Constance, I have just 
 seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here, to get admittance into 
 the family. The horses that parried us down are now fatigued with their 
 journey; but they'll soon be refreshed ; and then, if my dearest girl will trust 
 in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France; where, even among 
 slaves, the laws of marriage are respected. 
 
 Miss Nev. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I yet 
 should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The greatest \ t of it 
 was left me by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly consists in jewels. I 
 have been for some time persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I 
 am very near succeeding. The instant they are put into my possession, you 
 shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. 
 
 Hast. Perish the baubles! Your person is all I desire. In the meantime, 
 my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake ; I know the strange reserve 
 of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of it, he would instantly quit 
 the house, before our plan was ripe for execution. 
 
 Miss Nev. But how shall we keep him in the deception .-* Miss Hardcastle 
 is just returned from walking ; what if we still continue to deceive him .'* This, 
 this way. i^T hey confer.) 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marl. The assiduities of these good people tease me beyond bearing. My 
 host seems co think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only 
 himself, but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They talk of coming to sup 
 with us too ; and then, I suppose, we are to run the gauntlet through all the 
 rest of the family. What have we got here .-' 
 
 Hast. My dear Charles I Let m^ congratulate you I The most fortunate 
 accident I Who do you think is just alighted ? 
 
 Marl. Cannot guess. 
 
 Hast. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville. Give me 
 leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening 
 to dine in the neighbourhood, they called, on their return, to take fresh horses 
 here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept into the next room, and will be back 
 in an instant. Wasn't it lucky, eh .>' 
 
 Marl. (Aside.) I have just been mortified enough of all conscience, and 
 here comes something to complete my embarrassment. 
 
 Hast. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world ? 
 
 Marl. Oh! yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful encounter. But our 
 dresses, George, you know, are in disorder. What if we should postpone the 
 happiness till to-morrow .'' To-morrow, at her own house ; it will be every bit 
 as convenient, and rather more respectful. To-morrow let it be. 
 
 {Offering to go) 
 
 Miss Nev. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her. The 
 disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your impatience ; besides, she 
 knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see her. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 267 
 
 Marl Oh ! how shall I support it ? Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must 
 not go. You are to assist me, you know. , I shall be confoundedly ridiculous. 
 Yet hang it ! I'll take courage. Hem ! 
 
 Hast. Pshaw, man ! it's but the first plunge, and all's over She's but a 
 woman, you know. 
 
 Marl. And of all women, she that I dread most to encounter. 
 
 Enter MiSS Hardcastle, as returning from walking, in a bonnet, &c. 
 
 Hast. (Introducing hint.) Miss Hardcastle — Mr. Marlow. I'm proud of 
 bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem 
 each other. 
 
 Miss Hard. (Aside.) Now, for meeting my modest gentleman with a 
 demure face, and quite in his own manner. (After a pause, in which he 
 appears very uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your safe arrival, sir. I'm 
 told you had some accidents by the way. 
 
 Marl Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, a good 
 many accidents ; but should be sorry — madam — or rather glad of any acci- 
 dents — that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 
 
 Hast. (To him.) Yc i never spoke better in your whole life. Keep it up, 
 and I'll ensure you the victory. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You, that have seen so much of the 
 finest company, can find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. 
 
 Marl. (Gathering coiirage) I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam; but 
 I have kept very little company. I have been but an observer upon life, 
 madam, while others were enjoying it. 
 
 Miss Nev. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last. 
 
 Hast. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you are con- 
 firmed in assurance for ever. 
 
 Marl (To him.) Hem! Stand by me, then; and when I'm down, throw 
 in a word or two, to set me up again. 
 
 Miss Hard. An observer, like you, upon life, were, I fear, disagreeably 
 employed, since you must have had much more to censure than to approve. 
 
 Marl. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to be amused. The 
 folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness. 
 
 Hast. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole life. 
 Well ! {To Miss Hard.) Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are 
 going to be very good company. I believe our being here will but embarrass 
 the interview. 
 
 Marl Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your company of all things 
 (To him.) Zounds! George, sure you won't go — how can you leave us .-' 
 
 Hast. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we'll retire to the next 
 room. (To him.) You don't consider, man, that we are to manage a little 
 tete-a tete of our own. i Exeunt.) 
 
 Miss Hard. {After a pause.) But you have not been wholly an observer. I 
 
268 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 presume, sir : the ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of your 
 addresses. 
 
 Marl. {Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, madam, I — I — I as yet have 
 studied — only — to — deserve them. 
 
 3Iiss Hard. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain them. 
 
 Marl. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more 
 grave and sensible part of the sex. But I'm afraid I grow tiresome. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing I like so much as grave con- 
 versation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed, I have often been surprised 
 how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light, airy pleasures, where 
 nothing reaches the heart. 
 
 Marl It's — a disease — of the mind, madam. In the variety of tastes there 
 must be some, who, wanting a relish — for — um-a-um. 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who, wanting a 
 relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of 
 tasting. 
 
 Marl. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I can't 
 help observing — a — 
 
 Miss Hard. {Aside.) Who could ever suppose this fellow impudent upon 
 some occasions .'' {To him.) You were going to observe, sir 
 
 Marl I was observing, madam — I protest, madam, I forget what I was 
 going to observe. 
 
 ATiss Hard. {Aside) I vow, and so do I. {To Jam) You were observing, 
 sir, that in this age of hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. 
 
 Marl. Yes, madam ; in this age of hypocrisy there are few who, upon 
 strict inquiry, do not — a — a — a — 
 
 Miss Hard. I understand you perfectly, sir. 
 
 Marl. {Aside) Indeed ! and that's more than I do myself. 
 
 Miss Hard. You mean that, in this hypocritical age, there are few that do 
 not condemn in public what they practise in private, and think they pay every 
 debt to virtue when they praise it. 
 
 Marl. True, madam ; those who have most virtue in their mouths have 
 least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Not in the least, sir; there's something so agreeable, and 
 spirited, in your manner; such life and force— pray, sir, go on. 
 
 Marl. Yes, madam ; I was saying — that there are some occasions — when 
 a total want of courage, madam, d-3troys all the — and puts us — upon a — a — a — 
 
 Miss Hard. I agree with you entirely ; a want of courage upon some 
 occasions, assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most 
 want to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 
 
 Marl. Yes, madam ; morally speaking, madam — But I see Miss Neville 
 expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world. 
 
 Miss Hard. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably entertained in all 
 my life. Pray go on. 
 
Tony. What do you follow nie for, Cousin Con r I 
 wonder you're not ashamed, to be so very engaging. 
 
 Misi Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's 
 own relations, and not be to blame ? 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want 
 
 to make me, though ; but it won't do. 
 
 Act II. Scene 
 
270 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Marl. Yes, madam; I was — But she beckons us to join her. Madam, 
 shall I do myself the honour to attend you ? 
 Miss Hard. Well then, I'll follow. 
 Marl. {Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me. {Exit. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, sola. 
 
 Miss Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there ever such a sober, sentimental 
 interview ? I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the 
 fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty well too. He has good 
 sense; but then, so buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance 
 If I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing somebody, that I 
 know of, a piece of service. But who is that somebody ? — that is a question I 
 can scarce answer. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter ToNY and Miss NEVILLE, followed by Mrs. Hardcastle atid 
 
 Hastings. 
 
 To7ty. What do you follcw me for. Cousin Con ? I wonder you're not 
 ash?med, to be so very engaging. 
 
 Miss Nev. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations, and not 
 be to blame .-* 
 
 Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make me, 
 though; but it won't do. I tell you. Cousin Con, it won't do, so I beg you'll 
 keep your distance ; I want no nearer relationship. 
 
 {She follows, coquetting him to the back-scene.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very entertaining. There's 
 nothing in the world I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions, 
 though I was never there myself 
 
 Hast. Never there! You amaze me! From your air and manner, I con- 
 cluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St. James's, or Tower 
 Wharf 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh ! sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country persons 
 can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to raise 
 n.e above some of our neighbouring rustics ; but who can have a manner, that 
 has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places 
 where the nobility chiefly resort } All I can do is to enjoy London at second- 
 hand. I take care to know every tete-a tete from the Scandalous Magazine, 
 and have all the fashions, as they Come out, in a letter from the two Miss 
 Rickets of Crooked-lane. Pray, how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings ^ 
 
 Hast. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. Your 
 friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose } 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I protest I dressed it myself from a print in the Ladies' 
 Memorandum Book for the last year. 
 
 Hast. Indeed ! such a head in a side-box, at the play-house, would draw 
 as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 271 
 
 Mrs Hard. I vow, since inoculation began there is no such thing to be 
 seen as a plain woman ; so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape 
 in the crowd. 
 
 Hast. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress. {Bowing) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yet what signifies my dressing when I have such a piece of 
 antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle .-' All I can say will not argue down a 
 single button from his clothes I have often wanted him to throw off his great 
 flaxen wig, and where he was bald to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with 
 powder. 
 
 Hast. You are right, madam ; for as among the ladies there are none ugly, 
 so among the men there are none old. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. But what do you think his answer was } Why, with his usual 
 Gothic vivacity, he said, I only wanted him to throw off his wig, to convert it 
 into a tete for my own wearing. 
 
 Hast. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear what you please, and it 
 must become you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most fashion- 
 able age about town .'' 
 
 Hast. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; but I'm told the ladies 
 intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Seriously ! then I shall be too young for the fashion. 
 
 Hast. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past forty. For 
 instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a child, as a mere 
 maker of samplers. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a woman, and is as 
 fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all. 
 
 Hast. Your niece, is she } and that young gentleman a brother of yours, I 
 should presume } 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other. Observe 
 their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a day, as if they were man 
 and wife already. {To than.) Well, Tony, child, what soft things are you 
 saying to your cousin Constance this evening 1 
 
 Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that it's very hard to be 
 followed about so. Ecod, I've not a place in the house now that's left to 
 myself, but the stable. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Never mind him, Con, my dear. He's in another story 
 behind your back. 
 
 Miss Ncv. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. He falls 
 out before faces to be forgiven in private. 
 
 Tony. That's a confounded — crack. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you think they're like each other 
 about the mouth, Mr. Hastings .' The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're of 
 a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings may see you. Come, 
 Tony. 
 
2 72 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith, 
 
 Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. {Measuring?) 
 
 Miss Ncv. Oh ! he has almost cracked my head. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, the monster! For shame, Tony. You a man, and 
 behave so ! 
 
 Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod, I'll not be made a fool 
 of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hard, Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the pains 1 have 
 taken in your education .'' I that have rocked you in your cradle, and fed that 
 pretty mouth with a spoon } Did not I work that waistcoat to make you 
 genteel .'' Did not I prescribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt 
 was operating } 
 
 Tony. Ecod, you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever 
 since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the Complete Huswife 
 ten times over; and you have thoughts of coursing me through Qtdncy next 
 spring. But, ecod, I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Wasn't it all for your good, viper? Wasn't it all for your 
 good .-* 
 
 Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way, 
 when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; not to keep 
 dinging it, dinging it into one so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. That's false ; I never see you when you are in spirits. No 
 Tony, you then go to the alehouse, or kennel. I'm never to be delighted with, 
 your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was ever the like ! But I see he wants to break my heart, I 
 see he does. 
 
 Hast. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a little. 
 I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well ! I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You see,, 
 Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation. Was ever poor woman so 
 plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy } 
 
 . {Exeunt MRS. Hard, and Miss Neville.) 
 
 Tony. {Singing) 
 
 Hastings. Tony 
 
 There was a young man riding by, 
 And fain would have his will. 
 
 Rang do didlo dee. 
 
 Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen ner 
 and sister cry over a book for an hour together ; and they said they liked the 
 book the better the more it made them cry. 
 
 Hast. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty young gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Tony. That's as I find 'um. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 
 
 273 
 
 Mrs. Hardcasile. Back to back, ray pretues, that Mr. Hastings nuy see you. Come, Tony. 
 
 Tcny. You hail as good not make me. 1 tell you. i Measuring. ) 
 
 Miss Neville. Oh I he has almost cracked my head. Act II. Scene I. 
 
 Hast. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer : and yet she 
 appears to me a pretty, well-tempered girl. 
 
 Tony. That's because you don't know her as well as I. Ecod, I know 
 every inch about her and there's not a more bitter, cantankerous toad in all 
 Christendom. 
 
 Hast. {Aside) Pretty encouragement this for a lover! 
 
 Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many tricks as 
 a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's breaking. 
 
 Hast. To me she appears sensible and silent. 
 
 Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with her playmates, she's as 
 loud as a hog in a gate. 
 
 Hast. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me. 
 
 Tony. Yes ; but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're flung in 
 a ditch. 
 
 Hast. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty. Yes, you must allow 
 her some beauty. 
 
 Tony. Bandbox 1 She's all a made up thing, mun. Ah ! could you but 
 see Bet Bouncer, of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, she has 
 
2 74 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion. 
 She'd make two of she. 
 
 Hast. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bitter bargain 
 off your hands ? 
 
 Tony. Anon ! 
 
 Hast. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave you 
 to happiness and your dear Betsy ? 
 
 Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend ? for who would take her ? 
 
 Hast. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip her off to France, 
 and you shall never hear more of her. 
 
 Tony. Assist you ! Ecod, I will, to the last drop of my blood. I'll clap a 
 pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a twinkling ; and may 
 be, get you a part of her fortin beside, in jewels, that you little dream of. 
 
 Hast. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of spirit. 
 
 Tony. Come along then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you 
 have done with me. {Singing.) 
 
 We are the boys 
 That fears no noise 
 Where the thundering cannons roar. 
 
 {Exetint.) 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — Enter Hardcastle, solus. 
 
 Hard. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean, by recommending his 
 son as the modestest young man in town ,'' To me he appears the most impu- 
 dent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of 
 the easy-chair by the fireside already. He took off his boots in the parlour, 
 and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous to know how his 
 impudence affects my daughter. She wilf certainly be shocked at it. 
 
 Enter Miss YiA-KDCKSTh^, plainly dressed. 
 
 Hard. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bid you ", 
 and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion. 
 
 Miss Hard. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your commands, that 1 
 take care to obey them without ever debating their propriety. 
 
 Hard. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, particularly when 
 I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 
 
 Miss Hard. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and I find 
 the original exceeds the description. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 275 
 
 Hard. I was never so surprised in my life ! He has quite confounded all 
 my faculties ! 
 
 Miss Hard I never saw anything like it : and a man of the world, too ! 
 
 Hard. Ay, he learned it all abroad. What a fool was I to think a young 
 man could learn modesty by traveUing! He might as soon learn wit at a 
 masquerade. 
 
 Miss Hard. It seems all natural to him. 
 
 Hard. A good deal assisted by bad company, and a French dancing-master. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure you mistake, papa ! A French dancing-master could 
 never have taught him that timid look — that awkward address — that bashful 
 manner — 
 
 Hard. Whose look '>. whose manner, child ,'' 
 
 Miss Hard. Mr. Marlow's : his mativaise honte, his timidity, struck me at 
 the first sight. 
 
 Hard. Then your first sight deceived you ; for I think him one of the most 
 brazen first-sights that ever astonished my senses. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw any one so modest. 
 
 Hard. And can you be serious ? I never saw such a bouncing, swaggering 
 puppy since I was born ! Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Surprising ! He met me with a respectful bow, a stammering 
 voice, and a look fixed on the ground. 
 
 Hard. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a familiarity that 
 made my blood freeze again. 
 
 Miss Hard. He treated me with diffidence and respect; censured the 
 manners of the age ; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed ; tired 
 me with apologies for being tiresome ; then left the room with a bow, and 
 " Madam. I would not for the world detain you." 
 
 Hard. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before ; asked twenty 
 questions, and never v/aited for an answer ; interrupted my best remarks with 
 some silly pun ; and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough 
 and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, 
 Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch ! 
 
 Miss Hard. One of us must certainly be mistaken. 
 
 Hard. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined he shall never 
 have my consent. 
 
 Miss Hard. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have 
 mine. 
 
 Hard. In one thing then we are agreed — to reject him. 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes But upon conditions. For if you should find him less 
 impudent, and I more presuming; if you. find him more respectful, and I more 
 importunate — I don't know — the fellow is well enough for a man. Certainly, 
 we don't meet many such at a horse-race in the country. 
 
 Hard. If we should find him so — but that's impossible. The first appear- 
 ance has done my business. I'm seldom deceived in that. 
 
276 
 
 Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. He treated me witli diffidence and re<;r>ect : censured the manners of the age . admired the orudence of 
 girls that never laughed . tired me with apologies lor bemg tirc'-ome ; then left the room with a bow, and ' • Madam, 1 would 
 not foi the world detain you." Act III. Scene I. 
 
 Miss Hard. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first 
 appearance. 
 
 Hard. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste, she then sets 
 about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her a smooth face stands for 
 good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compliment to my 
 good sense, won't end with a sneer at my understanding. 
 
 Hard. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find the art of 
 reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Jiard. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go to make 
 further discoveries .'* 
 
 Hard. But depend on't, I'm in the right. 
 
 Miss Hard. And depend on't, I'm not much in the wrong. {Exemtt) 
 
 JSnterTo'^Y running in with a casket. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, I have got them ! Here they are. My cousin Con's neck- 
 laces, bobs, and all. My mother shan't cheat'the poor souls out of their fortin, 
 neither. Oh. i my genus, is that you ? 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 277 
 
 Enter Hastings. 
 
 Hast. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother ? I hope 
 you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin ; and that you are 
 willing to be reconciled at last. Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, 
 and we shall soon be ready to set off. 
 
 Tony And here's somethmg to bear your charges by the way — {giving the 
 casket) — ^your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them; and hang those, I say, that 
 would rob you of one of them. 
 
 Hast. But how have you procured them from your mother } 
 
 To7iy. A k me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I procured them by 
 the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother's bureau, how 
 could I go to the alehouse so often as I do t An honest man may rob of him- 
 self his own at any time. 
 
 Hast. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you. Miss Neville 
 is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this very instant. If she 
 succeeds, it will be ttie most delicate way at least of obtaining them. 
 
 Tony Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. I know how it will 
 be, well enough ; she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. 
 
 Hast. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds she has lost 
 them. 
 
 Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to manage that. I don't 
 value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are, 
 Mornce! Prance! (^^// HASTINGS.) 
 
 Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Neville. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want 
 jewels ! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence ; when 
 your beauty begins to want repairs. 
 
 Miss Nez: But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at 
 twenty, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is 
 beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. 
 Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady Kill-Daylight, and 
 Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing 
 but paste and marcasites back } 
 
 Miss Nev. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be nameless 
 would like me best with all my little finery about me .'^ 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if, with such a pair 
 of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear ? 
 does your cousin Con want any jewels, in your eyes, to set off her beauty? 
 
 Tony. That's as thereafter may be. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table-cut things. They 
 would make you look like the court of Kmg Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, 
 
2yS CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 I believe I can't readily come at them. They may be missing, for aught I know 
 to the contrary. 
 
 Tony. {Apart to MRS. Hardcastle.) Then why don't you tell her so at 
 once, as she's so longing for them } Tell her they'i ^ lost. It's the only way to 
 quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Apart to TONY.) You know, my dear, I'm only keeping them 
 for you. So, if I say they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you } He ! he ! he ! 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Ecod, I'll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. 
 
 Miss Nev. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be permitted to 
 show-them as relics, and then they may be locked up again. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them, 
 you should have them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I 
 know ; but we must have patience, wherever they are. 
 
 Miss Nev. I'll not believe it ; this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I 
 know they're too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for 
 the loss 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Don't be alarmed, Constance ; if they be lost, I must restore 
 an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, and not to be found. 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found, 
 I'll take my oath on't. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. You must learn resignation, my dear ; for though we lose our 
 fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. 
 
 Miss Nev. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Now, I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a 
 thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them ; and, in the meantime, 
 you shall make use of my garnets, till your jewels be found. 
 
 Miss Nev. I detest garnets ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. The most becoming things in the world, to set off a clear com- 
 plexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me. You shall have 
 them. {Exit.) 
 
 Miss Nev. I dislike them of all things. ( To ToNY.) You shan't stir. Was 
 ever anything so provoking } to mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear 
 her trumpery! 
 
 Tojiy. Don't be a fool ! If she gives you the garnets, take what you can 
 get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, 
 and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he'll tell you more of the matter. 
 Leave me to manage her. 
 
 Miss Nev. My dear cousin ! 
 
 Tojiy. Vanish ! She's here, and has missed them already. {Exit MlSS 
 Neville./ Zounds ! how she fidgets, and spits about like a Catharine-wheel ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! We are cheated, plundered, 
 broken open, undone ! 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 279 
 
 Tony. What's the matter ? what's the matter, mamma ? I hope nothing 
 has happened to any of the good family ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. We are robbed ! My bureau has been broke open, the jewels 
 taken out, and I'm undone. 
 
 Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! By the laws, I never saw it better 
 acted in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broke 
 open, and all taken away 
 
 Tony. Stjck to that ; ha! ha! ha ! stick to that ; I'll bear witness, you know; 
 call me to bear witness. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels are gone, and 
 I shall be ruined for ever. 
 
 To7ty. ■ Sure, I know they're gone, and I am to say so. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I say. 
 
 Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh ; ha ! ha I I know 
 who took them well enough ; ha I ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't tell the difference 
 between jest and earnest .'' I tell you I'm not in jest, booby ! 
 
 To7ty. That's right, that's right. You must be in a bitter passion, and then 
 nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness that they are gone. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that won't hear 
 me ! Can you bear witness that you're no better than a fool .'' Was ever poor 
 woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other t 
 
 Tojiy. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead, you ; and I'll turn you out 
 of the room directly. My poor niece! what will become oi her? Do you 
 laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress .'' 
 
 Tojiy. I can bear witness to that. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster .-' I'll teach you to vex your 
 mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. 1 can bear witness to that. {He runs off, she follows him.) 
 
 Enter MiSS Hardcastle and Maid. 
 
 Miss Hard. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to 
 send them to the house as an inn ; ha I ha ! I don't wonder at his impudence. 
 
 Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by 
 in your present dress, asked me if you were the barmaid } He mistook you for 
 the barmaid, madam. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did he .-• Then, as I live, I'm resolved to keep up the delu- 
 sion. Tell me. Pimple, how do you like my present dress .-' Don't you think I 
 look something like Cherry in thj " Beaux' Stratagem .-* " 
 
 Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the country, but 
 when she visits or receives company. 
 
 Miss Hard. And are you sure he does not remember my face or person ? 
 
Mn. HardcastU. Don't bo alarmed, Constance ; if they 
 be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they 
 are missing, and not to be found. 
 
 Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and 
 not to be found, I'll take my oath oa't. 
 
 Act in. Scene!. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 281 
 
 Maid. Certain of it. 
 
 Miss Hard. I vow, I thought so ; for though we spoke for some time 
 together, yet his fears were such, that he never once looked up during the 
 interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me. 
 
 Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake ? 
 
 Miss Hard. In the first place, I shall be seen, and that is no small advan- 
 tage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall, perhaps, make an 
 acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over one who never addresses 
 any but the wildest of her sex. But my chief ain. is to take my gentleman off 
 his guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant's force 
 before I offer to combat. 
 
 Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice, so 
 that he may mistake that, as he has already mistaken your person ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Never fear me. I think I have got. the true bar cant.— Did 
 your honour call ?— Attend the Lion there.— Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. 
 — The Lamb has been outrageous this half-hour. 
 
 Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. {Exit Maid.) 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 Marl. What a bawling in every part of the house ! I have scarce a 
 moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story. 
 If I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess, with her curtsey down to the 
 ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollection. 
 
 ( Walks and innses.) 
 Miss Hard. Did you call, sir .? did your honour call } 
 Marl {Musing) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and sentimental 
 
 for me. 
 
 Miss Hard. Did your honour call .'' 
 
 {She still places herself before him, he tiiniing away) 
 
 Marl No, child. {Mtising) Besides, from the glimpse I had of her, I 
 think she squints. 
 
 Miss Hard. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring. 
 
 Marl. No, no. {Musing) I have pleased my father, however, by coming 
 down, and I'll to-morrow please myself by returning. 
 
 ( Taking out his tablets, and perusing) 
 
 Miss Hard. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir. 
 
 Marl I tell you, no. 
 
 Miss Hard I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a parcel of 
 servants. 
 
 Marl. No, no, I tell you. {Looks full in her face) Yes, child, I think I 
 did call. I wanted — I wanted — I vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 
 
 Miss Hard. Oh ! la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. 
 
 Marl. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I 
 did call. Have you got any of your — a — what d'ye call it, in the house 1 
 
282 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Miss Hard. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days. 
 
 Marl. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose 
 I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips ; perhaps 
 I might be disappointed in that, too. 
 
 Miss Hard. Nectar ! nectar ! that's a liquor there's no call for in these 
 parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. 
 
 Marl. Of true English growth, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's odd I should not know it We brew all sorts of 
 wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years. 
 
 Marl. Eighteen years .'' Why, one would think, child, you kept the bar 
 before you were born. How old are you .-' 
 
 Miss Hard. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age! They say women and music 
 should never be dated. 
 
 Marl. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty. {Ap- 
 proaching.) Yet nearer, I don t think so much. {Approaching.) By coming 
 close to some women, they look younger still ; but when we come very close 
 indeed {Attempting to kiss her.) 
 
 Miss Hard. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted 
 to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of mouth. 
 
 Marl. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this 
 . distance, how is it possible you and I can be ever acquainted ? 
 
 Miss Hard. And who wants to be acquainted with you .'' I want no such 
 acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here 
 a while ago, in this obstropalous manner. I'll warrant me, before her you 
 looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as 
 if you was before a justice of peace. 
 
 Marl. {Aside.) Egad ! she has hit it, sure enough. {To her) — In awe of her, 
 child .'' Ha ! ha ! ha ! A mere awkward, squinting thing ; no, no. I find you 
 don't know me. I laughed, and rallied her a little ; but I was unwilling to be 
 too severe. No, I could not be too severe. 
 
 Miss Hard. Oh ! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies. 
 
 Marl. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, I don't see 
 what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' club in town, I'm called their 
 agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I'm known by. 
 My name is Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service 
 
 ( Ojfering to salute her } 
 
 Miss Hard. Hold, sir ; you were introducing me to your club, not to your- 
 self. And you're so great a favourite there, you say t 
 
 Marl. Yes, my dear; there's Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the 
 Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble 
 servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then it's a very merry place, I suppose. 
 
 Marl. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and old women can make us. 
 
 Miss Hard. And their agreeable Rattle ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 283 
 
 Marl. {Aside.) Indeed ! I don't quite like this chit. She looks knowing, 
 methinks. ( To her) — You laugh, child ! 
 
 Miss Hard. I can't but laugh to think what time they all have for 
 minding their work or their family. 
 
 Maj'l. {Aside.) All's well, she don't laugh at me. {To her) — Do you ever 
 work, child .'' 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or a quilt in the whole house 
 but what can bear witness to that. 
 
 Marl. Odso ! Then you must show me your embroidery, I embroider, 
 and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work, you must 
 apply to me. {Seizing her hand) 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, but the colours don't look well by candle-light. You 
 shall see all in the morning. {Struggling.) 
 
 Marl And why not now, my angel .? Such beauty fires beyond the power 
 of resistance. Pshaw ! the father here ! My old luck ! I never nicked seven, 
 that I did not throw ames-ace three times following. {Exit Marlow.) 
 
 Enter Hardcastle, zvho stands in surprise. 
 
 Hard. So, madam ! So I find this is your modest lover ! This is your 
 humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at 
 humble distance. Kate, Kate ! art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so } 
 
 Miss Hard. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the modest man I 
 first took him for ; you'll be convinced of it as well as I. 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious \ 
 Didn't I see him seize your hand } didn't I see him haul you about like a milk- 
 maid .-* and now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth ! 
 
 Miss Hard. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty ; that he has only 
 the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve with 
 age, I hope you'll forgive him. 
 
 Hard. The girl would actually make one run mad ; I tell you, I'll not be 
 convinced. I am convinced. He has scarcely been three hours in the house, 
 and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You may like his 
 impudence, and call it modesty ; but my son-in-law, madam, must have very 
 different qualifications. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you. 
 
 Hard. You shall not have half the time ; for I have thoughts of turning 
 him out this very hour. 
 
 Miss Hard. Give me that hour, then, and I hope to satisfy you. 
 
 Hard. Well, an hour let it be, then. But I'll have no trifling with your 
 father. All fair and open, do you mind me } 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your com- 
 mands as my pride ; for your kindness is such that my duty as yet has been 
 inclination. {Exeunt.) 
 
^/^ 
 
 Marloiv. Why not now, my angel ? Pshaw ! the father 
 here ! My old luck ! 
 
 Hardcastle. So, madam ! So I find this is your modest 
 lover! This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed 
 on the ground, and only adored at humble disUnce. Kate, 
 Kate art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so ? 
 Act III. Scene I. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 281^ 
 
 ICT lY. 
 
 SCENE I. — Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hast. You surprise me ! Sir Charles Marlow expected here this night ? 
 Where have you had your information ? 
 
 Miss Nev. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr. Hard- 
 castle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few hours after his son. 
 
 Hast. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he arrives. He 
 knows me ; and should he find me here, would discover my name, and perhaps 
 my designs, to the rest of the family. 
 
 Miss Nev. The jewels, I hope, are safe. 
 
 Hast. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the keys of our 
 baggage. In the meantime, I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I 
 have had the squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses : and, if I should not see 
 him again, will write him further directions. {Exit.) 
 
 Miss Nev. Well, success attend you. In the meantime, I'll go amuse my 
 aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter IAkklov^ , followed by a Servant. 
 
 Marl. I wonder what Hastings could mean by sending me so valuable a 
 thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the only place I have is the 
 seat of a post-coach at an inn-door } Have you deposited the casket with the 
 landlady, as I ordered you .'' Have you put it into her own hands } 
 
 Serv. Yes, your honour. 
 
 Marl. She said she'd keep it safe, did she } 
 
 Serv. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough ; she asked me how I came 
 by it, and she said she had a great mind to make me give an account of 
 myself. {Exit Servant.) 
 
 Marl. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. What an unaccountable set 
 of beings have we got amongst ! This little barmaid, though, runs in my head 
 most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of the family. 
 She's mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS. 
 
 Hast. Bless me ! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to prepare at the 
 bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits, too ! 
 
 Marl. Give me joy, George! Crown me, shadow me with laurels! Well, 
 George, after all, we modest fellows don't want for success among the women. 
 
 Hast. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honour's 
 modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so insolent upon us .-* 
 
 Marl. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely little thing that runs about 
 the house, with a bunch of keys to its girdle ? 
 
Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Hast. Well, and what then ? 
 
 Marl. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such eyes, such 
 lips — but, egad ! she would not let me kiss them, though. 
 
 Hast. But are you so sure, so very sure of her "i 
 
 Marl. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above stairs, and I'm 
 to improve the pattern. 
 
 Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up ? 
 It's in safety .-* 
 
 Marl. Yes, yes ; it's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could 
 you think the seat of a post-coach, at an inn-door, a place of safety ? Ah ! 
 numskull ! I have taken better precautions for you than you did for your- 
 self. I have » 
 
 Hast. What.? 
 
 Marl. I have sent it to the landlady, to keep for you. 
 
 Hast. To the landlady ! 
 
 Marl The landlady. 
 
 Hast. You did ! 
 
 Marl. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know. 
 
 Hast. Yes, she'll bring it forth, with a witness. 
 
 Marl Wasn't I right .'' I believe you'll allow that I acted prudently upon 
 this occasion. 
 
 Hast. {Aside) He must not see my uneasiness. 
 
 Marl. You seem a little disconcerted, though, methinks. Sure nothing 
 has happened. 
 
 Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so 
 you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge.!* 
 
 Marl Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket ; but, through 
 her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha / 
 
 Hast. He ! he I he ! They are safe, however. 
 
 Marl. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 
 
 Hast. {Aside) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set 
 off without it. {To him) Well,. Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on 
 the pretty barmaid; and, he! he ! he ! may you be as successful for yourself, as 
 you have been for me ! {Exit) 
 
 Marl Thank ye, George ! 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. I no longer know my own house. It's turned all topsy-turvy. His 
 servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it no longer ; and yet, for my 
 respect for his father, I'll be calm. {To him) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm 
 your very humble servant. {Bowing low) 
 
 Marl Sir, your humble servant. {Aside) What's to be the wonder now ? 
 
 Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ought to 
 be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so. 
 
She Stoops to Co7tquer. 287 
 
 Marl. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally 
 make my father's son welcome wherever he goes. 
 
 Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say nothing to 
 your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of 
 drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you. 
 
 Marl. I protest, my very good sir, that's no fault of mine. If they don't 
 drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar: 
 I did, I assure you. {To the side scene) Here, let one of my servants come up. 
 {To him) My positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they 
 should make up for my deficiencies below. 
 
 Hard. Then, they had your orders for what they do ! I'm satisfied. 
 
 Marl. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves. 
 
 Enter Servant, drunk. 
 
 Marl. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! What were my orders > 
 Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the 
 good of the house } 
 
 Hard. {Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 
 
 Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet Street for ever ! Though 
 I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink for no man before 
 supper, sir! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper; but a good supper 
 will not sit upon — {hiccup) — upon my conscience, sir. 
 
 Marl. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. 
 I don't know what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor fellow soused 
 in a beer-barrel. 
 
 Hard. Zounds ! He'll drive me distracted if I contain myself any longer. 
 {Aside.) Mr. Marlow, sir; I have submitted to your insolence for more than 
 four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm now resolved 
 to be master here, sir ; and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave 
 my house directly. 
 
 Marl. Leave your house .' Sure you jest, my good friend ! What ! when 
 I'm doing what I can to please you } 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me ; so I desire you'll leave my 
 house. 
 
 Marl. Sure you cannot be serious ! At this time o'night, and such a 
 night ! You onlv mean to banter me. 
 
 Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious; and, now that my passions are roused, 
 I say this house is mine, sir ; this house is mine, and I command you to leave 
 it directly ! 
 
 Marl. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure 
 you. {In a serious tone) This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is 
 my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me leave 
 this house, sir .? I never met with such impudence, never in my whole life 
 before. 
 
Casselfs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Marlow. You see, niy old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd have 
 
 more 
 
 Hardcastle. Zouads He'll drive me distracted. Act IV. Scene I. 
 
 Hard. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, to call for 
 what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his 
 servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, This house is mine, sir. By all that's 
 impudent, it makes me laugh. Ha ! ha ! Pray, sir (bantering), as you take the 
 house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture ? There's a pair of 
 silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed 
 bellows — perhaps you. may take a fancy to them. 
 
 Marl. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your bill, and let's make no more 
 words about it. 
 
 Hard. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the " Rake's 
 Progress " for your own apartment .'' 
 
 Marl. 
 directly. 
 Hard. 
 Marl. 
 Hard 
 
 Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave you and your house 
 
 Then there's a mahogany table, that you may see your own face in 
 My bill, I say. 
 
 I had forgot the great chair, for your own particular slumbers, after 
 a hearty meal. 
 
 Marl. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say ; and let's hear no more on't. 
 Hard. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to me, I was 
 taught to expect a well-bred, modest man as a visitor here ; but now I find 
 
She Stoops to Conquer, 289 
 
 him no better than a coxcomb, and a bully. But he will be down here pre- 
 sently, and shall hear more of it. (Exit.} 
 Mm'l. How's this } Sure I have not mistaken the house ! Everything- 
 looks like an inn. The servants cry, Coming. The attendance is awkward ; the 
 barmaid, too, to attend us. But she's here, and will further inform me. Whither 
 so fast, child ? A word with you. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Miss Hard. Let it be short, then. I'm in a hurry. (Aside) I believe he 
 be^^ins to find out his mistake ; but it's too soon quite to undeceive him. 
 
 Maj^l. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what may 
 your business in this house be } 
 
 Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir. 
 
 Marl. What ! a poor relation t 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir ; a poor relation, appointed to keep the keys, and to 
 see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them. 
 
 Marl. That is, you act as the barmaid of this inn. 
 
 Miss Hard. Inn ! Oh, la ! What brought that in your head } One of the 
 best families in the country keep an inn ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's 
 house an inn ! 
 
 Marl. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this house Mr. Hardcastle's house, child } 
 
 Miss Hard. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be } 
 
 Marl. So then all's out, and I have been imposed on. Oh, confound my 
 stupid head ! I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I shall be stuck up in 
 caricatura in all the print shops ; the DuUissImo Maccaroni. To mistake this 
 house, of all others, for an inn ; and my father's old friend for an innkeeper ! 
 What a swaggering puppy must he take me for ! What a silly puppy do I 
 find myself ! There again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you for 
 the barmaid. 
 
 Miss Hard. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure there's nothing in my behaviour 
 to put me upon a level with one of that stamp. 
 
 Marl. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of blunders, and 
 could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the 
 wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your simplicity for 
 allurement. But it"s over. This house I no more show my face in. 
 
 Miss Hard. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you. I'm sure I 
 should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so 
 many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry (pretemiing to cry) if he 
 left the family upon my account. I'm sure I should be sorry, people said any- 
 thing amiss, since I have no fortune but my character. 
 
 Marl {Aside.) By Heaven, she weeps. This is the first mark of tender- 
 ness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. {To her) Excuse 
 me, my lovely girl, you are the only part of the family I leave with reluctance. 
 But to be plain with you, the difference of our birth, fortune, and education, 
 
290 CasseU's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 make an honourable connection impossible ; and I can never harbour a thought 
 of bringing ruin upon one whose only fault was being too lovely. 
 
 Miss Hard. {Aside.) Generous man! I now begin to admire him. {To 
 him.) But I'm sure my family is as good as Mr. Hardcastle's ; and though I'm 
 poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented mind ; and until this moment, I 
 never thought that it was bad to want fortune. 
 
 Marl. And why now. my pretty simplicity ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Because it puts me at a distance from one, that if I had a 
 thousand pound, I would give it all to. 
 
 Marl. (Aside) This simplicity bewitches me so, that if I stay I'm undone. 
 I must make one bold effort, and leave her. ( To her ) Your partiality in my 
 favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I to live for myself alone, 
 I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, 
 too much to the authority of a father, so that — I can scarcely speak it — it 
 affects me. Farewell. {Exit) 
 
 Miss Hard. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not go, if I 
 have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the character in which I 
 stooped to conquer ; but will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, may laugh him 
 out of his resolution. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter TONY, MiSS NEVILLE. 
 
 To7!y. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my 
 duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was 
 all a mistake of the servants. 
 
 Miss Nev. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't forsake us in this distress. 
 If she in the least suspects that I'm going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or 
 sent to my Aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. 
 
 Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are bad things ; but what can I do .-' 
 I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like Whistle-jacket, and I'm sure 
 you can't say but I have courted you nicely before her face. Here she comes; 
 we must court a bit or two more, for fear she should suspect us. 
 
 {They retire and seem to fondle) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But my son tells me 
 it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are 
 fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. But what do I see .'' 
 Fondling together, as I'm alive. I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! 
 have I caught you, my pretty doves } What ! billing, exchanging stolen 
 glances, and broken murmurs t Ah ! 
 
 Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little, now and then, to be 
 sure. But there's no love lost between us. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make it burn 
 brisrhter. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. "^9^ 
 
 Miss Nev. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company at home. 
 Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? 
 
 Tony. Oh ! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner leave my horse in a 
 pound, than leave you, when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you 
 so becoming. 
 
 Miss Nev. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help admiring that natural humour, 
 that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless {patting his cheek), ah ! it's a bold face 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Pretty innocence ! 
 
 Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel eyes, and her pretty long 
 fingers, that she twists this way and that, over the haspicholls, like a parcel of 
 "bobbins. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ah ! he would charm the bird from the tree. I was never so 
 liappy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The 
 jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. You shall have them. 
 Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear .-* You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll 
 put off the rest of his education, like Mr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 Enter DiGGORY. 
 
 Digg. Where's the 'squire .'' I have got a letter for your worship. 
 
 Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first. 
 
 Bigg. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands. 
 
 Tony. Who does it come from "i 
 
 Digg. Your worsh; ) mun ask that o' the letter itself. 
 
 Tony. I could wish to know, though. {Turning the letter and gazing on it.) 
 
 Miss Nev. {Aside.) Undone, undone ! A letter to him from Hastings. 
 I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her 
 employed a little, if I can. {To MRS. Hardcastle.) But I have not told you, 
 madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed. 
 You must know, madam — this way a little; for he must not hear us. {They confer.) 
 
 Tony. {Still gazing) A cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw 
 
 in my life. I can read your print-hand very well. But here there are such 
 handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head from the 
 tail. " To Anthony Lumpkin, Esq." It's very odd, I can read the outside of 
 my letters, where my own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, 
 it is all — buzz. That's hard, very hard ; for the inside of the letter is always 
 the cream of the correspondence. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very well. And so my son was too 
 hard for the philosopher. 
 
 Miss Nev. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the rest, madam. A little 
 more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him again. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks. 
 
 Tony. {Still gazing.) An up and down hand, as if it was disguised in 
 liquor. {Reading.) "Dear Sir." Ay, that's that. Then there's an if/, and a T^, 
 and a S» but whether the next be izzard ox an R. confound me, I cannot tell. 
 
292 
 
 C as self s Illustj^ated Goldsmith. 
 
 Tony. (Reading.) " Deal Sir." Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, and a .V ; but whether the next be izzard 
 or an R, confound me, I cannot tell. Act 1 V. Scene I. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear ? Can I give you any assistance ? 
 Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand 
 better than I. ( Tivitching the letter from him.) Do you know who it is from ? 
 Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder. 
 
 Miss Nev. Ay, so it is. {^Pretending to read.) " Dear 'Squire, — Hoping that 
 you're in health, as I am at this present. The gentlemen of the Shake-bag club 
 has cut the gentlemen of the Goose-green quite out of feather. The odds — um 
 — odd battle — um — long fighting — um — " Here, here; it's all about cocks 
 and fighting ; it's of no consequence ; here, put it up, put it up. 
 
 ( TJiriisting the erttmpled letter upon him) 
 
 Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the consequence in the world. I 
 
 would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. 
 
