The life of Dr. Oliver Goldsmith: written from personal knowledge, authentic papers, and other indubitable authorities. To which are added, such select observations, from various parts of this writer's works, as may tend to recreate the fancy, improve the understanding, and amend the heart. — Authentic anecdotes of the late Dr. Goldsmith

THE LIFE OF Doctor Oliver Goldſmith.

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TO write the life of Dr. Goldſmith, is far from being a laborious taſk, ſince little more is required than to give a tranſcript of the faireſt pages of the human mind: to have known Shenſtone, Cunning⯑ham, and Goldſmith, is to have been happy in an acquaintance with the brighteſt ſide of the Land⯑ſcape of Humanity; but to have ſeen one of theſe amiable pictures, is to have ſeen them all, abating for that ſlight difference in the colouring which became neceſſary from the different points of view, in which the pictures were to be placed.

[2]The virtues of Dr. Goldſmith's mind, will long be conſpicuous in his written page; and the reader will be warmed with the glowing graces, which, at once, animate and develope the ſoul of the author.

I know not if the obſervation was ever made, but I believe it will be found true, that when great abilities are united with very great virtues, if the poſſeſſor ſhould be a writer at all, he will be a poet, and, if a poet, a very excellent one: in that caſe (as Cunningham ſings)

We ſhall mark in his elegant lines,

The graces that glow in his mind.

I fancy if we were to try all the living writers by this ſtandard, we ſhould be able to form a more juſt opinion of their real characters as men, than by any other criterion. It is true, at leaſt with regard to the literary men within the circle of my knowledge, that in proportion to the virtues of their minds, is the elegance of their writings; and that there is not a fool, or a worſe character among them, that may not be diſtinguiſhed by the turgidity of his ſtyle, and the conſequential nothing⯑neſs of his phraſe.

Who could heſitate a moment to diſtinguiſh be⯑tween the manly dignity of ſtyle of the poet, whoſe loſs we now lament, and the frippery bombaſt of a Murphy or a Kelly?—But the difference lay [3] chiefly in the mind; and the one was exactly as much a better writer than the others, as a better man.

It is an obſervation that Dr. Goldſmith has made in his Vicar of Wakefield, that Where the mind is ca⯑pacious, the affections are good. I believe that the re⯑mark is founded in the laws of nature.—God is infinite in wiſdom and goodneſs.—What is genius but an emanation of the divine beam? Know you a man diſtinguiſhed from all the reſt of his ac⯑quaintance for the frigid narrowneſs and ſelfiſhneſs of his ſoul?—depend on it he is remarkably de⯑ficient in point of intellect: he may have much cunning; but he has no wiſdom. On the contrary, know you a man of a warmer heart?—reſt aſſured that he has a clearer head, than thoſe who are ſtrangers to that ſublime feeling which does honour to humanity.

If there be an apparent exception to this rule, (and ſuch may be found) it muſt be attributed to that commerce with mankind, which will, in ſome degree, contaminate the pureſt ſentiments; but even under all appearances of variation, the latent principles of the mind need only to be drawn forth, to appear the ſame.

Roſcommon, in Ireland, claims the honour of Dr. Goldſmith's birth. His father, who was a gentleman of a ſmall eſtate, had nine ſons, of whom Oliver was the third. He was born in the [4] year 1731, received a good claſſical education, and was intended for holy orders. With this view he was ſent with his brother Henry to Trinity College, Dublin, in the year 1739, where he obtained a Bachelor's Degree: but his brother's merit, on leaving the College, not being rewarded with any preferment in the church, our author was adviſed to the ſtudy of phyſic, which he commenced, by attending ſeveral courſes of anatomy in Dublin.