 Of no consequence ! {Giving Mrs. HardcaSTLE the letter.) 
 
 Mrs. Hard. How's this > {Reads.)-— 
 
 Dear 'Squire, — I'm nowwaiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom 
 of the garden, but I find my horsee yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you'll assist 
 as with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. Dispatch is necessary, as the hag (ay, the hag), 
 your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, HASTINGS. 
 
 Grant me patience ! I shall run distracted. My rage chokes me ! 
 
ij^iipiililil'lif 
 
 ' &';'! '^ -^ - - "'■"'■11. 
 
294 CasselTs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Miss Nev. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your resentment for a few 
 moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design that 
 belongs to another. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {Curtseying very low.) Fine-spoken madam, you are most 
 miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and 
 circumspection, madam. {Changing her tone.) And you, you great ill-fashioned 
 oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth shut ! were you, too, joined 
 against me .<* But I'll defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, 
 since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to disappoint 
 them. So, if you please, instead of running away with your spark, prepare, this 
 very moment, to run off with me. Your old Aunt Pedigree will keep you secure^ 
 I'll warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon the 
 way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory, I'll show you that I wish you better thaa 
 you do yourselves. {Exit), 
 
 Miss Nev. So, now I'm completely ruined. 
 
 Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 
 
 Miss Nev. What better could be expected, from being connected with such 
 a stupid fool, and after all the nods and signs I made him } 
 
 Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my stupidity, 
 that did your business. You were so nice, and so busy, with your Shake-bags 
 and Goose-greens, that I thought you could ne^'^er be making believe. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS. 
 
 Hast. So, sir, I find by my servant that you have shown my letter and 
 betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman .•• 
 
 Tojiy. Here's another. Ask miss, there, who betrayed you. Ecod, it was 
 her doing, not mine. 
 
 Enter Mar LOW. 
 
 Marl. So, I have been finely used here among you. Rendered contemptible, 
 driven into ill-manners, despised, insulted, laughed at. 
 
 Tony. Here's another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose presently. 
 
 Miss Nev. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe every 
 obligation. 
 
 Marl. What can I say to him, a mere boy, an idiot, whose ignorance and 
 age are a protection .-' 
 
 Hast. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace correction. 
 
 Miss Nev. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himself merry with, 
 all our embarrassments. 
 
 Hast An insensible cub ! 
 
 Marl. Replete with tricks and mischief. 
 
 To7ty. Baw ! but I'll fight you both, one after the other — with baskets. 
 
 Marl As for him, he's below resentment. But your conduct, Mr. Hastings, 
 requires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would not un- 
 deceive me. 
 
She Stoops to Co7iquer. 295 
 
 Hast. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this a time for 
 explanations ? It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow. 
 
 Marl. But, sir 
 
 Miss Nev. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake, till it was too late 
 to undeceive you. Be pacified. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. M)^ mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, madam. The 
 horses are putting to. Your hat and things are in the next room. We are to 
 go thirty miles before morning. (£".*■// Servant.) 
 
 Miss Ncv. Well, well ; I'll come presently. 
 
 Marl. {To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, to assist in rendering me 
 ridiculous .? To hang me out for the scorn of all my acquaintance .'' Depend 
 upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 
 
 Hast. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that subject, to deliver what I 
 entrusted to yourself to the care of another, sir .'* 
 
 Miss Nev. Mr. Hastings, Mr. Marlow, why will you increase my distress by 
 this groundless dispute .'* I implore, I entreat you 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 Serv. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient. 
 Miss Nev. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus, I shall die with 
 apprehension. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are waiting. 
 
 Miss Nev. Oh, Mr. Marlow ! if you knew what a scene of constraint and 
 ill-nature lies before me, I'm sure it would convert your resentment into pity. 
 
 Marl. I'm so distracted with a variety of passions, that I don't know what 
 I do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, 
 and should not exasperate it. 
 
 Hast. The torture of my situation is my only excuse. 
 
 Miss Nev. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me that I 
 think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years will but increase 
 the happiness of our future connection. If 
 
 Mrs. Hard. ( Within) Miss Neville. Constance, why, Constance, I say. 
 
 Miss Ncv. I'm coming. Well, constancy. Remember, constancy is the 
 word. {Exit) 
 
 Hast. My heart, how can I support this ! To be so near happiness, and 
 such happiness ! 
 
 Mart {To Tony.) You see now, young gentleman, the effects of your 
 folly. What m.ight be amusement to you, is here disappointment, and even 
 distress. 
 
 Tony. {From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it. It's here. Your hands. 
 Yours and yours, my poor sulky. My boots there, ho! Meet me two hours 
 
290 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsrnith. 
 
 lience at the bottom of the garden ; and if you don't find Tony Lumpkin a 
 more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I'll give you leave to take my 
 best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! 
 
 {Exeunt) 
 
 ICTY. 
 
 SCENE I. — Scene continues. 
 Enter Hastings and Servant. 
 
 Hast. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say ? 
 
 Serv. Yes, your honour; they went off in a post-coach, and the young 
 'squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by this time. 
 
 Hast. Then all my hopes are over. 
 
 Scrv. Yes, si.r. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old gentleman of 
 the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half-hour. They 
 are coming this way. 
 
 Hast. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless appointment at 
 the bottom of the garden. This is about the time. {Exit^ 
 
 Enter SiR CHARLES and Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his 
 sublime commands ! 
 
 Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your 
 advances ! 
 
 Hard. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common 
 innkeeper, too. 
 
 Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon innkeeper, 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Hard. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of anything but joy. Yes, 
 my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal friendships 
 hereditary ; and though my daughter's fortune is but small 
 
 Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to me? My son is 
 possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a good 
 and virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they like each other, 
 as you say they do 
 
 Hard. If, man ! I tell you they do like each other. My daughter as 
 good as told me so. 
 
 Sir Cha7des. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know. 
 
 Hard. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself; and here 
 he comes to put you out of your ifs, I warrant him. 
 
She Stoops to Conqtier. 
 
 297 
 
 Sir Charles Martow. But did he profess any attachment ? 
 
 Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one 
 
 Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied ? Act V. Scene I. 
 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marl. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct. I 
 can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion 
 
 Hard. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An hour or two's 
 laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. She'll never like you 
 the worse for it. 
 
 Marl. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. 
 
 Hard. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow : if I am not deceived, 
 you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ? 
 
 Marl. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 
 
 Hard. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what, as well as you 
 that are younger. I know what has passed between you ; but mum. 
 
 Marl. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us, but the most profound 
 respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. You don't 
 think, sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest of the 
 family ? 
 
 Hard. Impudence ! No, I don't say that Not quite impudence. Though 
 girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But she has 
 told no tales, I assure you. 
 
298 CasseU's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Marl. I never gave her the shghtest cause. 
 
 Hard. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But this is 
 over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your father and I will like 
 you the better for it. 
 
 Marl. May I die, sir, if I ever 
 
 Hard. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and as I'm sure you like her 
 
 Marl Dear sir — I protest, sir 
 
 Hard. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the parson 
 can tie you. 
 
 Marl. But hear me, sir 
 
 Hard. Your father approves the match, I admire it, every moment's delay 
 will be doing mischief, so 
 
 Marl But why won't you hear me ? By all that's just and true, I never 
 gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the most 
 distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview, and that 
 was formal, modest, and uninteresting. 
 
 Hard. {Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest impudence is beyond bearing. 
 
 Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protes- 
 tations } 
 
 Marl As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your com- 
 mands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without reluctance. I 
 hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent me from leaving a 
 house in which I suffer so many mortifications. {Exit.) 
 
 Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he parted. 
 
 Hard. And I'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his assurance. 
 
 Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth. 
 
 Hard. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon 
 her veracity. 
 
 Enter Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely, and without reserve: 
 has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and affection } 
 
 Miss Hard. The question is very abrupt, sir. But since you require un- 
 reserved sincerity, I think he has. 
 
 Hard. (T^ Sir Charles.) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one 
 interview .-* 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, several. 
 
 //irzr^/. (/"(^ Sir Charles.) You see. 
 
 Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment ? 
 
 Miss Hard. A lasting one. 
 
 Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Much, sir. 
 
 Sir Charles. Amazing ! and all ;his formally ? 
 
 Miss Hard. Formally. 
 
SJu Stoops to Conquer. 299 
 
 Hard. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied ? 
 
 Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 
 
 Miss Hard. As most professed admirers do. Said some civil things of my 
 face ; talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned 
 his heart ; gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture. 
 
 Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his conversa- 
 tion among women to be modest and submissive. This forward, canting, 
 ranting manner by no means describes him, and I am confident he never sat 
 for the picture. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then what, sir, if I should convince you to your face of my 
 sincerity } If you and my papa, in about half an nour, will place your- 
 selves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion to me in 
 person. 
 
 Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my happi- 
 ness in him must have an end. {Exit.} 
 
 Miss Hard. And if you don't find *him what I describe — I fear my happi- 
 ness must never have a beginning. {Exeunt.} 
 
 Scene changes to the back of the Garden. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS. 
 
 Hast. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who probably takes a 
 deHght in mortifying me! He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no 
 longer. What do I see } It is he, and perhaps with news of my Constance. 
 
 Enter TONV, booted and spattered. 
 
 Hast. My honest 'squire ! I now find you a man of your word. This 
 looks like friendship, 
 
 Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world, if 
 you knew but all. This riding by nfght, by-the-by, is cursedly tiresome. It 
 has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 
 
 Hast. But how } Where did you leave your fellow-travellers .'' Are the\' 
 in safety .'' Are they housed .-* 
 
 Tony. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad 
 driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it. Rabbit me, but I'd rather ride 
 forty miles after a fox, than ten with such varment. 
 
 Hast. Well, but where have you left the ladies .-' I die with impatience. 
 
 Tony. Left them .'' Why,' where should I leave them, but where I fgujid 
 them .'' 
 
 Hast. This is a riddle. 
 
 Tony. Riddle me this then. What's that goes round the house, and round 
 the house, and never touches the house .-' 
 
 Hast. I'm still astray. 
 
)*^o Casseir s Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Tony. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them, astray. By jingo, there's not 
 a pond or slough within five miles of the place, but they can tell the taste of 
 
 Hast. Ha, ha, ha! I understand: you took them in a round, while they 
 supposed themselves going forward. And so you have at last brought them 
 home again, 
 
 Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed Lane, where we 
 stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and- 
 Down Hill — I then introduced them to the gibbet, on Heavy-tree Heath ; and 
 from that with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the 
 bottom of the garden. 
 
 Hast. But no accident, I hope. 
 
 Tony. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks her- 
 self forty miles off". She's sick of the journey,, and the cattle can scarce crawl. 
 So, if your own horses be ready, you may whip off" with cousin, and I'll be 
 bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. 
 
 Hast. My dear friend, how can I be grateful .'* 
 
 Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'squire. Just now, it was all idiot, 
 cub, and run me through the guts. Confound your way of fighting, I say. 
 After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be friends. But, 
 if you had run me through the guts, then I should be dead, and you might go 
 kiss the hangman. 
 
 Hast. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville ; if 
 you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young one. 
 
 {Exit Hastings.) 
 
 Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish! She's got from the 
 pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid. 
 
 Enter MRS. Hardcastle. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, Tony, I'm killed — shook — battered to death. I shall 
 never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the quickset hedge, has 
 done my business. 
 
 Tony. Alack ! mamma, it was all your own fault. You would be for 
 running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way. 
 
 Mts. Hard. I wish we were at home again, I never met so many accidents 
 in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast 
 in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way ! Whereabouts do you 
 think we are, Tony } 
 
 Tony. By my guess we should be .upon Crackskull Common, about forty 
 miles from home, 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Oh, lud ! oh, lud ! the most notorious spot in all the country. 
 We only want a robbery to make a complete night on't, 
 
 Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma I don't be afraid. Two of the five that were 
 kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. Is 
 that a man that's galloping behind us .-* No ; it's only a tree. Don't be afraid. 
 
\l'u. 
 
 Mrs Hardcnslle. Here, good genlleman, whet your rage ^^ ■^-'' 
 
 upon me. Take my money, my life ; but spare that young L/^' 
 
 gentleman, spare my child Take compassion on \'^/i^^,'"y/lp^^ 
 
 us, good Mr. Highwayman. 
 
 Hardcastle. .... What! Dorothy, don't you know 
 
 "'^^ Act V. Scene I. 
 
 
302 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. The fright will certainly kill me. 
 
 Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind the thicket ? 
 
 Mt-s. Hard. Oh, death ! 
 
 Tony. No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma : don't be afraid, 
 
 Mrs. Hard. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah ! I'm 
 sure on't. If he perceives us, we are undone. 
 
 Tony. {Aside) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to take one of his 
 night walks. ( To her) Ah ! it's a highwayman, with pistols as long as my 
 arm. An ill-looking fellow. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Good Heaven ! defend us ! He approaches. 
 
 Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him. 
 If there be any danger, I'll cough and cry — hem ! When I cough, be sure to 
 keep close. (MRS. Hardcastle hides behind a tree, in the back scene) 
 
 Enter Hardcastle. 
 
 Hard. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. Oh, 
 Tony, is that you } I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and 
 her charge in safety ? 
 
 Tony. Very safe, sir, at my Aunt Pedigree's. Hem ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (From behind) Ah, death ! I find there's danger. 
 
 Hard. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's too much, my youngster. 
 
 Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say. 
 Hem ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. {From behind) Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm ! 
 
 Hard. But I heard a voice here ; I shall be glad to know from whence it 
 came. 
 
 Tony. It was I, sir ; talking to myself, sir. I was saying, that forty miles 
 in three hours was very good going — hem ! As to be sure, it was — hem ! I 
 have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go in, if you please — 
 liem ! 
 
 , Hard. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer yourself I am 
 certain I heard two voices, and am resolved {raising his voice) to find the other 
 out. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (From behind.) Oh I he's coming to find me out. Oh ! 
 
 Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you — hem ! I'll lay down my life for 
 the truth — hem ! I'll tell you all, sir. {Detaining him) 
 
 Hard. I tell you, I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It's in vain 
 to expect I'll believe you. 
 
 Mrs. Hard, {rimning forward from behind) Oh, lud, he'll murder my poor 
 boy, my darling! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my 
 money, my life ; but spare that young gentleman, spare my child, if you have 
 any mercy. 
 
 Hard. My wife ! as I'm a Christian. From whence can she come, or what 
 does she mean } 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. 
 
 o^j 
 
 Mrs. Ha7'd. {Kneeling) Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman. 
 Take our money, our watches, all we have ; but spare our lives. We will never 
 bring you to justice; indeed, we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. 
 
 Hard. I believe the woman's out of her senses. What ! Dorothy, don't you 
 know me? 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive ! My fears blinded me. But 
 who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so 
 faf from home } What has brought you to follow us .? 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits ^ So far from home, 
 when you are within forty yards of your own door 1 ( To him) This is one 
 of your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. {To her) Don't you know the 
 gate, and the mulberry-tree .'' and don't you remember the horse-pond, 
 my dear } 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I live: I have 
 caught my death in it. {To ToNY.) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I 
 owe all this .-' I'll teach you to abuse your mother, I will. 
 
 Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you 
 may take the fruits on't. 
 
 Mj's. Hard. I'll spoil you, I will. {Follows him off the stage. Exit) 
 
 Hard. There's morality, however, in his reply. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter HASTINGS and Miss Neville. 
 
 Hast. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus } If we delay a 
 moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be 
 out of the reach of her malignity. 
 
 Miss Nev. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the agitations 
 I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' 
 patience will at last crown us with happiness. 
 
 Hast. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my 
 charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune ! 
 Love and content will increase what we possess, beyond a monarch's revenue. 
 Let me prevail. 
 
 Miss Nev. No, Mr. Hastings; no. Prudence once more comes to my 
 relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be 
 despised ; but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm resolved to apply to 
 Mr, Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress. 
 
 Hast. But though he had the will, he has not the power to relieve 
 you. 
 
 Miss Nev. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely. 
 
 Hast I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluctantly obey you. 
 
 {Exeunt.) 
 
304 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Scene changes. 
 
 Enter SiR Charles and Miss Hardcastle. 
 
 Sir Charles. What a situation am I in I If what you say appears, I shall 
 then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of 
 all others, I most wished for a daughter. 
 
 Miss Hard. •! am proud of your approbation, and to show I merit it, if you 
 place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But he 
 comes. 
 
 Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment. 
 
 {Exit Sir Charles.) 
 Enter Marlow. 
 
 Marl. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take leave ; 
 nor did L till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation. 
 
 Miss Hard. {In her own natural manner) I believe these sufferings cannot 
 be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, 
 perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little value of what you 
 now think proper to regret. 
 
 Marl. {Aside) This girl every moment improves upon me. {To her) It 
 must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart. My very 
 pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of education and fortune, 
 the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose their 
 weight, and nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort of reso- 
 lution. 
 
 Miss Hard. Then go, sir. I'll urge nothing more to detain you. Though 
 my family be as good as hers you came down to visit ; and my education, I 
 hope, not inferior, what are these advantages, without equal affluence t I must 
 remain contented with the slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have 
 only the mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims are fixed on 
 fortune. 
 
 Enter HARDCASTLE YZWfa' SiR Charles /r^7« behind. 
 
 Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
 
 Hard. Ay, ay, make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him with con- 
 fusion at last. 
 
 Ma7'l. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration. 
 Your beauty at first caught my eye ; for who could see that without emotion .-* 
 But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new grace, 
 heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed 
 rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assur- 
 ance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious 
 virtue. 
 
 Sit Charles. What can it mean .'' He amazes me ! 
 
.ITiirlotv. Does this look like security ? Does this look like 
 confidence ? No, madam ; every moment that shows me your 
 merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. 
 Here let me continue 
 
 Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, 
 how hast thou deceived me! Is this your indifference, your 
 uninteresting conversaUon .' _^.^^ y_ Jc^w //. 
 
3o6 CasselVs Illusi rated Goldsmith. 
 
 Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 
 
 Marl. I am now determined to stay, madam ; and I have too good an 
 opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. 
 
 Miss Hard. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think 
 I could suffer a connection in which there is the smallest room for repentance .-' 
 Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion, to load 
 you with confusion .-* Do you think I could ever relish that happiness 
 which was acquired by lessening yours } 
 
 Marl By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your 
 power to grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repentance, but in not having seen 
 your merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your wishes ; and though you 
 should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the 
 levity of my past conduct. 
 
 Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our acquaintance began, 
 so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; but 
 seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connection where 
 / must appear mercenary, and yott. imprudent .'' Do you think I could ever 
 catch at the confident addresses of .a secure admirer } 
 
 Marl {Kneeling.) Does this look like security .'' Does this look like con- 
 fidence } No, madam ; every moment that shows me your merit, only serves 
 to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue 
 
 Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou 
 deceived me ! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversation } 
 
 Hard. Your cold contempt ; your formal interview .'' What have you to 
 say now } 
 
 Marl That I'm all amazement ! What can it mean } 
 
 Hard. It means, that you can say and unsay things at pleasure. That you 
 can address a lady in private, and deny it in public ; that you have one story 
 for us, and another for my daughter. 
 
 Marl Daughter ! — this lady your daughter ! 
 
 Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter ; my Kate. Whose else should she be "i 
 
 Marl Oh, ^! 
 
 Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, squinting lady you were 
 pleased to take me for. {Curtseying^ She that you addressed as the mild, 
 modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle of 
 the ladies' club ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Marl Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it's worse than death. 
 
 Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to 
 address you .-* As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that 
 speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud confident creature, 
 that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in 
 the morning } ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Marl. Oh, my noisy head ! I never attempted to be impudent yet, 
 
 that I was not taken down. I must be gone. 
 
She Stoops to Conquer. ^q? 
 
 Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mis- 
 take, and I am rejoiced to find it You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she'll 
 forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate "i We'll all forgive you. Take 
 courage, man, {They retire, she tormenting him, to the bcick scene.) 
 
 Enter MRS. Hardcastle. Tony. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not. 
 
 Hatd. Who gone .'' 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr, Hastings, from town- 
 He who came down with our modest visitor here. 
 
 Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As worthy a fellow as 
 lives ; and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice. 
 
 Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connection. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her 
 fortune ; that remains in this family, to console us for her loss. 
 
 Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary, 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 
 
 Hard. But you know, if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, 
 her whole fortune is then at her own disposal. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait 
 for his refusal. 
 
 Enter HASTINGS and MiSS NEVILLE. 
 
 Mrs. Hard. (Aside.) What! returned so soon } I begin not to like it. 
 
 Hast. {To Hardcastle.) For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, 
 let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to 
 appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent, I first 
 paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded on duty. 
 
 Mtss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation 
 to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my 
 fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from the delusion, and 
 hope, from your tenderness, what is denied me from a nearer connection. 
 
 Mrs Hard. Pshaw, pshaw ! this is all but the whining end of a modern 
 novel. 
 
 Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim their due. 
 Come hither, Tony boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now offer you ? 
 
 Tony. What signifies my refusing ? You know I can't refuse her till. I'm 
 of age, father. 
 
 Hard. Wliile I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to 
 your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire, to keep it secret. 
 But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare you have been 
 of age these three months. 
 
 Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father "i 
 
 Hard. Above three months. 
 
 Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. {Taking MiSS 
 
3o8 
 
 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Tony. ( Taking Miss Neville's hand. ) Witness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of I lank 
 place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constantia Neville may 
 marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. Act V. Scene I. 
 
 Neville's hand) — Witness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony 
 Lumpkin, Esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of 
 no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constantia Neville may marry 
 V/hom shs pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. 
 
 Sir Charles. Oh, brave 'squire ! 
 
 Hast. My worthy friend ! 
 
 Mrs. Hard. My undutiful offspring? 
 
 Marl. Joy, my dear George ; I give you joy sincerely. And could I pre 
 vail upon my little tyrant here, to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest 
 man alive, if you would return me the favour. 
 
 Hast. {To Miss Hardcastle.) Come, madam, you are now driven to 
 the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he 
 loves you, and you must and shall have him. 
 
 Hard. {Joining their hands.) And I say so too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she 
 makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever repent 
 your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of 
 the parish about us ; and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a 
 merry morning. So, boy, take her; and as you have been mistaken in the 
 mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife. 
 
IITTRODUCTIOIT. 
 
 THE comedy of " The Good-natured Man " was the first dramatic effort of Goldsmith. 
 After many discouragements and delays, he succeeded in putting it on the stage of 
 Covent Garden on the 29th of January, 1768, As an acting play, it never was permanently 
 successful ; nevertheless, its merits, as a dramatic composition, are far beyond those of many 
 that retain their hold of the public favour. The plot is excellent ; full of ingenious com- 
 plications, well-contrived situations, and agreeable surprises that keep the interest ever alive. 
 The dialogue, though it occasionally flags, is for the most part lively and pointed ; sometimes 
 felicitous in the extreme. There are fine strokes of wit, and much humour ; sometimes broad, 
 but never offensive, with a good deal of genuine sentiment. The character of Croaker is 
 unique. It would be entirely original, did not the ".Suspirius" of Dr. Johnson ("Rambler," 
 No. 59) furnish Goldsmith with the crude idea, which he has so happily amplified and finished. 
 Mrs. Croaker, whose spnghtliness " could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a taber- 
 nacle," contrasts charmingly with her husband. The by -plot between Leontine and Olivia 
 gives rise to the happiest misapprehensions, and the letter of the lady's maid, which Croaker 
 mistakes for that of an incendiary, is the most ingenious contrivance, as it was the greatest hit 
 of the piece. One scene — that in whicti ttie baihffs are introduced as friends of young 
 Honeywood — met with most unmerited disapproval, and well-nigh turned the tide against the 
 piece. The scene was "retrenched in representation," but retained entire in the printed 
 copies, and ultimately restored upon the stage as one of the most attractive parts of the play. 
 " Now-a-days," as Mr. Forster justly observes, "it is difficult to understand the objection 
 which condemned it." 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.E. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Mr. Honeyw(X)D. 
 
 Croaker. 
 
 Lofty 
 
 Sir WfLLiAM Honeywood. 
 
 Leontine. 
 
 Jarvis. 
 
 Butler. 
 
 Bailiff. 
 
 dubardieu" 
 
 Postboy. 
 
 Miss Richland. 
 
 Olivia. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Garnet. 
 
 Landlady 
 
 Scene — London. 
 
\^ - ^>.^ V 
 
 ^"^^ V-. ? :>i 
 
 
 
 
 ICT I. 
 
 SCENE I — An apartment in YouNG Honeywood's House. 
 
 Enter SiR WiLLIAM HONEYWOOD, .27Z^ JaRVIS. 
 
 Sir Will Good Jarvis, make no apologies for this honest bluntness. 
 Fidelity like yours is the best excuse for every freedom. 
 
 Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very angry too, when I hear 
 you talk of disinheriting so good, so worthy a young gentleman as your 
 nephew, my master All the world loves him. 
 
 Sir Will Say rather that he loves all the world ; that is his fault. 
 
 Jarvis I'm sure there is no part of it more dear to him than you are, 
 though he has not seen you since he was a child. 
 
 Sir Will What signifies his affection to me .? or how can I be proud of a 
 place in a heart where every sharper and coxcomb finds an easy entrance .'' 
 
 Jarvis I grant that he's rather too good-natured , that he's too much 
 every man's man . that he laughs this minute with one. and cries the next with, 
 another : but whose instructions may he thank for all this } 
 
 Sir Will. Not mine, sure ! My letters to him during my employment in 
 Italy, taught him only that philosophy which might prevent, not defend, his 
 errors. 
 
 Jarvis. Faith, begging your honour's pardon, I'm sorry they taught him any 
 philosophy at all : it has only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a 
 good horse in the stable, but an errant jade on a journey. For my own part, 
 whenever I hear him mention the name on't, I'm always sure he's going to play 
 the fool. 
 
 Sir Will. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his philosophy. I entreat you. 
 No, Jarvis, his good nature arises rather from his fears of offending the 
 importunate, than his desire of making the deserving happy. 
 
 Jarvis What it rises from, I don't know But, to be sure, everybody has 
 it that asks it. 
 
 Sir Will Ay, or that does not ask it. t have been now for some time a 
 concealed spectator of his follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation. 
 
 Jarvis. And yet, he has some fine name or other for them all. He calls 
 
,12 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 his extravagance, generosity ; and his trusting everybody, universal benevolence. 
 It was but last week he went security for a fellow whose face he scarce knew, 
 and that he called an act of exalted mu — mu — munificence ; ay, that was the 
 name he gave it. 
 
 Sir Will. And upon that I proceed, as my last effort, though with very 
 little hopes, to reclaim him. That very fellow has just absconded, and I have 
 taken up the security. Now, my intention is, to involve him in fictitious 
 distress, before he has plunged himself into real calamity ; to arrest him for 
 that very debt, to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his 
 friends will come to his relief 
 
 jfarvis. Well, if I could but any way see him thoroughly vexed, every 
 groan of his would be music to me ; yet, I believe it is impossible. I have 
 tried to fret him myself every morning these three years ; but, instead of 
 being angry, he sits as calmly to hear me scold, as he does to his hair- 
 dresser. 
 
 Sir Will. We must try him once more, however, and I'll go this instant to 
 put my scheme into execution ; and I don't despair of succeeding, as by your 
 means I can have frequent opportunities of being about him, without being 
 known. What a pity it is, Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should 
 produce so much neglect of himself, as to require correction ! Yet, we must 
 touch his weaknesses with a delicate hand. There are some faults so nearly 
 allied to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice without eradicating 
 the virtue. {Exit.) 
 
 Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honeywood. It is not without 
 reason that the world allows thee to be the best of men. But here comes his 
 hopeful nephew ; the strange, good-natured, foolish, open-hearted. And yet, 
 all his faults are such that one loves him still the better for them. 
 
 Ejitcr Honeywood. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my friends this morning? 
 
 Jarziis. You have no friends. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, from my acquaintance then .-• 
 
 Jarvis. {Pidling ont bills) A few of our usual cards of compliment, that's 
 all. This bill from your tailor ; this from your mercer ; and this from the little 
 broker in Crooked Lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trouble to 
 get back the money you borrowed. 
 
 Ho7ieywood. That I don't know ; but I'm more sure we were at a great 
 deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. 
 
 Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 
 
 Honeywood. Then he has lost a very good thing. 
 
 Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gentleman 
 and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth, for a while 
 at least. 
 
 Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the meantime ? 
 
Jarz-is A few of our usual cards of compliment, that's all. Thi^ 1«11 from your ta.lor : 
 this from your mercer : and this from the little broker in Crooked Lane. Ho says he ha, 
 been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. 
 
 Honey-vood. That I don't know ; but I'm more sure we were at a great deal of "■°"J'«^'J' 
 getting him to lend it- 
 
314 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Must I be cruel because he happens to be importunate; and, to relieve his 
 avarice, leave them to insupportable distress ? 
 
 Jarvis. Sir, the question now is, how to relieve yourself — ^ yourself. 
 Haven't I reason to be out of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and 
 sevens ? 
 
 Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have for being out of your senses, 
 I hope you'll allow that I'm not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. You're the only man alive in your present situation that could da 
 so. Everything upon the waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine fortune 
 gone already, and upon the point of being given to your rival. 
 
 Honeywood. I'm no man's rival. 
 
 Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit you * your own fortune 
 almost spent ; and nothing but pressing creditors, false friends, and a pack of 
 drunken servants that your kindness has made unfit for any other family. 
 
 Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion ^or being in mine. 
 
 Jarvis. So ! What will you have done A^ith him that I caught stealing 
 your plate in the pantry ? In the fact ; I caught him in the fact. 
 
 Honeywood. In the fact .-* If so, I really think that we should pay him his 
 wages, and turn him off. 
 
 Jarvis He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog; we'll hang him, if it 
 be only to frighten the rest of the family. 
 
 Honeywood. No, Jarvis ; it's enough that we have lost what he has stolen , 
 let us not add to it the loss of a fellow-creature. 
 
 Jarvis Very fine ; well, here was the footman just now, to complain of 
 the butler ; he says he does most work, and ought to have most wages. 
 
 Honeywood. That's but just : though perhaps here comes the butler to 
 complain of the footman. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the scullion to the privy- 
 councillor. If they have a bad master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if 
 they have a good master, they keep quarrelling with one another. 
 
 Enter BUTLER, drunk. 
 
 Butler. Sir, I'll not stay 'fd. the family with.Jonathan : you must part with 
 him, or part with me — that's the ex-ex-position of the matter, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But what's his fault, good Philip ? 
 
 Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I shall have my morals cor- 
 rupted, by keeping such company. 
 
 Honeywood. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way 
 
 Jarvis. Oh ! quite amusing. 
 
 Butler. I find my wines a-going, sir; and liquors don't gj without mouths 
 sir ; I hate a drunkard, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon that another time, so go 
 to bed now. 
 
 Jarvis. To bed ! Let him go to 
 
The Good-natured Man. 315 
 
 Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and begging your pardon, master 
 Jarvis, I'll not go to bed. I have enough to do to mind my cellar. I forgot, 
 your honour, Mr Croaker is below I came on purpose to tell you. 
 
 Honeywood. Why didn't you show him up, blockhead } 
 
 Butler. Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. Up or down, all's one 
 to me. {Exit.) 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this house from morning 
 till night. He comes on the old affair, I suppose ; the match between his son, 
 that's just returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, the young lady he's 
 guardian to. 
 
 Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr Croaker, knowing my friendship for the 
 young lady, has got it into his head that I can persuade her to what I please. 
 
 Jarvis Ah! if you loved yourself but half as well as she loves you, we 
 should soon see a marriage that would set all things to rights again. 
 
 Honeywood. Love me! Sure. Jarvis you dream. No, no ; her intimacy with 
 me never amounted to more than mere friendship — mere friendship. That she 
 is the most lovely woman that ever warmed the human heart, I own. But never 
 let me harbour a thought of making her unhappy, by a connection with one so un- 
 worthy her merits, as I am. No, Jarvis ; it shall be my study to serve her, even 
 in spite of my wishes; and to secure her happiness, though jt destroys my own. 
 
 Jarvis. Was ever the like ? I want patience. 
 
 Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Richland's consent, 
 do you think I could succeed with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker his wife ; who, 
 though both very fine in their way, are yet a little opposite in their dispositions, 
 you know .-* 
 
 Jarvis Opposite enough : the very reverse of each other ; she all laugh 
 and no joke, he always complaining and never sorrowful ; a fretful, poor soul, 
 that has a new distress for every hour in the four-and-twenty 
 
 Honeywood. Hush, hush, he's coming up! he'll hear you, 
 
 Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing-bell 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well, go, do. 
 
 Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin and cross- 
 bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig of deadly nightshade ; a (Honeywood, 
 
 stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off). {Exi ' J ARVIS.) 
 
 Honeywood. I must own, my old monitor is not entirely wrong. There is 
 something in my friend Croaker's conversation that quite depresses me. His 
 very mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a stronger effect 
 on my spirits than an undertaker's shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is such a satis- 
 faction 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of them. 
 How is this .? You look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this 
 weather does not affect your spirits. To be sure, if this weather continues — I 
 say nothing — but may we be all better this day three months. 
 
3i6 Casseirs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Honeywood. I heartily concur in the wish, though I own, not in your 
 apprehensions. 
 
 Croaker. Maybe not. Indeed, what signifies what weather we have, in a 
 country going to ruin Hke ours ? Taxes rising and trade falHng. Money flying 
 out of the kingdom and Jesuits swarming into it. I know at this time no less 
 than a hundred and twenty-seven Jesuits between Charing Cross and Temple 
 Bar. 
 
 Honeyivood. The Jesuits will scarcely pervert you or me, I should hope ? 
 
 Croaker. Maybe not. Indeed, what signifies whom they pervert in a 
 country that has scarce any religion to lose ? I'm only afraid of our wives and 
 daughters. 
 
 Honeywood. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you. 
 
 Croaker. Maybe not. Indeed, what signifies whether they be perverted or 
 not ? The women in my time were good for something. I have seen a lady 
 dressed from top to toe in her own manufactures formerly. But now-a-days 
 there's not a thing of their own manufacture about them, except their faces. 
 
 Honeywood. But, however these faults may be practised abroad, you don't 
 find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland. 
 
 Croaker. The best of them will never be canonised for a saint when she's 
 dead. By-the-by, my dear friend, I don't find this match between Miss Rich- 
 land and my son much relished, either by one side or t'other. 
 
 Honeywood, I thought otherwise. 
 
 Croaker. Ah! Mr. Honeywood,. a little of your fine serious advice to the 
 young lady might go far : I know she has a very exalted opinion of your 
 understanding. 
 
 Honeyzvood. But would not that be usurping an authority that more pro- 
 perly belongs to yourself? 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority at home* 
 People think, indeed, because they see me come out in a morning thus, with 
 a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that all's well within. But I 
 have cares that would break a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached 
 upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in 
 my own house. 
 
 Honeywood But a little spirit exerted on your side might perhaps restore 
 your authority. 
 
 Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion. I do rouse sometimes 
 But what then .'* always haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting the 
 better, before his wife is tired of losing the victory. 
 
 Honeyzvood. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our chief comforts 
 often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions i3 
 but an inlet to new disquietudes. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words of Poor Dick Doleful 
 to me not a week before he made away with himself Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, 
 I never see you but you put me in mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit 
 
■ The Gcod-nahircd Man. 3 1 7 
 
 neglected for you ! and so true a friend ; we loved each other for thirty years^ 
 and yet he never asked me to lend him a single farthing. 
 
 Honeywood. Pray, what could induce him to commit so rash an action at 
 last ? 
 
 Croaker. I don't know ; some people were malicious enough to say it was 
 keeping company with me ; because we used to meet, now and then, and open 
 our hearts to each other. To be sure, I loved to hear him talk, and he loved to 
 hear me talk. Poor dear Dick ! He used to say that Croaker rhymed to joker ; 
 and so we used to laugh — Poor Dick ! {Going to cry.) 
 
 Honeywood. His fate affects me. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, he grew sick of this miserable life, where we do nothing but 
 eat and grow hungry, dress and undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, 
 that should watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast asleep as we do. 
 
 Honeywood. To say a truth, if we compare that part of life which is to 
 come, by that which we have passed, the prospect is hideous. 
 
 Croaker. Life at the greatest and best is but a froward child, that must be 
 humoured and coaxed a little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. 
 
 Honeywood. Very true, sir ; nothing can exceed the vanity of our existence 
 but the folly of our pursuits. We wept when we came mto the world, and 
 every day tells us why. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, it is a perfect satisfaction to be miserable 
 with you. My son Leontine shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. 
 I'll just step home for him. I am willing to show him so much seriousness in 
 one scarce older than himself And what if I bring my last letter to the 
 Gazetteer on the increase and progress of earthquakes .-' It will amuse us, I 
 promise you. I there prove how the late earthquake is coming round to pay 
 us another visit from London to Lisbon, from Lisbon to the Canary Islands, 
 from the Canary Islands to Palmyra, from Palmyra to Constantinople, and so 
 from Constantinople back to London again. {Exit.) 
 
 Hofteywood. Poor Croaker ! His situation deserves the utmost pity. I 
 shall scarce recover my spirits these three days. Sure, to live upon such 
 terms is worse than death itself And yet, when I consider my own situation : 
 a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, friends in distress ; the wish but not the 
 power to serve them. {Pausing and sighing.) 
 
 Enter BUTLER. 
 Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. Shall 
 I show them up ? But they're showing up themselves. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. 
 
 Miss Rich. You're always in such spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Honeywood, from the auction. 
 There was the old deaf dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself: 
 and then so curious in antiques ! herself the most genuine piece of antiquity in 
 the whole collection. 
 
Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Hojieywood. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness from friendship makes 
 me unfit to share in this good humour: I know you'll pardon me. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. I vow, he seems as melancholy as if he had taken a dose of 
 my husband this morning Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I must. 
 
 Miss Rich. You would seem to insinuate, madam, that I have particular 
 reasons for being disposed to refuse it. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, don't be so ready to wish an 
 explanation. 
 
 Miss Rich. I own I should be sorry Mr. Honeywood's long friendship and 
 mine should be misunderstood. 
 
 Honey-wood. There's no answering for others, madam ; but I ' hope you'll 
 never find me presuming to offer more than the most delicate friendship may 
 readily allow. 
 
 Miss Rich. And I shall be prouder of such a tribute from you, than the 
 most passionate professions from others. 
 
 Honeywood My own sentiments, madam : friendship is a disinterested 
 commerce between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and 
 slaves. 
 
 Miss Rich. And, without a compliment, I know none more disinterested or 
 more capable of friendship than Mr Honeywood. 
 
 Mrs Croaker. And. indeed, I know nobody that has more friends — at least, 
 among the ladies. Miss Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom praise 
 him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, she's his professed admirer. 
 
 j\[iss Rich. Indeed ! an admirer ! I did not know, sir, you were such a 
 favourite there. But is she seriously so handsome .'' Is she the mighty thing 
 talked of ? 
 
 Honeywood. The town, madam, seldom begins to praise a lady's beauty 
 till she's beginning to lose it. {.Sniili7ig.) 
 
 Mrs Croaker. But she's resolved never to lose it, it seems ; for as her natural 
 face decays, her skill improves in making the artificial one. Well, nothing 
 diverts me more than one of those fine old dressy things, who thinks to conceal 
 her age by everywhere exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front of 
 a side box ; trailing through a minuet at Almack's ; and then, in the public 
 gardens, looking for all the world like one of tke painted ruins of the place. 
 
 Honeywood Every age has its admirers, ladies. While you, perhaps, are 
 trading among the warmer climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry 
 on a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty. 
 
 Miss Rich. But then the mortifications they must suffer before they can be 
 fitted out for traffic ! I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her hair- 
 dresser, when all the fault was her face. 
 
 Honeywood. And yet, I'll engage, has carried that face at last to a very 
 good market. This good-natured town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, 
 to fit every age, from fifteen to fourscore. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Well, you're a dear, good-natured creature. But you know 
 
Th:: Good-natured Man. 319 
 
 you're engaged with us this morning upon a strolHng party. I want to show- 
 Olivia the town, and the things ; I beheve I shall have business for you for the 
 whole day. 
 
 Honcytvood. I am sorry, madam, I have an appointment with Mr. Croaker, 
 which it is impossible to put off. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husband ">. Then I'm resolved to take no 
 refusal. Nay, I protest you must. You know I never laugh so much as with 
 you. 
 
 Ho7ieywood. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear, you have put me into such 
 spirits Well, do you find jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you. We'll wait 
 for the chariot in the next room. {Exeunt.) 
 
 Enter Leontine and Olivia. 
 
 Leont. There they go, thoughtless and happy, my dearest Olivia. What 
 would I give to see you capable of sharing their amusements, and as cheerful 
 as thev are ! 
 
 Ohvia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, when I have so many 
 terrors to oppress me .? The fear of being detected by this family, and the 
 apprehensions of a censuring world, when I must be detected 
 
 Leont. The world ! my love, what can it say } At worst, it can only say 
 that, being compelled by a mercenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, 
 you formed a resolution of flying with the man of your choice; that you con- 
 fided in his honour and took refuge in my father's house ; the only one where 
 yours could remain without censure 
 
 Olivia. But consider Leontine, your disobedience and my indiscretion : 
 3-our being sent to France to bring home a sister, and, instead of a sister, 
 bnnging home 
 
 Leont. One dearer than a thousand sisters ; one that I arp convinced will 
 be equally dear to the rest of the family, when she comes to be known. 
 
 Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 
 
 Leont. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper to make the discovery. 
 My sister, you know, has been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child ; 
 and you find every creature in the family takes you for her. 
 
 Olivia. But mayn't she write .'' mayn't her aunt write .-* 
 
 Leont. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my sister's letters are directed 
 to me. 
 
 Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for whom you know the 
 old gentleman intends you, create a suspicion } 
 
 Leont. There, there's my master-stroke. I have resolved not to refuse her : 
 nay, an hour hence I have consented to go with my father, to make her an offer 
 of my heart and fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Your heart and fortune ! 
 