In the year 1751, he left Dublin and went to Edinburgh, where he proſecuted the ſtudy of medi⯑cine, under ſeveral celebrated profeſſors of that univerſity; but he had not reſided long in Scotland, before he began to feel the ill effects of his un⯑bounded benevolence; and he was at length abſo⯑lutely obliged to leave the country, to avoid a priſon; for he had bound himſelf to pay a larger ſum for a friend, than the narrowneſs of his finances would enable him to diſcharge.

It was in the beginning of the year 1754, that he quitted Edinburgh; but he had no ſooner reached Sunderland, than he was arreſted for the amount of his bond; but he was happily relieved from his diſtreſs, by the humanity of Dr. Sleigh and Mr. Laughlin Maclane.

The debt being diſcharged, our ingenious philan⯑thropiſt embarked on board a Dutch veſſel, bound for Rotterdam, in which place he continued but a ſhort time, and then went to Bruſſels. He now [5] made the tour of a conſiderable part of Flanders, took the degree of Bachelor of Phyſic at Louvain, and thence went through Switſzerland to Geneva, in company with an Engliſh gentleman, whom he had made an acquaintance with in the courſe of his travels in Flanders.

When our poet ſailed from England, he was al⯑moſt deſtitute of money, ſo that he was under the neceſſity of travelling on foot, or declining a journey in which he promiſed himſelf much ſatisfaction, from a review of the cuſtoms and manners of dif⯑ferent countries. Mr. Goldſmith was at this period in good health, poſſeſſing a ſtrength of conſtitution, and a vigour of mind, which bid defiance to danger and fatigue. He was a tolerable proficient in the French language, and played on the German flute with a degree of taſte ſomething above mediocrity. Thus qualified, he travelled on, anxious to gratify his curioſity, and doubtful of the means of ſubſiſ⯑tence; his claſſical knowledge, however, afforded him occaſional entertainment in the religious houſes; while his muſical talents continued to feed and lodge him among the merry poor of Flanders, &c.

The Doctor, in relating the hiſtory of this part of his travels, would ſay, ‘"When I approached a peaſant's houſe in the evening, I played one of my moſt merry tunes; which procured me not only a lodging, but ſubſiſtence for the fol⯑lowing [6] day: but I muſt own, that when I attempted to entertain perſons of a higher rank, they always thought my performance contempt⯑ible, nor ever made me any return for my endeavours to pleaſe them."’

Our author evidently refers to theſe circumſtances of his life, in the following lines in his Traveller:

To kinder ſkies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France diſplays her bright domain;
Gay ſprightly land of mirth and ſocial eaſe,
Pleas'd 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' ſkill;
Yet would the village praiſe my wonderous 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 burthen of three-ſcore.

Dr. Goldſmith had not been long at Geneva, when a young fellow arrived there, to whom he was recommended as a Tutor, in his travels through the reſt of Europe. This youth having had a large fortune left him by his uncle, (a pawnbroker in London) reſolved to improve himſelf by travel; [7] but, as avarice was his ruling paſſion, he ſaw little more of the the curioſities of the continent, than are to be ſeen without expence. He was con⯑tinually remarking how extravagant were the ex⯑pences of travelling, and perpetually contriving methods of retrenching them: ſo that it is not to be wondered if our author and his pupil parted, which they did at Marſeilles, where the latter em⯑barked for England, happy to ſave money rather than to gain knowledge.

There was, at this time, but a ſmall balance due to Goldſmith, who was once more left to ſtruggle with adverſity. He now wandered alone through the greater part of France, till, having gratified his cu⯑rioſity, and ſufficiently experienced thoſe inconve⯑niencies attennding the almoſt pennyleſs traveller, he ſailed for England, and arriving at Dover to⯑wards the latter end of the year 1758, he haſtened immediately to London, where he found himſelf a perfect ſtranger, with ſcarce a ſhilling in the world.

Thus ſituated, he began to be extremely uneaſy. His friend, Dr. Sleigh, now reſided in London; Goldſmith enquired him out, and was received with every mark of friendſhip and eſteem. An offer was now made him of the place of Uſher at Dr. Milner's Academy at Peckham; and this he eagerly acceped, unwilling to ſubſiſt on the bounty of Dr. Sleigh.

[8]About this period, he wrote ſome criticiſms for the Monthly Review; which meeting with high approbation, Mr. Griffiths (the proprietor) engaged him to ſuperintend that publication; he therefore repaired to London, and commenced Author in form. This was in the year 1759, when he wrote a few pieces, and but a few, for the Bookſellers: and though his pay was, as it me⯑rited, greater than that of many other writers, it was nevertheleſs very diſproportionate to the merit of ſuch a writer, and ſtill farther below the me⯑rit of ſuch a man as Dr. Goldſmith: yet were not the bookſellers, his employers, worthy of cenſure, as his name was not known to the public, and his eſſays and poems were inſerted among the pro⯑miſcuous croud, in magazines, and other periodi⯑cal publications.

It was at this period that the Doctor became ac⯑quainted with the late Mr. Newberry, who being a proprietor of the Public Ledger, our poet was engaged as a writer in that paper, then newly eſta⯑bliſhed, in which he publiſhed a ſeries of valuable letters, which have been ſince printed in volumes, under the title of the ‘"Citizen of the world."’

Hitherto the Doctor had lodged, much in the ſtile of a poor author, in Green-arbor Court in the Old Bailey; but he now got better apartments in Wine-Office Court, Fleet-ſtreet, and a ſummer lodging at Canonbury Houſe, Iſlington, where he continued [9] a conſiderable time, and then removed, firſt to the King's Bench Walks, and afterwards to Brick Court, in the Temple, where he died.

With the publication of the Traveller, our au⯑thor's literary fame began to encreaſe very faſt, and it was eſtabliſhed by the appearance of the Vicar of Wakefield; for he was now equally and juſtly eſteemed both as a poet and novelliſt; he had been before known for a good critic; and he has ſince ſhone as a learned hiſtorian.

The publication of the Vicar of Wakefield was ſucceeded by that of the Comedy of the Good-na⯑tured Man, which was performed nine nights at Covent Garden Theatre; but did not meet with an applauſe equal to its merit; though it was far from being ill-received.

The next piece of any conſequence that our author preſented the world with, was his Deſerted Village, a poem abounding in nature, truth, ele⯑gance and benevolence. A circumſtance reſpect⯑ing the ſale of the copy of this piece, marks very ſtrongly the author's ſimplicity of mind, and un⯑bounded goodneſs of heart. The manuſcript having been delivered to the bookſeller, he gave the Doctor his note of hand for one hundred gui⯑neas, for the copy-right. The Doctor mentioned this circumſtance the ſame day to a gentleman, who ſaid he thought it a large ſum for ſo ſmall a piece. ‘"In truth, ſaid the poet, I think ſo too, nor [10] have I been eaſy ſince I received it; I will therefore go and return him his note."’—This he actually did, leaving the payment to the bookſeller's ho⯑nour, when the ſale ſhould inform him what he might afford to give.

The ſucceſs of the Doctor's laſt comedy, She ſtoops to Conquer, is too generally known to need being mentioned. It is in fact, the moſt laughable piece which has been brought on the ſtage for many years.—Mr. Colman was, or pretended to be of opinion, that this piece would be damned. A proof that managers are not always the beſt judges of the taſte of the town; and one would think that they are not therefore the moſt proper caterers, how⯑ever they may have aſſumed a right of cramming the public with any traſh they think proper.

The fate of a writer for the ſtage is not much to be envied. After many months labour to complete a piece to his own approbation, he is to ſummon patience to a bide all the manager's affected correc⯑tions, and ſtill more mortifying delays; and after all, perhaps, a diſguſted acquaintance ſhall make a party, raiſe a riot, and damn the play!