 Leont. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can Olivia think so meanly of my 
 honour, or my love, as to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any 
 
Honeywood. I am sorry, madam, 1 have an appointment with Mr. Croaker, which it is 
 impossible to put off. .Z<2223t 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husbana ' Then I'm resolved to take no refusal Nay, I 
 protest you must. You know I never laugh so much as with you. ■^'^^ •'• '"^^«^A 
 
The Good-natured Man. 3^1 
 
 but her ? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me to add, the delicacy 
 of my passion, leaves any room to suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland 
 'a heart I am convinced she will refuse ; as I am confident that, without 
 knowing it, her affections are fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Olivia. Mr. Honeywood! You'll excuse my apprehensions, but when 
 your merits come to be put in the balance 
 
 Leont. You view them with too much partiality. However, by making^ 
 this offer, I show a seeming compliance with my father's command ; and 
 perhaps, upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose for myself. 
 
 Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I own I shall envy her 
 even your pretended addresses. I consider every look, every expression ot 
 your esteem, as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps — I allow it ; but it is 
 natural to suppose, that merit which has made an impression on one's owa 
 heart may be powerful over that of another. 
 
 Leont. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us make imaginary evils, when 
 you know we have so many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if 
 Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his pardon, it can but end in 
 
 a trip to Scotland ; and 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croaker. Where have you been, boy } I have been seeking j^ou. My 
 friend Honeywood here has been saying such comfortable things. Ah! ne's an 
 example indeed. Where is he .-* I left him here. 
 
 Leont. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear him too, in the next room . 
 he's preparing to go out with the ladies. 
 
 Croaker. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or my ears .'' I'm struck 
 dumb with his vivacity, and stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was there 
 ever such a transformation .'* {A laugh behind the scenes ; Croaker viiniics it.) 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it goes ; a plague take their balderdash ! Yet I could 
 expect nothing less, when my precious wife was of the party. On my con- 
 science, I believe she could spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a taber- 
 nacle. 
 
 Leont. Since you find so many objections to a wife, sir, how can you be so 
 earnest in recommending one to me } 
 
 Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, that Miss Richland's 
 fortune must not go out of the family ; one may find comfort in the money 
 whatever one does in the wife. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, though, in obedience to your desire, I am ready to marry 
 her, it may be possible she has no inclination to me. 
 
 Croaker. I'll te^- you once for all how it stands. A good part of Mis9 
 Richland's large fortune consists in a claim upon Government, which my good 
 friend, Mr. Lofty, assures me the Treasury will allow. One half of this she is to 
 forfeit, by her father's will, in case she refuses to marry you. So if she rejects 
 you, we seize half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we seize the whole, and a fine 
 girl into the bargain. 
 
 21 
 
322 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, if you will but listen to reason 
 
 Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell you I'm fixed — deter- 
 mined, so now produce your reasons. When I'm determined I always listen to 
 reason, because it can then do no harm. 
 
 Leont. You have alleged that a mutual choice was the first requisite 
 in matrimonial happiness 
 
 Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a mutual choice. She has her 
 choice — to marry you, or lose half her fortune ; and you have your choice — to 
 marry her, or pack out of doors without any fortune at all. 
 
 Leont. An only son, sir, might expect more indulgence. 
 
 Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more obedience. Besides, has 
 not your sister here, that never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you .'' 
 He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. But he shan't, I 
 tell you he shan't, for you shall have your share. 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced that I can never be happy in 
 any addition to my fortune which is taken from his. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, it's a good child ; so say no more, but come with me, 
 and we shall see something that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise 
 you — old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, lying in state. I'm told he makes a 
 very handsome corpse, and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an 
 intimate friend of mine, and these are friendly things we ought to do for each 
 other, CE-xeimt) 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I.— Croaker's House. 
 Miss Richland, Garnet. 
 
 Miss Rich. Olivia not his sister.? Olivia not Leontine's sister.? You 
 amaze me. 
 
 Garnet. No more his sister than I am. I had it all from his own servant ; 
 I can get anything from that quarter. 
 
 Hiss Rich. But how } Tell me again, Garnet. 
 
 Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead of going to Lyons to 
 bring home his sister, who has been there with her aunt these ten years, he 
 never went farther than Paris; there he saw and fell in love with this young 
 lady : by-the-by, o-f a prodigious family. 
 
 Miss Rich. And brought her home to my guardian, as his daughter } 
 
 Garnet. Yes, and daughter she will be. If he don't consent to their 
 marriage, they talk of trying what a Scotch parson can do. 
 
 Miss Rich, Well, I own they have deceived me ; and so demurely as Olivia 
 
The Good-iidiured Man, 323 
 
 carried it, too ! Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my secrets ; and 
 yet the sly cheat concealed all this from me. 
 
 Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don't much blame her; she was 
 loth to trust one with her secrets, that was so very bad at keeping her own. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, to add to their deceit, the young gentleman, it seems, 
 pretends to make me serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be here 
 presently, to open the afifair in form. You know, I am to lose half my fortune 
 if I refuse him. 
 
 Garnet. Yet what can you do } for being, as you are, in love with Mr. 
 Honey wood, madam 
 
 Miss Rich. How, idiot ! what do you mean .? In love with Mr. Honey- 
 wood ! Is this to provoke me } 
 
 Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him : I meant nothing more 
 than friendship, as I hope to be married ; nothing more. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, no more of this. As to my guardian and his son, they 
 shall find m.e prepared to receive them. I'm resolved to accept their proposal 
 with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance, and so throw the refusal 
 at last upon them. 
 
 Garnet. Delicious! and that will secure your whole fortune to yourself 
 W^ell, who could have thought so innocent a face could cover so much cuteness .? 
 
 Miss Rich. Why, girl, I only oppose my prudence to their cunning, and 
 practise a lesson they have taught me against themselves. 
 
 Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want employment ; for here they 
 come, and in close conference. 
 
 Enter Croaker, Leontine. 
 
 Leont. Excuse me, sir; if I seem to hesitate upon the point of putting to 
 the lady so important a question. 
 
 Croaker. Good sir, moderate your fears; you're so plaguy shy, that one 
 would think you had changed sexes. I tell you, we must have the half or the 
 whole. Come, let me see with what spirit you begin. We'll, why don't you ? 
 Eh } What } Well, then, I must, it seems. Miss Richland, my dear, I believe 
 you guess at our business ; an afifair which my son comes here to open, that 
 nearly concerns your happiness. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to be pleased with anything 
 that comes recommended by you. 
 
 Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer opening } Why don't you 
 begin, I say.? (Tc? Leont.) 
 
 Leont. 'Tis true, madam, my father, madam, has some intentions— hem — 
 of explaining an afifair— which— himself— can best explain, madam. 
 
 Croaker. Yes, my dear; it comes entirely from my son: it's all a request 
 of his own, madam. And I will permit him to make the best of it. 
 
 Leont. The whole afifair is only this, madam : my father has a proposal to 
 make, which he insists none but himself shall deliver. 
 
324 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Garnet. Delicious ! and that will secure your whole fortune to yoursel£ Well, who could have thought so inaocent a 
 face could cover so much cuteness ? Act II. Scene I. 
 
 Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will never be brought on. 
 {Aside)} In short, madam, you see before you one that loves you — one whose 
 whole happiness is all in you. 
 
 Miss Rich. I never had any doubts of your regard, sir ; and I hope you 
 can have none of my duty. 
 
 Croaker. That's not the thing, my little sweeting, my love. No, no^ 
 another-guess lover than I. There he stands, madam. His very looks declare 
 
 the force of his passion Call up a look, you dog But then, had you seen 
 
 him, as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes 
 melancholy and sometimes absent 
 
 Miss Rich. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such a declaration would have 
 come most properly from himself 
 
 Croaker. Himself, madam ! He would die before he could make such a 
 confession ; and if he had not a channel for his passion through me, it would 
 ere now have drowned his understanding. 
 
 Miss Rich. I must grant, sir, there are attractions in modest diffidence 
 above the force of words. A silent address is the genuine eloquence of 
 sincerity. 
 
7'he Good-Natured Man. 
 
 ;25 
 
 rroaTier. There he stands, madam. His very looks declare the force of his passion Call up a look, you dog But 
 
 then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy and Muietunes 
 aCsenl— — 
 
 Act II. Scene I. 
 
 Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other language ; silence i9 
 become his mother-tongue. 
 
 Miss Rich. And it must be confessed, sir, it speaks very powerfully in his 
 favour. And yet, I shall be thought too forward in making such a confession, 
 shan't I, Mr. Leontine ? 
 
 Leont. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. But, if modesty attracts her, 
 impudence may disgust her. I'll try. {Aside.) Don't imagine from my silence, 
 madam, that I want a due sense of the honour and happiness intended me. 
 My father, madam, tells me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to 
 you. He admires you ; I adore you : and when we come together, upon my 
 soul I believe we shall be the happiest couple in all St. James's. 
 
 Miss Rich. If I could flatter myself you thought as you speak, sir 
 
 Lcont. Doubt my sincerity, madam .? By your dear self I swear. Ask 
 
 the brave if they desire glory, ask cowards if they covet safety 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, no more questions about it. 
 
 Lcont. Ask the sick if they long for health, ask misers if they love money, 
 
 asK- 
 
 Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ! What's come over the boy ? 
 
126 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 What signifies asking, when there's net a soul to give you an answer ? If you 
 would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's consent to make you happy. 
 
 Miss Rich. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon ardour almost compels me, 
 forces me, to comply. And yet, I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained with 
 too much ease, won't you, Mr. Leontine .'' 
 
 Leont. Confusion ! {Aside.) Oh, by no means, madam — by no means 
 And yet, madam, you talked of force. There is nothing I would avoid so 
 much as compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam ; I will still be 
 generous, and leave you at liberty to refuse. 
 
 Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at liberty. It's a match. You 
 see she says nothing. Silence gives consent. 
 
 Leont. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, sir, the cruelty of constrain- 
 ing her inclinations. 
 
 Croaker. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you know, blockhead, that 
 girls have always a round-about way of saying Yes before company } So get 
 you both gone together into the next room, and hang him that interrupts the 
 tender explanation. Get you gone, I say ; I'll not hear a word. 
 
 Leont. "But, sir, I must beg leave to insist 
 
 Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to insist upon knocking you 
 down. Stupid whelp ! But I don't wonder; the boy takes entirely after h.'5 
 mother. {Exeunt MiSS RiCHLAND and Leontini. 
 
 E7tter Mrs. Croaker. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something, my dear, that I believe 
 will make you smile. 
 
 Croaker. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. A letter; and, as I knew the hand, I ventured to open it. 
 
 Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking open my letters should 
 give me pleasure .-' 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Pooh, it's from your sister at Lyons, and contains good 
 news : read it. 
 
 Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That sister of mine has some 
 good qualities, but I could never teach her to fold a letter. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it contains. 
 
 Croaker. {Reading) 
 
 Dear Nick, — 
 
 An English gentleman, of large fortune, has for some time made private, though 
 
 honourable, proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love each other tenderly, and I find she 
 
 «as consented, without letting any of the family know, to crown his addresses. As such good 
 
 offers don't come every day, your own good sense, his large fortune, and family considerations, 
 
 will induce you to forgive her. Yours ever, 
 
 Rachel Croaker. 
 
 My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of large fortune ! This 
 is good news indeed, My heart never foretold me of this. And yet, how slily 
 
The Good-natured Maji. 327 
 
 the little baggage has carried it since she came home ! Not a word on't to 
 the old ones, for the world ! Yet I thought I saw something she wanted to 
 conceal. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed their love-making, they shan't 
 conceal their wedding; that shall be public, I'm resolved. 
 
 Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the most foolish part of the 
 ceremony. I can never get this woman to think of the more serious part of 
 the nuptial engagement. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What ! would you have me think of their funeral .-' But 
 come, tell me,- my dear, don't you owe more to me than you care to confess } 
 Would you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has undertaken Miss 
 Richland's claim at the Treasury, but for me } Who was it first made him an 
 acquaintance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout .-* Who got him to promise us his 
 interest .-* Is not he a back-stairs- favourite, one that can -do what he pleases 
 with those that do what they please .-* Isn't he an acquaintance that all your 
 groaning and lamentations could never have got us } 
 
 Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant you ; and yet, what amazes 
 me is, that while he is giving away places to all the world, he can't get one for 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. That, perhaps, may be owing- to his nicety. Great men are 
 not easily satisfied. 
 
 Enter French Servant. 
 
 Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil be vait upon your 
 honours instammant. He be only giving four five instruction, read two tree 
 memorial, call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in one tree minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. You see now, my dear, what an extensive departments 
 Well, friend, let your master know that we are extremely honoured by this 
 honour. Was there anything ever in a higher style of breeding .'' All messages 
 among the great are now done by express. 
 
 Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things with more solemnity, or 
 claims more respect, than he. But he's in the right on't. In our bad world, 
 respect is given where respect is claimed. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear ; you were never in a 
 pleasanter place in your life. Let us now think of receiving him with proper 
 respect {a loud rapping at the door) : and there he is, by the thundering rap. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ; as close upon the heels of his own 
 express a? an indorsement upon the back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you 
 to receive him, whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to steal 
 a marriage without mine or her aunt's consent. I must seem to be angry, or 
 she too may begin to despise my authority. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter LoFTY, speaking to his Servant. 
 Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing creature the 
 marquis, should call, I'm not at home. I'll be packhorse to none of them. 
 
Lofty. Madam, I ask a thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 A<:t II. Sceue I. 
 
The Good-natured Man. 329 
 
 M\- dear madam, I have just snatched a moment. And if the expresses to 
 his grace be ready, let them be sent ofif ; they're of importance. Madam, I ask 
 a thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the commission, let him 
 know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can 
 keep cold : you understand me. Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you 
 must do him ; you must do him, I say. Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 
 And if the Russian ambassador calls — but he will scarce call to-day, I believe. 
 And now, madam, I have just got time to express my happiness in having 
 the honour of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient humble 
 servant. 
 
 JMrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine. And yet, I'm 
 only robbing the public while I detain you. 
 
 Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be attended. Ah! 
 could all my hours be so charmingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity 
 us poor creatures in affairs .'' Thus it is eternally : solicited for places here, 
 teased for pensions there, and courted everywhere. I know you pity me. 
 Yes, I see you do. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir. " Toils of empires pleasures are," as Waller 
 says. 
 
 Lofty. Waller ! Waller! Is he of the house ? 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, sir. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise the moderns ; and as 
 for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing 
 enough for our wives and daughters ; but not for us. Why now, here I stand 
 that know nothing of books — I say, madam, I 'know nothing of books ; and 
 yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp-act, or a jaghire, I can talk 
 my two hours without feeling the want of them. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty 's eminence in every 
 capacity. 
 
 Lofty. I vow, madam, you make me blush. I'm nothing, nothing, nothing, 
 in the world ; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of 
 the present ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know 
 they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upon my 
 soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat m.e so. Measures, not men, have 
 always been my mark; and I vow, by all that's honourable, my resentment 
 has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm — that is, as mers 
 men. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what modesty .' 
 
 Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I own, Lm accessiblfe to 
 praise ; modesty is my foible ; it was so, the Duke ol iJrentfori Uo'^d to? 'ad,y of 
 
33^ Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 me. " I love Jack Lofty," he used to say : " no "man has a finer knowledg'e of 
 things — quite a man of information ; and when he speaks upon his legs, he's 
 prodigious ; he scouts them. And yet, all men have their faults : too much 
 modesty is his," says his grace. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't want assurance when you 
 come to solicit for your friends. 
 
 Lofty. Oh, there indeed I'm in bronze. Apropos, I have just been men- 
 tioning Miss Richland's case to a certain personage — we must name no names. 
 "When I ask, I am not to be put off, madam. No, no, I take my friend by the 
 button. "A fine girl, sir; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. 
 Borough-interest. Business must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secre- 
 tary, her business must be done, sir." That's my way, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Bless m^e i you said all this to the Secretary of State, did you } 
 
 Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I .'' Well, since you have found me 
 out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head at once ; not applying 
 to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us. 
 
 Lofty, Honeywood ! he! he! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. I suppose 
 you have heard what has just happened to him } 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Poor, dear man ! no accident, I hope } 
 
 Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors have taken him into 
 custody. A prisoner in his own house. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house ■! How } At this very time } 
 I'm quite unhappy for him. 
 
 Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was immensely good-natured ; 
 but then, I could never find that he had anything in him. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was excessively harmless — some, 
 indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion. 
 
 Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was dull — dull as the last 
 new comedy ! A poor, impracticable creature ! I tried once or twice to know if 
 he was fit for business, but he had scarce talents to be groom-porter to an 
 orange-barrow. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland think of him ! for I 
 believe, with all his faults, she loves him. 
 
 Lofty. Loves him 1 Does she } You should cure her of that, by all means. 
 Let me see : what if she were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful 
 situation } My life f®r it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote 
 to love. Suppose we join her in the next room } Miss Richland is a fine girl, 
 has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, 
 I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and, rather than she should be thrown away, 
 I should think it no indignity to marry her myself. {Exeimt.) 
 
 Enter OLIVIA and Leontine. 
 Leont. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every reason to expect Miss 
 
The Good-natured Man. 33^ 
 
 Richland's refusal, as I did everything in my power to deserve it. Her 
 indelicacy surprises me. 
 
 Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate in being sensible of 
 your merit. If so, I fear I shall be the most guilty thing alive. 
 
 Leont. But you mistake, my dear. The same attention I used to advance 
 my merit with you, I practised to lessen it with her. What more could I do .'' 
 
 Olivia. Let us now rather consider what's to be done. We have both dis- 
 sembled too long. I have always been ashamed, I am now quite weary of it. 
 Sure, I could never have undergone so much for any other but you. 
 
 Leont. And you shall find my gratitude equal to your kindest compliance 
 Though our friends should totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content 
 for the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of humble happiness, v/hen 
 it is now in our power .-* I may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; but 
 can it ever be thought that his present kindness to a supposed child will con- 
 tinue to a known deceiver .-' 
 
 Leont. I have many reasons to believe it will. As his attachments are but 
 few, they are lasting. His own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. 
 Besides, I have sounded him already at a distance, and find all his answers 
 exactly to our wish. Nay, by an expression or two that dropped from him, I am 
 induced to think he knows of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! but that would be a happiness too great to be expected. 
 
 Leont. However it be, I'm certain you have power over him ; and am 
 persuaded, if you informed him of our situation, that he would be disposed to 
 pardon it. 
 
 Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from your last scheme with 
 Miss Richland, which you find has succeeded most wretchedly. 
 
 Leont. And that's the best reason for trying another. 
 
 Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 
 
 Leont. As we could wish, he comes this way. Now, my dearest Olivia, be 
 resolute. I'll just retire within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to 
 share your danger or confirm your victory. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her; and yet not too easily, neither. It will 
 be proper to keep up the decorums of resentment a little, if it be only to 
 impress her with an idea of my authority. 
 
 Olivia. How I tremble to approach him! Might I presume, sir, — if I 
 interrupt you 
 
 Croaker. No, child ; where I have an affection, it is not a little thing can 
 interrupt me. AfTection gets over little things. 
 
 Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill I deserve this partiality. 
 Yet there is nothing I would not do to gain it. 
 
 Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded, you little hussy, you. With. 
 
CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 those endearing- ways of yours, on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive 
 anything, unless it were a very great offence indeed. 
 
 Olivia. But mine is such an offence. When you know my guilt Yes, 
 
 you shall know it, though I feel the greatest pain in the confession. 
 
 Croaker. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain, you may spare yourself 
 the trouble, for I know every syllable of the matter before you begin. 
 
 Olivia. Indeed ! Then I'm undone. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, without letting me know 
 it, did you } But I'm not worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's to be 
 a marriage in my own family. No, I'm nobody. I'm to be a mere article of 
 f mily lumber ; a piece of crack'd china to be stuck up in a corner. 
 
 Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your authority could induce us 
 to conceal it from you. 
 
 Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I'm as little minded as a 
 dead Russian in winter, just stuck up with a pipe in its mouth till there comes 
 a thaw It goes to my heart to vex her. {Aside.) 
 
 Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and despaired of pardon, even 
 while I presumed to ask it. But your severity shall never abate my affection, 
 as my punishment is but justice. 
 
 Croaker. And yet you should not despair neither, Livy. We ought to 
 hope all for the best. 
 
 Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir } Can I ever expect to be 
 forgiven .-* But hope has too long deceived me. 
 
 Croaker. Why, then, child, it shan't deceive you now, for I forgive you this 
 very moment ; I forgive you all ; and now you are indeed my daughter. 
 
 Olivia. Oh, transport ! This kindness overpowers me. 
 
 Croaker. I was always against severity to our children. We have been 
 young and giddy ourselves, and we can't expect boys and girls to be old before 
 their time. 
 
 Olivia. What generosity ! But can you forget the many falsehoods — the 
 dissimulation 
 
 Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin, you ; but where's the girl 
 that won't dissemble for a husband } My wife and I had never been married, 
 if we had not dissembled a little beforehand. 
 
 Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put such generosity to a second 
 trial. And as for the partner of my offence and folly, from his native honour, 
 and the just sense he has of his duty, I can answer for him that 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 Leont. Permit him. thus to answer for himself. {Kneeling.) Thus, sir, let 
 me speak my gratitude for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even 
 exceeds all your former tenderness : I can now boast the most indulgent of 
 fathers. The life he gave, compared to this, was but a trifling blessing. 
 
 Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that fine tragedy face, and 
 
Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for himself. Thus, sir, let me speal< my gratitude for 
 this unmerited forgiveness. ■Act II. Scene I. 
 
334 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 flourishing manner ? I don't know what we have to do with your gratitude 
 upon this occasion. 
 
 Leont- How, sir, is it possible to be silent when so much obliged ? Would 
 you refuse me the pleasure of being grateful ? of adding my thanks to my 
 Olivia's ? of sharing in the transports that you have thus occasioned ? 
 
 Croaker. Sir, we can be happy enough, without your coming in to make up 
 the party. I don't know what's the matter with the boy all this day ; he has 
 got into such a rhodomontade manner all the morning ! 
 
 Leont. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the benefit, is it not my duty 
 to show my joy .'' Is the being admitted to your favour so slight an obligation."* 
 Is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so small a blessing .'' 
 
 Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marrying his own sister ! 
 Sure the boy is out of his senses ! His own sister ! 
 
 Leont. My sister ! 
 
 Olivia. Sister! How have I been mistaken. (Aside.) 
 
 Leont. Some mistake in all this, I find. (Aside.) 
 
 Croaker What does the booby mean, or has he any meaning .'' Eh ? what 
 do you mean, you blockhead, you .'' 
 
 Leont. Mean, sir } — why, sir — only when my sister is to be married, that I 
 have the pleasure of marrying her, sir ; that is, of giving her away, sir — I have 
 made a point of it. 
 
 Croaker. Oh, that is all Y Give her away. You have made a point of it. 
 Then you had as good make a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm going 
 to prepare the writings between you and Miss Richland this very minute. 
 What a fuss is here about nothing ! Why, what's the matter now .'' I thought 
 I had made you at least as happy as you could wish. 
 
 Olivia. Oh ! yes, sir, very happy. 
 
 Croaker, Do you foresee anything, child .'' You look as if you did. I 
 think if anything was to be foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another; 
 and yet I foresee nothing. (Exit.) 
 
 Leontine, Olivia. 
 
 Olivia. What can it mean .'' 
 
 Leont. He knows something, and yet for my life I can't tell what. 
 
 Olivia. It can't be the connection between us, I'm pretty certain. 
 
 Leo7it. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved to put it out of Fortune's 
 power to repeat our mortification, I'll haste, and prepare for our journey to 
 Scotland this very evening. My friend Honeywood has promised me his 
 advice and assistance. I'll go to him, and repose our distresses on his friendly 
 bosom : and I know so much of his honest heart, that if he can't relieve our 
 uneasinesses, he will at least share them. {Exeunt) 
 
The Good-natured Man, 335 
 
 icT in. 
 
 SCENE I.— Young Honeywood's House. 
 Bailiff, Honeywood, Follower. 
 
 Bailiff. Look-ye, sir, I have arrested as good men as you in my time ; no 
 disparagement of you, neither. Men that would go forty guineas on a game 
 of cribbage. I challenge the town to show a man in more genteeler practice^ 
 than myself. 
 
 Honcyxvood. Without all question, Mr. . I forget your name, sir ? 
 
 Bailiff. How can you forget what you never knew.'* He! he ! he! 
 
 Honcyivood. May I beg leave to ask your name } 
 
 Bailiff. Yes, you may. 
 
 Honcyivood. Then, pray, sir, what is your name } 
 
 Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. He I he ! he ! A joke breaks 
 no bones, as we say among us that practise the law. 
 
 Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping it a secret, perhaps. 
 
 Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I'm ashamed to tell my 
 name to no man, sir. If you can show cause, as why, upon a special capus, 
 
 that I should prove my name. But, come, Timothy Twitch is my name. 
 
 And now you know my name, what have you to say to that } 
 
 Homywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, but that I have a 
 favour to ask, that's all. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted, as we say among 
 us that practise the law. I have taken an oath against granting favours. 
 Would you have me perjure myself.'* 
 
 Honeywood. But my request will come recommenoed in so strong a 
 manner, as, I believe, you'll have no scruple. {Pidling out his purse) The 
 thing is only this : I believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or 
 three days at farthest ; but as I would not have the affair known for the world, 
 I have thought of keeping you, and your good friend here, about me till the 
 debt is discharged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. 
 
 Bailiff. Oh ! that's another maxum, and altogether within my oath. For 
 certain, if an honest man is to get anything by a thing, there's no reason why 
 all things should not be done in civility. 
 
 Honeywood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. Twitch ; and yours is a 
 necessary one. {Gives him money) 
 
 Bailiff. Ohi your honour; 1 hope your honour takes nothing amiss as I 
 does, as I does nothing but my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can say 
 I ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill usage. If I saw that a 
 gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money not to see him for ten weeks 
 together. 
 
 Honcyivood, Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 
 
CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith 
 
 Bailiff, There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children : a guinea or two would be more to him 
 than twice as much to another. -Act III. Scene I. 
 
 Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to see a gentleman with a 
 tender heart. I don't know, but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all 
 that I have lost by my heart was put together, it would make a — but no 
 matter for that. 
 
 Honey wood. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The ingratitude of ^he 
 world can never deprive us of the conscious happiness of having acted with 
 humanity ourselves. 
 
 Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold. I love humanity 
 People may say that we, in our way, have no humanity ; but I'll show you my 
 humanity this moment. There's my follower here, little Flanigan, with a wife 
 and four children : a g-uinea or two would be more to him than twice as much 
 to another. Now, as I can't show him any humanity myself, I must beg leave 
 you'll do it for me. 
 
 Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most powerful recom- 
 mendation. {Giving money to the Follower)^ 
 
 Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what to do with your 
 money. But to business : we are to be here as your friends, I suppose. But 
 set in case company comes."" Little Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good 
 face ; a very good face : but then, he is a little seedy, as we say among us that 
 practise the law. Not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied without delay. 
 
The Good-natured Man. 337 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 
 
 Hojieywood. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. We must improve 
 my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan 
 have a suit of my clothes — quick — the brown and silver. Do you hear } 
 
 Servafit. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that 
 makes verses, because it was as good as new. 
 
 Honeywood. The white and gold, then. 
 
 Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because it was good for 
 nothing. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand, then : the blue and gold. 
 I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best in blue. {Exit Flanigan.) 
 
 Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in anything. Ah, if 
 your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love 
 with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy-cock 
 than he. Scents like a hound ; sticks like a weasel. He was master of the 
 ceremonies to the black Queen of Morocco, when I took him to follow me. 
 {Re-enter FLANIGAN.) Heh, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I 
 have a suit from the same place for myself 
 
 Honeywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg 
 you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you 
 will say nothing without being directed. 
 
 Bailiff. Never you fear me, I'll show the lady that I have something to 
 say for myself as well as another. One man has one way of talking, and 
 another man has another ; that's all the difference between them. 
 
 Enter MiSS RiCHLAND and her Maid. 
 
 Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But you know I'm yet 
 to thank you for choosing my little library. 
 
 Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as it was I that was obliged 
 by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch 
 and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. 
 
 Miss Rich. Who can these odd-looking men be } I fear it is as I was 
 informed. It must be so. {Aside.) 
 
 Bailiff. {After a pause.) Pretty weather, very pretty weather, for the time 
 of the year, madam. 
 
 Follower. Very good circuit weather in the country. 
 
 Honeywood. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. M/ 
 inends, madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The 
 fair should, in some measure, recompense the toils of the brave. 
 
 Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gentlemen 
 are in the marine service, I presume, sir ? 
 
 22 
 
33^ Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasionally serve in the Fleet, 
 madam : a dangerous service. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised me that, while 
 we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at 
 home to praise it. 
 
 Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have not written as our 
 soldiers have fought ; but they have done all they could, and Hawke or 
 Amherst could do no more. 
 
 Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled by a dull 
 writer. 
 
 Honeytvood. We should not be so severe against dull writers, madam. It 
 is ten to one, but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who 
 presumes to despise him. 
 
 Follower. the French, the parle vous, and all that belong to them ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir ! 
 
 Ho7teywood. Ha ! ha ! ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan. A true English officer, 
 madam ; he's not contented with beating the French, but he will scold them 
 too. 
 
 Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me but that 
 severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adopting the severity of 
 French taste that has brought them in turn to taste us. 
 
 Bailiff. Taste us, madam ! they devour us. Give Monseers but a taste, 
 and they come in for a bellyful. 
 
 Miss Rich. Very extraordinary, this. 
 
 Follower. But very true. What makes the bread rising } — the parle vous 
 that devour U3. What makes the mutton fivepence a pound .'' — the parle vous 
 that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot 
 
 Honeywood. A.h ! the vulgar rogues ! All will be out. {Aside.) Right, 
 gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and quite to the purpose. They draw 
 a parallel, madam, between the mental taste and that of our senses. We are 
 injured as much by French severity in the one, as by French rapacity in the 
 other. That's their meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet I'll own that 
 we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our friends, that have now and 
 then agreeable absurdities to recommend them. 
 
 Bailiff. That's all my eye. The king only can pardon, as the law says ; 
 for .set in case 
 
 Honeywood. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see the whole drift of your 
 argument. Yes, certainly, our presuming to pardon any work is arrogating the 
 power that belongs to another. If all have power to condemn, what writer can 
 be free } 
 
 Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set him free at any' 
 time. For set in case 
 
 Honeyivood. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If, madam, as my frtend 
 
The Good-natured Man. 339 
 
 observes, our laws are so careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be 
 equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 
 
 Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed, you know 
 
 Honeyzvood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you could not improve the 
 last observation. For my own part, I think it conclusive. 
 
 Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap 
 
 Honeywood. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance to be positive. For 
 where is the necessity of censuring works without genius, which must shortly 
 sink of themselves .'' what is it, but aiming an unnecessary blow against a 
 victim already under the hands of justice .-* 
 
 Bailiff. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens, if you talk about justice, I think I 
 am at home there ; for, in a course of law 
 
 Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you'd be at perfectly, and 
 I believe the lady must be sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I 
 suppose you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course of law .'' 
 
 Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive only that you answer one 
 gentleman before he has finished, and the other before he has well begun. 
 
 Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make the matter out. 
 This here question is about severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of 
 they. Now, to explain the thing 
 
 Honeywood. Oh ! your explanations. {Aside.) 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak with you upon earnest 
 business. 
 
 Honeywood. That's lucky. {Aside.) Dear madam, you'll excuse me and 
 my good friends here for a few minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse 
 you. Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with such friends. 
 After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must ; but I know your natural 
 politeness. 
 
 Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 
 
 Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind — before and behind ! 
 
 {Excnnt HONEYWOOD, Bailiff, rt;/^ Follower.) 
 
 Miss Rich. What can all this mean. Garnet } 
 
 Garnet Mean, madam t why, what should it mean, but what Mr. Lofty 
 sent you here to see .'* These people he calls officers are officers sure enough \ 
 sheriff's officers — bailiffs, madam. 
 
 Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his perplexities are far from 
 giving me pleasure, yet I own there's something very ridiculous in them, and a 
 just punishment for his dissimulation. 
 
 Garnet. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, that the lawyer you just 
 employed to pay his debts and set him free, has not done it by this time. He 
 ought at least to have been here before now. But lawyers are always more 
 ready to get a man into troubles than out of them. 
 
340 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Enter SiR WILLIAM. 
 
 Sir Will. For Miss Richland to undertake setting- him free, I own, was 
 quite unexpected. It has totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet 
 it gives me pleasure to find that, among a number of worthless friendships, he 
 has made one acquisition of real value ; for there must be some softer passion 
 on her side that prompts this generosity. Ha ! here before me ! I'll endeavour 
 to sound her affections. Madam, as I am the person that have had some 
 demands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll excuse me if, before 
 I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself 
 
 Miss Rich. The precaution was very unnecessary, sir. I suppose your 
 wants were only such as my agent had power to satisfy .'' 
 
 Sir Will Partly, madam. But I was also willing you should be fully 
 apprised of the character of the gentleman you intended to serve. 
 
 Miss Rich. It must come, sir, with a very ill grace from you. To censure 
 it, after what you have done, would look like malice ; and to speak favourably 
 of a character you have oppressed, would be impeaching your own. And sure* 
 his tenderness, his humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for many 
 faults. 
 
 Sir Will. That friendship, madam, which is exerted in too wide a sphere 
 becomes totally useless. Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears v.hen 
 diffused too widely. They who pretend most to this wniversal benevolence are 
 either deceivers or dupes — men who desire to cover their private ill-nature by 
 a pretended regard for all ; or men who, reasoning themselves into false 
 feelings, are more earnest in pursu't of splendid than of useful virtues. 
 
 Miss Rich. I am surprised, sir, to hear one who has probably been a gainer 
 by the folly of others, so severe in his censure of it. 
 
 Sir Will. Whatever I may have gained by folly, madam, you see I am 
 willing to prevent your losing by it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Your cares for me, sir, are unnecessary. I always suspect 
 those, services which are denied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, 
 in hopes of a refusal. No, sir; my directions have been given, and I insist 
 upon their being complied with. 
 
 Sir Will. Thou amiable woman ! I can no longer contain the expressions 
 of my gratitude — my pleasure. You see before you one who has been equally 
 careful of his interest — one who has for some time been a concealed spectator 
 of his follies, and only punished in hope to reclaim them — his uncle. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir William Honeywood ! You amaze me. How shall I 
 conceal my confusion .'' I fear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in my 
 
 services. I confess I 
 
 Sir Will. Don't make any apologies, madam. I only find myself unable 
 to repay the obligation. And yet I have been trying my interest of late to 
 serve you. Having learnt, madam, that you had some demands upon Govern- 
 ment, I have though unasked, been your solicitor there. 
 
tr-sc 
 
 Lo/ty Why. madam— but let it go no f-urlhei — it wa; I procured him his olace. 
 ^(V \William. Did you sir ? 
 Lojl],. Eithci you or i su. 
 
342 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I am infinitely obliged to your intentions ; but my guardian 
 has employed another gentleman, who assures him of success. 
 
 Sir Will. Who ? the important little man that visits here ? Trust me, 
 madam, he's quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to 
 serve you. Mr. Lofty 's promises are much better known to people of fashion 
 than his person, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Rich. How have we been deceived ! As sure as can be, here he 
 comes. 
 
 Sir Will. Does he .-* Remember, I'm to continue unknown. My return 
 to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he 
 enters ! 
 
 Enter LoFTY 
 
 Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off; I'll visit to his Grace's in 
 a chair. Miss Richland here before me ! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of 
 humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of this kind should happen, 
 especially to a man I have shown everywhere, and carried amongst us as a 
 particular acquaintance. 
 
 Miss Rich. I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes of 
 others your own. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man like me do } One man 
 can't do everything ; and then I do so much in this way every day. Let me 
 see, something considerable might be done for him by subscription ; it could 
 not fail if I carried the list. I'll undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two 
 dozen lords, and half the Lower House, at my own peril. 
 
 Sir Will. And after all, it is more than probable, sir, he might reject the 
 offer of such powerful patronage. 
 
 Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do .-* You know I never make pro- 
 mises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him in the way of 
 business ; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir William Honeywood, the man was 
 utterly impracticable. 
 
 Sir Will. His uncle! Then that gentleman, I suppose, is a particular 
 friend of yours .'' 
 
 Lofty. Meaning me, sir.-* Yes, madam, as I often said, My dear Sir 
 William, you are sensible I would do anything, as far as my poor interest goes, 
 to serve your family ; but what can be done .'' There's no procuring first-rate 
 places for ninth-rate abilities. 
 
 Miss Rich. I have heard of Sir William Honeywood; he's abroad in 
 employment. He confided in your judgment, I suppose 1 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, madam; I believe Sir William had some reason to 
 confide in my judgment: one little reason, perhaps. 
 
 Miss Rich. Pray, sir, what was it .'' 
 
 Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no further — ^it was I procured him his 
 place. 
 
The Good-natured Man. 343 
 
 Sir Will. Did you, sir ? 
 Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 
 
 Miss Rich. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, indeed. 
 
 Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had some amusing qualities : no man 
 was fitter to be toast-master to a club, or had a better head. 
 Miss Rich. A better head ? 
 
 Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as dull as a choice spirit ; but, 
 hang it, he was grateful, very grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of 
 faults. 
 
 Sir Will. He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty con- 
 siderable, I'm told. 
 
 Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of business. The truth is, he 
 wanted dignity to fill up a greater. 
 
 Sir Will. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir.? I'm told he's much 
 about my size and figure, sir. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; but then he wanted a 
 something — a consequence of form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives 
 my meaning. 
 
 Miss Rich. Oh, perfectly ; you courtiers can do anything, I see. 
 Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange ; we do greater 
 things for one another every day. Why, as thus, now . let me suppose you the 
 First Lord of the Treasury. You have an employment in you that I want ; I 
 have a place in me that you want ; do me here, do you there : interest of both 
 sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it's over. 
 
 Sir Will. A thought strikes me. {Aside) Now you mention Sir William 
 Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you'll be 
 glad to hear he's arrived from Italy. I had it from a friend who knows him 
 as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information. 
 
 Lofty. If I had known that, we should not have been quite so well 
 acquainted. (Aside.) 
 
 Sir Will. He is certainly returned ; and as this gentleman is a friend of 
 yours, he can be of signal service to us, by introducing me to him. There are 
 some papers relative to your affairs that require dispatch and his inspection. 
 
 Miss Rich. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my afiairs. 
 I know you'll serve us. 
 
 Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall even 
 wait upon him, if you think proper to command it. 
 Sir Will. That would be quite unnecessary. 
 
 Lofty. Well, we must introduce you, then. Call upon me — let me see — 
 ay, in two days. 
 
 Sir Will Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever. 
 
 Lofty. Well, if it must be nov*-, now let it be. But , that's unfortunate ; 
 
 my Lord Grig's Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I'm 
 
 engaged to attend. Another time 
 
344 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Sir William. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant journey, Jarvis. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, but Im only to have all the fatigues on't. Act/fl. Scene l. 
 
 Sir Will. A short letter to Sir William will do. 
 
 Lofty. You shall have it. Yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very bad way 
 of going to work : face to face, that's my way. 
 
 Sir Will. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds, sir, do you pretend to direct me .'* direct me in the business 
 of office ? Do you know me, sir .'' who I am ? 
 
 Miss Rich. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine. If 
 my commands But you despise my power. 
 
 Lofty. Delicate creature ! your commands could even control a debate at 
 midnight ; to a power so constitutional I am all obedience and tranquillity. He 
 shall have a letter. Where is my secretary .'* Dubardieu ! And yet, I protest, 
 I don't like this way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William 
 But you will have it so. {Exit with MisS RiCH.) 
 
 Sir William, alo7ie. 
 
 Sir Will. Ha! ha! ha! This, too, is one of my nephew's hopeful associates. 
 O vanity, thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt serve but co 
 sink us 1 thy false colourings, like those employed to heighten beauty, only 
 seem to mend that bloom which they contribute to destroy. I'm not displeased 
 at this interview : exposing this fellow's impudence to the contempt it deserves 
 
The Good-natured Man. 3^5 
 
 may be of use to my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of use to 
 himself. 
 
 Enter Jarvis. 
 
 Sir Will. How now, Jarvis ; where's your master, my nephew ? 
 
 Jarvis. At his wits' end, I believe. He's scarce gotten out of one scrape 
 but he's running his head into another. 
 
 Sir Will How so } 
 
 Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the bailiffs, and now he's 
 again engaging tooth and nail in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a clan- 
 destine match with the young lady that passes in the house for his sister. 
 
 Sir Will. Ever busy to serve others. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, anybody but himself The young couple, it seems, are just 
 setting out for Scotland, and he supplies them with money for the journey. 
 
 Sir Will. Money ! How is he able to supply others, who has scarce any for 
 himself } 
 
 Jarvis. Why, there it is ; he has no money, that's true ; but then, as he 
 never said No to any request in his life, he has given them a bill drawn by a 
 friend of his upon a merchant in the City, which I am to get changed ; for you 
 must know that I am to go with them to Scotland myself. 
 
 Sir Will How! 
 
 Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to take a different road 
 from his mistress, as he is to call upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, 
 in order to prepare a place for their reception when they return ; so they have 
 borrowed me from my master, as the properest person to attend the young 
 lady down. 
 
 Sir Will. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant journey, Jarvis. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't. 
 
 Sir Will. Well, it may be shorter and less fatiguing than you imagine. 
 I know but too much of the young lady's family and connections, whom I have 
 seen abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Richland is not indifferent to 
 my thoughtless nephew; and will endeavour — though, I fear, in vain — to establish 
 that connection. But come; the letter I wait for must be almost finished ; I'll 
 let you further into my intentions in the next room. {Exeunt^ 
 
 
34^ CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 SCENE I. — Croaker's House. 
 
 Lofty. Well, sure the is in me of late, for running my head into such 
 
 defiles, as nothing but a genius like my own could draw me from. I was 
 formerly contented to husband out my places and pensions with some degree 
 of frugality; but of late I have given away the whole Court Register in less time 
 than they could print the title-page ; yet, hang it, why scruple a lie or two to 
 come at a fine girl, when I every day tell a thousand for nothing ! Ha ! 
 Honey wood here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty } 
 
 Enter HoNEYWOOD. 
 
 Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again. I find my concurrence 
 was not necessary in your unfortunate afiairs. I had put things in a train to do 
 your business ; but it is not for me to say what I intended doing. 
 
 Honeywood. It was unfortunate indeed, sir. But what adds to my uneasi- 
 ness is, that while you seem to be acquainted with my misfortune, I myself 
 continue still a stranger to my benefactor. 
 
 Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served you .-* 
 
 Honeywood. Can't guess at the person. 
 
 Lofty. Inquire. 
 
 Honeywood. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he chooses to remain con- 
 cealed, and that all inquiry must be fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Must be fruitless .? 
 
 Honeyzuood. Absolutely fruitless. 
 
 Lofty. Sure of that .-• 
 
 Honeywood. Very sure. 
 
 Lofty. Then you shall never know it from me. 
 
 Honeywood. How, sir } 
 
 Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you think my rent-roll very con- 
 siderable, and that I have vast sums of money to thro-A^ away ; I know you do. 
 The world, to be sure, says such things of me. 
 
 Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no stranger to your generosity. 
 But where does this tend .'' 
 
 Lofty. To nothing — nothing in the world. The town, to be sure, when it 
 makes such a thing as me the subject of conversation, has asserted that I never 
 yet patronised a man of merit. 
 
 Honeywood. I have heard instances to the contrary, even from yourself 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Honeywood, and there are instances to the contrary that you 
 shall never hear from myself 
 
 Honeywood. Ha ! Dear sir, permit me to ask you but one question. 
 
The Good-natured Mem. 2>Ar7 
 
 Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions : I say, sir, ask me no questions ; I'll not 
 answer them. 
 
 Honeywood. I will ask no further. My friend, my benefactor, it is, it must 
 be here, that I am indebted for freedom — for honour. Yes. thou worthiest of 
 men, from the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid to return thanks ; which, 
 if undeserved, might seem reproaches. 
 
 Lofty. I protest I don't understand all this, Mr. Honeywood. You treat 
 me very cavalierly, I do assure you, sir. Blood, sir ! can't a man be permitted 
 to enjoy the luxury of his own feelings without all this parade } 
 
 Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an action that adds to your 
 honour. Your looks, your air, your manner, all confess it. 
 
 Lofty. Confess it, sir } Torture itself, sir, shall never bring me to confess 
 it. Mr. Honeywood, I have admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let 
 us fall out ; make me happy, and let this be buried in oblivion. You know I 
 hate ostentation ; you know I do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I 
 always loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make no kind 
 of distance between us. Come, come ; you and I must be more familiar — 
 indeed we must. 
 
 Honeywood. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such friendship t Is there any 
 way .'' Thou best of men, can I ever return the obligation .'' 
 
 Lofty. A bagatelle— a mere bagatelle. But I see your heart is labouring 
 to be grateful. You shall be grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. 
 
 Honeywood. How t Teach me the manner. Is there any way .? 
 
 Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my friend, you shall know 
 it — I'm in love. 
 
 Honeywood. And can I assist you .^ 
 
 Lofty. Nobody so well. 
 
 Honeywood. In what manner.-' I'm all impatience. 
 
 Lofty. You shall make love for me. 
 
 Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your favour .? 
 
 Lofty. ' To a lady with whom you have great interest, I assure you — Miss 
 Richland. 
 
 Honeywood. Miss Richland ! 
 
 Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the blow up to the hilt in my 
 bosom, by Jupiter. 
 
 Honeywood. Was ever anything more unfortunate } It is too much to be 
 endured. 
 
 Lofty. Unfortunate indeed ! and yet I can endure it, till you have opened 
 the affair to her for me. Between ourselves, I think she likes me : I'm not apt 
 to boast, but I think she does. 
 
 Honeywood. Indeed ! But do you know the person you apply to ? 
 
 Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend, and mine : that's enough. To }ou, 
 therefore, I commit the success of my passion, I'll say no more, let friendship 
 do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my little interest can be of 
 
34^ Cassc-Ts Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 service But hang it, I'll make no promises : you know my interest is yours 
 
 at any time. No apologies, my friend — I'll not be answered; it shall be so. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Honcywood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! He little thinks that I 
 love her too ; and with such an ardent passion ! But then it was ever but a 
 vain and hopeless one — my torment, my persecution ! What shall I do ? 
 Love, friendship, a hopeless passion, a deserving friend ! Love, that has been 
 my tormentor ; a friend, that has, perhaps, distressed himself to serve me. It 
 shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondling hope from my bosom, and exert 
 all my influence in his favour. And yet, to see her in the possession of another ! 
 — insupportable ! But then, to betray a generous, trusting friend ! — worse, worse ! 
 Yes, I'm resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and then 
 quit a country where I must for ever despair of finding my own. {Exit.) 
 
 Enter Olivia a7id Garnet, who carries a milliner'' s box. 
 
 Olivia. Dear me! I wish this journey were over. No news of Jarvisyet.^ 
 I believe the old peevish creature delays purely to vex me. 
 
 Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him say, a little snubbing 
 before marriage would teach you to bear it the better afterwards. 
 
 Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had only to get a bill changed 
 in the city ! How provoking ! 
 
 Garnet. I'll lay my life Mr. Leontine, that had twice as much to do, is 
 setting off by this time from his inn, and here you are left behind. 
 
 Olivia. Wellj let us be prepared for his coming, however. Are you sure 
 you have omitted nothing. Garnet "i 
 
 Garnet. Not a stick, madam — all's here. Yet I wish you could take the 
 white and silver to be married in. It's the worst luck in the world, in anything 
 but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs, of our town, that was married in red, and, 
 as sure as eggs is eggs, the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. 
 
 Olivia. No matter. I'm all impatience till we are out of the house. 
 
 Garnet. Bless me, madam ! I had almost forgot the wedding-ring ! — the 
 sweet little thing ! —I don't think it would go on my little finger. And what if 
 I put in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of necessity, madam .-' But here's 
 Jarvis. 
 
 Enter JARVIS. 
 
 Olivia. O Jarvis, are you come at last } We have been ready this half 
 hour. Now let's be going — let us fly ! 
 
 Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho; for we shall have no going to Scotland this bout, 
 I fancy. 
 
 Olivia. How ! What's the matter "i 
 
 Jarvis. Money — money is the matter, madam ! We have got no money ! 
 What do you send me on your fool's errand for? My master's bill upon 
 
35^ C as sell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 the City is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet may pin up her hair 
 with it. 
 
 Olivia. Undone ! How could Honey wood serve us so ! What shall we 
 do ? Can't we go without it .'* 
 
 Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scotland without money ! 
 
 , how some people understand geography ! We might as well set sail for 
 
 Patagonia upon a cork jacket. 
 
 Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base, insincere man was your 
 master, to serve us in this manner ! Is this his good-nature ? 
 
 Jarvis. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam. I won't bear to hear 
 anybody talk ill of him but myself 
 
 Garnet. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you need not be under any 
 uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leontine receive forty guineas from his father just 
 before he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A short letter will reach 
 him there. 
 
 Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet; I'll write immediately. How's this? 
 Bless me, my hand trembles so I can't write a word. Do you write. Garnet ; 
 and, upon second thought, it will be safer from you. 
 
 Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poorly ; I never was cute at 
 my larning. But I'll do what I can to please you. Let me see. All out of 
 my own head, I suppose .'' 
 
 Olivia. Whatever you please. ) 
 
 Garnet. ( Writing) " Muster Croaker." Twenty guineas, madam } 
 
 Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 
 
 Garnet. "At the bar of the Talbot till called for. Expedition — will be 
 blown up — All of a flame — Quick, despatch — Cupid, the little God of Love." 
 I conclude it, madam, with "Cupid :" I love to see a love-letter end like poetry. 
 
 Olivia. Well, well ; what you please — anything. But how shall we send 
 it ? I can trust none of the servants of this family. 
 
 Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is in the next room. He's 
 a dear, sweet man ; he'll do anything for me. 
 
 Jarvis. He! the dog; he'll certainly commit some blunder. He's drunk 
 and sober ten times a day. 
 
 Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet; anybody we can trust will do. {Exit 
 Garnet,) Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt us. You 
 may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, 
 Jarvis .'' 
 
 Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be married, 
 think things can never be done too fast ; but we that are old, and know what 
 we are about, must elope methodically, madam. 
 
 Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over again 
 
 Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times over. 
 
 Olivia. Why will you talk so .-* If you knew how unhappy they make 
 me 
 
The Good-natured Man. 35^ 
 
 Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt ; I was once just as unhappy when I was 
 going to be married myself. I'll tell you a story about that 
 
 Olivia. A story ! when I'm all impatience to be away. Was there ever 
 such a dilatory creature ? 
 
 jfarvis. Well, madam! if we must march, why we will march ; that's all. 
 Though, odds-bobs, we have still forgot one thing we should never travel with- 
 out — a case of good razors, and a box of shaving-powder. But no matter, I 
 believe we shall be pretty well shaved by the way. {Going) 
 
 Enter GARNET. 
 
 Garnet. Undone, undone, madam ! Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you said right enough. 
 As sure as death, Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the 
 letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's old Croaker has just 
 picked it up, and is this moment reading it to himself in the hall. 
 
 Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 
 
 Garnet. No, madam, don't be uneasy, he can make neither head nor tail of 
 it. To be sure, he looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about it, but he 
 
 can't find what it means for all that. Oh , he is coming this way all in the 
 
 horrors ! 
 
 Olivia. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he should ask 
 further questions. In the meantime, Garnet, do you write and send off just 
 such another. {Exeunt) 
 
 Enter CROAKER. 
 
 Croaker. Death and destruction! Are all the horrors of air, fire, and 
 water, to be levelled only at me .'' Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder- 
 plots, combustibles, and conflagration? Here it is — an incendiary letter 
 dropped at my door. "To Muster Croaker, these, with speed." Ay, ay, plain 
 enough the direction ; all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as 
 
 . " With speed ! " Oh, confound your speed ! But let me read it once 
 
 more. {Reads) " Muster Croakar as sone as yoewsee this leve twenty gunnes 
 at the bar of the Talboot tell caled for or yowe and yower experetion will be al 
 blown up." Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. 
 
 Blown up ! murderous dog ! All blown up ! ! what have I and my poor 
 
 family done, to be all blown up ! {Reads) " Our pockets are low, and money 
 we must have." Ay, there's the reason ; they'll blow us up, because they have 
 got low pockets. {Reads) " It is but a short time you have to consider ; for 
 if this takes wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame." Inhuman monsters! 
 blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to 
 it. {Reads) " Make quick dispatch, and so no more at present. But may 
 Cupid, the little God of Love, go with you wherever you go." The little God of 
 
 Love ! Cupid, the little God of Love, go with me ! Go you you and your 
 
 little Cupid together ! I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or 
 
352 
 
 CasseWs Ilhcstrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before I left town, to be permitted 
 
 Miss Richland. Indeed! Leaving town, sir ? Act IV. Scene I. 
 
 go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, 
 and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. 
 Murder! We shall be all burnt in our beds ; we shall be all burnt in our beds I 
 
 Enter MisS RiCHLAND. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, what's the matter ? 
 
 Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our beds 
 before morning. 
 
 Miss Rich. I hope not, sir. 
 
 Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have a certificate 
 of it here in my hand .^ Will nothing alarm my family } Sleeping and eating, 
 sleeping and eating, is the only work from morning till night in my house. My 
 insensible crew could sleep, though rocked by an earthquake ; and fry beef- 
 steaks at a volcano. 
 
 Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often already ; we have 
 nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year's end to 
 year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above a month ago you assured us of a 
 conspiracy among the bakers, to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole 
 family a week upon potatoes. 
 
The Good-natured Man. 353 
 
 Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I stand 
 talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy without ? Here — 
 John, Nicodemus, search the house ! Look into the cellars, to see if there be 
 any combustibles below ; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be 
 thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine oe 
 drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity. {Exit.) 
 
 Miss Richland alone. 
 
 Miss Rich. What can he mean by all this .^ Yet, why should I inquire, 
 when he alarms us in this manner almost every day } But Honeywood has 
 desired an interview with me in private. What can he mean } or, rather, what 
 means this palpitation at his approach } It is the first time he ever showed 
 
 anything in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to 
 
 But he's here. 
 
 Enter KONEYWOOD, 
 
 Houeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before I left town, 
 to be permitted- 
 
 Miss Rich. Indeed ! Leaving town, sir } 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, madam ; perhaps the kingdom. I have presumed, I say, 
 to desire the favour of this interview, in order to disclose something which our 
 long friendship prompts. And yet my fears 
 
 Miss Rich. His fears ! what are his fears to mine .'' (Aside) We have 
 indeed been long acquainted, sir — very long. If I remember, our first meeting 
 was at the French ambassador's. Do you recollect how you were pleased to 
 rally me upon my complexion there .'' 
 
 Honeywood. Perfectly, madam. I presumed to reprove you for painting ; 
 but your warmer blushes soon convinced the company that the colouring was 
 all from nature. 
 
 Miss Rich. And yet you only meant it, in your good-natured \vay, .0 
 make me pay a compliment to myself. In the same manner you danced that 
 night with the most awkward woman in company, because you saw nobody else 
 would take her out. 
 
 Honeywood. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night by dancing with the 
 finest woman in company, whom everybody wished to take out. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I fear your judgment nas 
 since corrected the errors of a first impression. We generally show to most 
 advantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that put all their best 
 goods to be seen at the windows. 
 
 Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did indeed deceive me. I 
 expected to find a woman with all the faults of conscious flattered beauty. I 
 expected to find her vain and insolent. But every day Has sinc2 taugnt ne 
 that it is possible to possess sense without pride, and beauty without atfectation. 
 
 Miss Rich. This, sir, is a style very unusual with Mr. Honeywood ■ and I 
 
 2^ 
 
354 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 should be glad to know why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his 
 own lesson hath taught me to despise. 
 
 Ho7ieywood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our long friendship, I pre- 
 sumed I might have some right to offer, without offence, what you may refuse 
 without offending. 
 
 Miss Rich. Sir, I beg you'd reflect. Though, I fear, I shall scarce have 
 any power to refuse a request of yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, 
 sir. 
 
 Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but, as I plead the cause of friendship, of 
 one who loves — don't be alarmed, madam — who loves you with the most 
 
 ardent passion ; whose whole happiness is placed in you 
 
 ' Miss Rich. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom you mean, by this description 
 of him. 
 
 Honeywood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him out ; though he 
 should be too humble himself to urge his pretensions, or you too modest to 
 understand them. 
 
 Miss Rich. Well ; it would be affectation any longer to pretend ignorance ; 
 and, I Avill own, sir, I have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was but 
 natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed himself ignorant of its 
 value. 
 
 Honeywood. I see she always loved him. {Aside.) I find, madam, you're 
 already sensible of his worth, his passion. How happy is my friend, to be the 
 favourite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, and such beauty to 
 reward it ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Your friend, sir ! What friend .'' 
 
 Honeywood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, madam. 
 
 Miss Rich. He, sir ! 
 
 Ho7ieywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what your warmest wishes 
 might have formed him. And to his other qualities, he adds that of the most 
 passionate regard for you. 
 
 Miss Rich. Amazement ! No more of this, I beg you, sir. 
 
 Honeywood. I see your confusion, madam, and know how to interpret it. 
 And since I so plainly read the language of your heart, shall I make my friend 
 happy by communicating your sentiments ? 
 
 Miss Rich. By no means. 
 
 Honeywood. Excuse me ; I must : I know you desire it. 
 
 Miss Rich. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you that you wrong my sentiments 
 and yourself When I first applied to your friendship, I expected advice and 
 assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is vain to expect happiness from him who 
 has been so bad an economist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friend- 
 ship who ceases to be a friend to himself {Exit.) 
 
 Honeywood. How is this .-* She has confessed she loved him, and yet she 
 seemed to part in displeasure. Can I have done anything to reproach myself 
 with ? No, I believe not ; yet, after all, these things should not be done by a 
 
The Good-natured Man. 355 
 
 third person : I should have spared her confusion. My friendship carried me a 
 little too far. 
 
 Enter CrOAKER, with the letter in his hand, a7id MRS. CROAKER. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's your supreme wish 
 that I should be quite wretched upon this occasion .'' Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. {Mimicking ) Ha ! ha ! ha ! and so, my dear, it's your supreme 
 pleasure to give me no better consolation .'' 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Positively^ my dear, what is this incendiary stuff and 
 trumpery to me } Our house may travel through the air like the house of 
 Loretto, for aught I care, if I'm to be miserable in it. 
 
 Croaker. Would to heaven it were converted into a house of correction for 
 your benefit ! Have we not everything to alarm us ? Perhaps this very 
 moment the tragedy is beginning. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker, Then let us reserve our distress till the rising of the curtain, 
 or give them the money they want, and have done with them. 
 
 Croaker. Give them my money ! And pray, what right have they to my 
 money } 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right, then, have they to my good humour .-' 
 Croaker. And so your good humour advises me to part with my money } 
 Why, then, to tell your good humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part with 
 my wife. Here's Mr. Honeywood ; see what he'll say to it. My dear Honey- 
 wood, look at this incendiary letter dropped at my door. It will freeze you 
 with terror ; and yet lovey here can read it — can read it, and laugh ! 
 Mrs. Croaker- Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 
 
 Croaker. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the next minute in the rogue's 
 place, that's all. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there anything more foolish 
 than my husband's fright upon this occasion .'' 
 
 Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, madam ; but, doubtless, 
 the greatness of his terrors now will but invite them to renew their villany 
 another time. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 
 
 Croaker. How, sir ! do you maintain that I should lie down under such an 
 injury, and show, neither by my tears nor complaints, that I have something 
 of the spirit of a man in me "^ 
 
 Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make the loudest complaints, 
 if you desire redress. The surest way to have redress is to be earnest iti the 
 pursuit of it. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now .>' 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laughing off our fears is the best 
 way ? 
 
 Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can say ; but I'll maintain it to 
 be a ver>'' wise way. 
 
35^ CasseU's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Croaker But we're talking of the best. Surely, the best way is to face the 
 enemy in the field, and not wait till he plunders us in our very bedchamber. 
 
 Honeywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a very wise way too. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. But can anything be more absurd than to double our 
 distresses by our apprehensions, and put it in the power of every low fellow, 
 that can scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us .'' 
 
 Ho7ieywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 
 
 Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to despise the rattle till we 
 are bit by the snake ? 
 
 Honeywood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 
 
 Croaker. Then you are of my opinion } 
 
 Honeywood. Entirely. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine } 
 
 Ho7ieywood. forbid, madam. No, sure no reasoning can be more 
 
 just than yours. We ought certainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, 
 and not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as the highwayman's 
 pistol. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Oh ; then you think I'm quite right. 
 
 Honeywood. Perfectly right. 
 
 Croaker. A plague of plagues ! we can't both be right. I ought to be 
 sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be 
 off. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, if one be perfectly 
 reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right. 
 
 Honeywood. And why may not both be right, madam — Mr. Croaker in 
 earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event with good humour .-' Pray 
 let me see the letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to 
 be left at the bar of the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what 
 if you and I, sir, go there ; and, when the writer comes to be paid his expected 
 booty, seize him .-" 
 
 Croaker. My dear friend, it's the very thing — the very thing. While I walk 
 by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambush near the bar, burst out upon 
 the miscreant like a masqued battery, extort a confession at once, and so hang 
 him up by surprise. 
 
 Honeywood. Yes ; but I would not choose to exercise too much severity. 
 It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish themselves. 
 
 Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose ? {Ironically.) 
 
 Honcyzvood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 
 
 Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence. 
 
 Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that universal benevolence is the 
 first law of nature. {Exeunt HONEYV^OOD and Mrs. Croaker.) 
 
 Croaker. Yes ; and my universal benevolence will hang the dog, if he had 
 as many necks as a hydra. 
 
Croaker. [ Discovering hhuse^f. ) How does he iook now — how does he look now J 
 
 Olivia. Ah ! 
 
 Leo?U. Undone! ^ ., ^ . 
 
 Act V. Scene I. 
 
• 5^ Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith, 
 
 ACT Y> 
 
 SCENE \. — An htn. 
 Enter Olivia, Jarvis. 
 
 Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. Now, if the post- 
 chaise were ready 
 
 Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, as they are not going 
 to be married, they choose to take their own time. 
 
 Olivia. You are tor ever giving wrong motives to my impatience. 
 
 Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must take their own 
 time. Besides, you don't consider we have got no answer from our fellow- 
 traveller yet. If we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way 
 left us. 
 
 Olivia. What way } 
 
 Jarvis. The way home again. 
 
 Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, and nothing shall induce 
 me to break it. 
 
 Jarvis. Ay; resolutions are well kept when they jump with inclination. 
 However, I'll go to hasten things without. And I'll call, too, at the bar to see 
 if anything should be left for us there. Don't be in such a plaguy hurry^ 
 madam, and we shall go the faster, I promise you. {Exit JARVIS.) 
 
 Enter LANDLADY. 
 
 Landlady. What ! Solomon. Why don't you move .-* Pipes and tobacco 
 for the Lamb there. Will nobody answer } To the Dolphin — quick ! The 
 Angel has been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship call, madam t 
 
 Olivia. No, madam. 
 
 Landlady. I find as you're for Scotland, madam — but that's no business^^ 
 of mine ; married, or not married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we had a 
 sweet little couple set off from this two days ago, for the same place. The 
 gentleman, for a tailor, was, to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth 
 from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful, it was near half an hour 
 before we could get her to finish a pint of raspberry between us. 
 
 Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to be married, I assure 
 you. 
 
 Landlady. Maybe not. That's no business of mine ; for certain, Scotch 
 marriages seldom turn out well. There was, of my own knowledge, Miss 
 Macfag, that married her father's footman. Alack-a-day ! she and her 
 husband soon parted, and now keep separate cellars in Hedge Lane. 
 
 Olivia. A very pretty picture of what lies before me ! {Aside.) 
 
The Good-natured Man. 359 
 
 Enter Leontine. 
 
 Leont. My dear Olivia, my anxiety till you were out of danger was too 
 great to be resisted. I could not help coming to see you set out, though it 
 exposes us to a discovery. 
 
 Olivia. May everything you do prove as fortunate. Indeed, Leontine, we 
 have been most cruelly disappointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the City has, 
 it seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a loss how to proceed. 
 
 Leont. How! An offer of his own, too. Sure, he could not mean to 
 deceive us. 
 
 Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity; he only mistook the desire for the 
 power of serving us. But let us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise 
 is ready by this. 
 
 Lajtdlady. Not quite yet ; and, begging your ladyship's pardon, I don't 
 think your ladyship quite ready for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold 
 place, madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty raspberry as ever was 
 tipt over tongue; Just a thimbleful, to keep the wind off your stomach. To be 
 sure, the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect nosegay. Ecod, 
 I sent them both away as good-natured ! Up went the blinds, round went the 
 wheels, and, Drive away, post-boy ! was the word. 
 
 E7iter Croaker. 
 
 Croaker. Well, while my friend Honey wood is upon the post of danger at 
 the bar, it must be my business to have an eye about me here. I think I know 
 an incendiary's look ; for, wherever the devil makes a purchase, he never fails 
 to set his mark ! Ha ! who have we here .-* My son and daughter ! What can 
 they be doing here .'' 
 
 Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good. I think I know, by this 
 time, what's good for the north road. It's a raw, night, madam. Sir 
 
 Leont. Not a drop more, good madam. I should now take it as a greater 
 favour if you hasten the horses ; for I am afraid to be seen myself 
 
 Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! Are you all dead, 
 there .'' Wha, Solomon, I say. {Exit, bawling^ 
 
 Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition, begun in fear, should end m 
 repentance. Every moment we stay increases our danger, and adds to my 
 apprehensions. 
 
 Leont. There's no danger, trust me, my dear — there can be none. If 
 Honeywood has acted with honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in 
 employment till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our journey. 
 
 Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sincerity, and even his 
 desires to serve us. My fears are from your father's suspicions. A mind so 
 disposed to be alarmed without a cause will be but too ready when there's 
 a reason. 
 
 Leont. Why, let him, when we are out of his power. But believe me. 
 
36o 
 
 Casselfs Ilhtstrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Postboy. Ay, mister, we have him fast enough. Here is the incendiary do^ 
 oath I saw him ask for the money at the bar, and then run for it. 
 
 I'm entitled to the reward ; I'll take my 
 Act V. Scene I. 
 
 Olivia, you have no great reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, 
 as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it never do harm to others. 
 He only frets to keep himself employed, and scolds for his private amusement. 
 
 Olivia. I don't know that ; but I'm sure, on some occasions, it makes him 
 look most shockingly. 
 
 Croaker. {Discovering himself) How does he look now — how does he look 
 now .'' 
 
 Olivia. Ah! ■ • 
 
 Leont. Undone ! 
 
 Croaker. How do I look now .? Sir, I am your very humble servant. 
 Madam, I am yours. What ! you are going off, are you ? Then, first, if you 
 please, take a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell me first 
 where you are going ; and when you have told me that, perhaps I shall knov/ 
 as little as I did before. 
 
 Leont. If that be so, our answer might but increase your displeasure, with- 
 out adding to your information. 
 
 Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy ! And you too, madam : 
 what answer have you got ? {A ery without, Stop him !) Eh ! I think I heard 
 a noise. My friend Honeywood without — ^has he seized the incendiary ? Ah, 
 no, for DOW I hear no more on't. 
 
The Good-natured Man. 3°! 
 
 Lcont. Honeywood without ? Then, sir, it was Mr. Honey wood' that 
 directed you hither ? 
 
 Croaker. No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted me hither. 
 
 Leojit. Is it possible ? 
 
 Croaker. Possible ! Why, he's in the house now, sir. More anxious about 
 me than my own son, sir. 
 
 Leont. Then, sir, he's a villain. 
 
 Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes most care of your father? 
 I'll not bear it. I tell you, I'll not bear it. Honeywood is a friend to the family, 
 and I'll have him treated as such. 
 
 Leont. I shall study to repay his friendship as it deserves. 
 
 Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he entered into my griefs, 
 and pointed out the means to detect them, you would love him as I do. {A cry 
 -witJiout, Stop him !) Fire and fury ! they have seized the incendiary : they have 
 the villain, the incendiary in view. Stop him, stop an incendiary, a murderer ! 
 Stop him ! {Exit) 
 
 Olivia. Oh, my terrors ! What can this new tumult mean } 
 
 Lcont. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honeywood's sincerity. But we 
 shall have satisfaction : he shall give me instant satisfaction. 
 
 Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value my esteem or my happi- 
 ness. Whatever be our fate, let us not add guilt to our misfortunes. Consider 
 that our innocence will shortly be all we have left us. You must forgive him. 
 
 Leont. Forgive him ! Has he not in every instance betrayed us } Forced 
 me to borrow money from him, which appears a mere trick to delay us : pro- 
 mised to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, and here brought 
 him to the very scene of our escape } 
 
 Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mistaken. 
 
 Enter POSTBOY, draggi7ig in Jarvis ; HONEYWOOD entering soon after. 
 
 Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. Here is the incendiary 
 dog. I'm entitled to the reward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the 
 money at the bar, and then run for it. 
 
 Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us see him. Let him learn to 
 blush for his crimes. {Discovering his mistake.) Death! what's here.' — Jarvis, 
 Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean .'' 
 
 Jarvis. Why, I'll tell you what it means ; that I was an old fool, and that 
 you are my master — that's all. 
 
 Honeywood. C o n f u s i o n ! 
 
 Leont, Yes, sir ; I find you have kept your word with me. After such 
 baseness, 1 wonder how you can venture to see the man you have injured. 
 
 Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my honour 
 
 Leont. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not continue to aggravate base- 
 ness by hypocrisy. I know you, sir, I know you. 
 
 Honeywood. Why, won't you hear me '^. By all that's just, I knew not • 
 
3^2 Casseirs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Leont. Hear you, sir, to what purpose ? I now see through all your low 
 arts ; your ever complying with every opinion ; your never refusing any 
 request ; all these, sir, have long been contemptible to the world, and are now 
 perfectly so to me. 
 
 Honeywood. Ha ! contemptible to the world ! That reaches me. {Aside.) 
 Leont. All the seeming sincerity of your professions, I now find, were only 
 allurements to betray ; and all your seeming regret for their consequences only 
 calculated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw, villain ! 
 
 Enter Croaker, oict of breath. 
 
 Croaker. Where is the villain .-' Where is the incendiary } {Seizing the 
 Postboy.) Hold him fast, the dog ; he has the gallows in his face. Come, 
 you dog, confess — confess all, and hang yourself. 
 
 Postboy. Zounds, master ! what do you throttle me for } 
 
 Croaker. {Beating him.) Dog, do you resist 1 do you resist } 
 
 Postboy. Zounds, master ! I'm not he j there's the man that we thought 
 was the rogue, and turns out to be one of the company. 
 
 Croaker. How ! 
 
 Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under a strange mistake here : 
 I find there is nobody guilty ; it was all an error — entirely an error of our 
 own. 
 
 Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in an error; for there's guilt, and 
 
 double guilt ; a plot, a Jesuitical, pestilential plot ; and I must have 
 
 proof of it. 
 
 Honeywood. Do but hear me. 
 
 Croaker, What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I suppose .-' I'll hear nothing. 
 
 Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enough to hear reason. 
 
 Olivia. Excuse me. 
 
 Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to you. 
 
 Jarvis. What signifies explanation when the thing is done r 
 
 Honeywood. Will nobody hear me .-' Was there ever such a set, so blinded 
 by passion and prejudice! {To tlie POSTBOY.) My good friend, I believe 
 you'll be surprised when I assure you 
 
 Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing but a good beating. 
 
 Croaker. Come, then, you, madam ; if you ever hope for any favour or 
 forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you know of this affair. 
 
 Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause of your suspicions. 
 You see before you, sir, one that with false pretences has stept into your family, 
 to betray it : not your daughter 
 
 Croaker. Not my daughter ! 
 
 Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — who — support me, I 
 cannot 
 
 Honeywood. Help ! she's going ! give her air. 
 
 Cfvaker. Ay, ay, take the youn^ woman to the air; I would not hurt 
 
The Good-natured Man. S^S 
 
 a hair of her head, whose ever daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither. 
 
 {Exeunt all but Croaker.) 
 Croaker. Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the whole affair. My son is either 
 married, or going- to be so, to this lady, whom he imposed upon me as 
 his sister. Ay, certainly so ; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so much as 
 one might think. There's the advantage of fretting away our misfortunes 
 beforehand, we never feel them when they come. 
 
 Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 
 
 Sir Will. But how do you know, madam, that my nephew intends setting 
 off from this place .'' 
 
 Miss Rich. My maid assured me he was come to this inn, and my own 
 knowledge of his intending to leave the kingdom suggested the rest But what 
 do I see .'' my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear sir, could have expected 
 meeting you here } To what accident do we owe this pleasure .'' 
 
 Croaker. To a fool, I believe. 
 
 Miss Rich. But to what purpose did you come ? 
 
 Croaker. To play the fool. 
 
 Miss Rich. But with whom .'' 
 
 Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 
 
 Miss Rich. Explain. 
 
 Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here, to do nothing now I am 
 here ; and my son is going to be married to I don't know who that is here ; so 
 now you are as wise as I am. 
 
 Miss Rich. Married ! to whom, sir .'' 
 
 Croaker. To Olivia — my daughter, as I took her to be : but who she is, or 
 whose daughter she is, I know no more than the man in the moon. 
 
 Sir Will. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and though a stranger, yet you 
 shall find me a friend to your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure 
 you that, both in point of birth and fortune, the young lady is at least your 
 son's equal. Being left by her father, Sir James Woodville 
 
 Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What, of the west ! 
 
 Sir Will. Being left by him, I say, to the care of a mercenary wretch, 
 whose only aim was to secure her fortune to himself, she was sent into France^ 
 under pretence of education ; and there every art was tried to fix her for life in 
 a convent, contrary to her inclinations. Of this I was informed upon my 
 arrival at Paris ; and as I had been once her father's friend, I did all in my 
 power to frustrate her guardian's base intentions. I had even meditated to 
 rescue her from his authority, when your son stept in with more pleasing 
 violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. 
 
 Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my ov/n choosing, sir. A 
 young lady, sir, whose fortune, by my interest, with those that have interest, 
 will be double what my son has a right to expect. Do you know Mr Lofty^ 
 sir ? 
 
3^4 CasseWs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Sir Will. Yes, sir ; and knov/ that you are deceived in him. But step this 
 way, and I will convince you. (Croaker and Sir William seetn to confer.) 
 
 Enter HONEYWOOD. 
 
 Honeywood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his outrage! Insulted by 
 him, despised by all, I now begin to grow contemptible even to myself. How 
 have I sunk, by too great an assiduity to please ! How have I overtaxed all 
 my abilities, lest the approbation of a single fool should escape me ! But all is 
 now over. I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friendships ; and 
 nothing remains henceforward for me but solitude and repentance. 
 
 Miss Rich. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that you are setting off, without 
 taking leave of your friends .'' The report is, that you are quitting England. 
 Can it be .-* 
 
 Hofieywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so unhappy as to have fallen 
 under your displeasure, yet, thank Heaven, I leave you to happiness : to one 
 who loves you, and deserves your love ; to one who has power to procure, you 
 affluence, and generosity to improve your enjoyment of it. 
 
 Miss Rich. And are you sure, sir, that the gentleman you mean is what 
 you describe him } 
 
 Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it — his serving me. He does, 
 indeed, deserve the highest happiness that is in your power to confer. As for 
 me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, and incapable of serving 
 any, what happiness can I find but in solitude .'' What hope, but in being 
 forgotten } 
 
 Miss Rich. A thousand ! to live among friends that esteem you ; whose 
 happiness it will be to be permitted to oblige you. 
 
 Honeywood. No, madam ; my resolution is fixed. Inferiority among 
 strangers is easy; but among those that once were equals, insupportable. 
 Nay, to show you how far my resolution can go, I can now .speak with calmness 
 of my former follies, my vanity, my dissipation, my weakness. I will even 
 confess, that, among the number of my other presumptions, I had the insolence 
 to think of loving you. Yes, -madam, while I was pleading the passion of 
 another, my heart was tortured with its own. But it is over: it was unworthy 
 our friendship, and let it be forgotten. 
 
 Miss Rich. You amaze me ! 
 
 Honeywood. But you'll forgive it, I know you will; since the confession 
 should not have come from me even now, but to convince you of the sincerity 
 of my intention of — never mentioning it more. {Going:) 
 
 Miss Rich. Stay, sir, one moment. Ha ! he here — 
 
 Enter LoFTY. 
 
 Lofty. Is the coast clear } None but friends. I have followed you here 
 with a trifling piece of intelligence : but it goes no further ; things are not yet 
 
S.r mUiam. S.nce, sir, youVe so pressing for an answer, I'll tellyou who you are-a 
 
 ■^"^ -th men in power , as well acquainted with .>Vj, | ^^^g^^s^ 
 
 II f^entleman as well acauainted with politics as with , -.l ,, 
 
 '■^'"'" • ^ pe!^lnTof fashion as with modesty ; with lords of the treasury as with truth ; and with all as 
 
 you arc with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honey wood. ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^ 
 
366 Cassell's Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board : your affair at 
 the Treasury will be done in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! 
 
 Miss Rich. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 
 
 Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know 
 where to push and where to parry ; that know how the land lies — eh, Honey- 
 wood 1 
 
 Miss Rich. It is fallen into yours. 
 
 Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is 
 done, I say — that's all. I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout that 
 the claim has been examined and found admissible. Quietus is the word, 
 madam. 
 
 Hoiieywood. But how ! his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days. 
 
 Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been confoundedly 
 mistaken. I had it of him. 
 
 Miss Rich. He ! why Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country 
 this month. 
 
 Lofty. This month ! It must certainly be so : Sir Gilbert's letter did come 
 to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it 
 came about. I have his letter about me ; I'll read it to you. {Taking out a 
 large bundle.) That's from Paoli of Corsica; that's from the Marquis of Squil- 
 achi. Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King o 
 Poland — Honest Pon .? {Searching.) (Zi? SiR Will.) Oh, sir, what, are you 
 here too .'' I'll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered 
 my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do 
 without him. 
 
 Sir Will Sir, I have delivered it, and must inform you it was received 
 with the most mortifying contempt. 
 
 Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean .? 
 
 Lofty. Let him go on — let him go on, I say. You'll find it come to some- 
 thing presently. 
 
 Sir Will ■ Yes, sir, I believe you'll be amazed, if, after waiting some time 
 in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing 
 servants, I was at last assured that Sir William Honeywood knew no such 
 person, and I must certainly have been imposed upon. 
 
 Lofty. Good ! let me die, very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the goodness of it. 
 
 Lofty. You can't. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. No, for the soul of me : I think it was as confounded a bad 
 answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another. 
 
 Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the message .'' Why, I was 
 in the house at that very time. Ha ! ha ! It was I that sent that very answer 
 to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Croaker. Indeed .'' How ! why ! 
 
 Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind 
 
The Good-nahired Man, Z^l 
 
 the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard; I side 
 with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. 
 
 Croake)'. And so it does, indeed, and all my suspicions are over. 
 
 Lofty. Your suspicions } What, then, you have been suspecting, have you.-* 
 Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends ; we are friends no longer. Never talk to 
 me. It's over ; I say, it's over. 
 
 Croaker. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It escaped 
 me. Don't be discomposed. 
 
 Lofty. Zounds, sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To 
 be treated thus ' Who am I } Was it for this I have been dreaded both by 
 ins and outs .'' Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. 
 James's .'* Have I been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant 
 Tailors' Hall .-* Have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print- 
 shops ; and talk to me of suspects ^ 
 
 Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking 
 pardon ? 
 
 Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified. Suspects ! Who am I, to be used thus .'' 
 Have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends, the lords of the 
 treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of 
 suspects } Who am I, I say .■" who am I ? 
 
 Sir Will. Since, sir, you are so pressing for an answer, I'll tell you who 
 you are — a gentleman as well acquainted with politics as with men in power : 
 as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty ; with lords of the 
 treasury as with truth ; and with all as you are with Sir William Honeywood. 
 I am Sir William Honeywood. [Discoverijig his ensigns of the Bath.) 
 
 Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! 
 
 Honeywood. Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.) 
 
 Lofty. So, then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading 
 me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. 
 
 Croaker. What. Mr. Importance, and are these your works .'' Suspect you ! 
 You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs ; you, who have had your 
 hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops. If you were served 
 right, you should have your head stuck up in the pillory. 
 
 Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for it cuts but a very poor figure where 
 it sticks at present. 
 
 Sir Will. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable this gen- 
 tleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Richland has to expect from his 
 influence. 
 
 Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it, and I can't but say I have had some 
 boding of it these ten days. So I'm resolved, since my son has placed his 
 affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his choice, and not 
 run the hazard of another Mr, Lofty in helping him to a better. 
 
 Sir Will. I approve your resolution ; and here they come, to receive a 
 confirmation of your pardon and consent. 
 
368 
 
 CasselVs Illustrated Goldsmith. 
 
 Croaker. Well, now i see content in everv face ; but Heaven send we be ail better this day three months. 
 
 Act V. Scene I. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, and Olivia. 
 
 Mrs. Croaker. Where's my husband ? Come, come, lovey, you must for- 
 give them. Jarvis here has been to tell me the whole affair ; and, I say, you 
 must forgive them. Our own was a stolen match, you know, my dear ; and we 
 never had any reason to repent of it. 
 
 Croaker. I wish we could both say so : however, this gentleman, Sir 
 William Honeywood has been beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. 
 So, if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can tack them 
 together without crossing the Tweed for it. {Joining their, hands) 
 
 Leont. How blest and unexpected ! What, what can we say to such 
 goodness ? But our future obedience shall be the best reply. And as for this 
 gentlerhan, to whom we owe 
 
 Sir Will. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your thanks, as I have here an 
 interest that calls me. {Turning to HONEYWOOD.) Yes, sir, you are surprised 
 to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your follies led me hither. 
 I saw with indignation the errors of a mind that only sought applause from 
 others ; that easiness of disposition which, though inclined to the right, had not' 
 courage to condemn the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors, that 
 still took name from some neighbouring duty. Your charity, that was but 
 injustice ; your benevolence, that was but weakness ; and your friendship but 
 credulity. I saw, with regret, great talents and extensive learning only em- 
 
The Good-natured Man. 3^9 
 
 ployed to add sprightliness to error, and increase your perplexities. I saw 
 your mind with a thousand natural charms, but the greatness of its beauty 
 served only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. 
 
 Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir : I have for some time but too 
 strongly felt the justice of your reproaches. But there is one way still left me. 
 Yes, sir, I have determined this very hour to quit for ever a place where I have 
 made myself the voluntary slave of all, and to seek among strangers that 
 fortitude which may give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dissipated 
 virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit favour for this gentleman, who, 
 notwithstanding what has happened, has laid me under the most signal obliga- 
 tions. Mr. Lofty 
 
 Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I am resolved upon a reformation as well as you. 
 I now begin to find that the man who first invented the art of speaking truth 
 was a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to prove that I design 
 to speak truth for the future, I must now assure you that you owe your late 
 Enlargement to another, as, upon my soul, I had no hand in the matter. So 
 now, if any of the company has a mind for preferment, he may take my place. 
 Im determined to resign. {Exit) 
 
 :, Honcyzvood. How have I ueen deceived ! 
 
 Sir Will. No, sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend for that 
 favour — to Miss Richland. Would she complete our joy, and make the man 
 she has honoured by her friendship happy in her love, I should then forget all, 
 and be as blest as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. 
 
 Miss Rich. After what is past, it would be but affectation to pretend to 
 indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment which, I find, was more than 
 friendship. And if my entreaties cannot alter his resolution to quit the country, 
 I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. {Giving her Jiand) 
 
 Honeywood. How can I have deserved all this .'' How express my hap- 
 piness, my gratitude ? A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. 
 
 Croaker. V/ell, now I see content in every face ' but Heaven send we be 
 all better this day three months. 
 
 Sir Will. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who seeks 
 only for applause from without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. 
 
 Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors. My vanity, in 
 attempting to please all, by fearing to offend any. My meanness, in approving 
 folly, lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, therefore, it shall be my study 
 to reserve my pity for real distiess, my friendship for true merit, and my love 
 for her who first taught me what it is to be happy. 
 
 24 
 

 
 
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