Our ingenious writer had laid a plan for writing an ‘"Univerſal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences."’ In which he had a promiſe of the occaſional aſſiſt⯑ance of Dr. Johnſon, Sir Joſhua Reynolds, Mr. Beauclerc, and David Garrick, Eſq—Of the ſuc⯑ceſs [11] of this great work, the Doctor had formed high expectations; but he did not live to make any pro⯑greſs in it.

It is ſaid that our author cleared 1800 l. in one year by his writings; notwithſtanding which, part⯑ly by the unbounded benevolence of his diſpoſition, and partly from an unhappy turn for gaming, which he contracted in his latter years, he was often diſ⯑treſſed for caſh in a very great degree.

Dr. Goldſmith's great and ſhining talents procur⯑ed him many friends and admirers among perſons in the firſt walk of life; among others the Duke of Northumberland is mentioned, as having wiſhed to be known to our poet, who himſelf told the follow⯑ing ſtory of his viſit to the Peer.

‘"I was invited, ſaid the Doctor, by my friend Mr. Percy, to wait upon the Duke, in conſequence of the ſatisfaction he had received from the peruſal of one of my productions. I dreſſed myſelf in the beſt manner I could, and after ſtudying ſome com⯑pliments I thought neceſſary on ſuch an occaſion, proceeded to Northumberland-houſe, and acquaint⯑ed the ſervants that I had particular buſineſs with his Grace. They ſhewed me into an anti-chamber, where, after waiting ſome time, a gentleman very elegantly dreſſed made his appearance. Taking him for the Duke, I delivered all the fine things I had compoſed, in order to compliment him on the honour he had done me; when, to my great aſto⯑niſhment, [12] he told me I had miſtaken him for his maſter, who would ſee me immediately. At that inſtant the Duke came into the apartment; and I was ſo con⯑fuſed on the occaſion, that I wanted words barely ſufficient to expreſs the ſenſe I entertained of the Duke's politeneſs, and went away exceedingly cha⯑grined at the blunder I had committed."’

Dr. Goldſmith, happy as he thought himſelf in the ſtrength of a vigorous conſtitution, paid at all times too little regard to the preſervation of that health ſo dear to his friends, ſo important to the public.

I remember, ſome years ſince, on the Doctor's partial recovery from a fit of illneſs, he came into the Chapter Coffee-Houſe; when a gentleman ob⯑ſerved how pale he looked, and expreſſed his fears for his ſafety:—‘"Pale! (cried the poet, in a pettiſh humour) that may be, Sir; but the Stamina's good—the Stamina's good."’

Dr. Goldſmith's natural diſpoſition led him to covet a life of learned leiſure; but this was too often interrupted by that want of money to which the benevolence of his diſpoſition frequently reduced him. When his circumſtances were embarraſſed, his temper was ſo ruffled, that he often expreſſed himſelf in the moſt vehement manner. Theſe guſts of paſſion, as they were very violent, were very ſhort: the philoſopher recollected, and reſumed himſelf on a moment's reflection; but his ſervants [13] profited by their maſter's violence; for they would put themſelves in his way, when he was in a paſſion, ſure to reap the reward of undeſerved chaſtiſement.

It is very remarkable of this gentleman, that, contrary to the opinion of almoſt all the world, he thought Ben Johnſon, Beaumont, and their co⯑temporaries, but ſecond-rate poets; indeed he conſidered Shakeſpear himſelf as inferior to Van⯑burgh and Farquhar.

The Doctor was, from principle, an enemy to that claſs of patriotic writers, (as they are called) who diſtinguiſh themſelves, by abuſing the govern⯑ment under which they live: in fact, he conſidered them as enemies to all good government. He was a friend to monarchy, and held ſacred the perſon of the ſovereign. But if he was an enemy to thoſe who abuſed our government and governors, indiſcri⯑minately, he was much more ſo to thoſe paltry, thoſe deteſtable writers, who, ſacrificing every con⯑ſideration at the ſhrine of Plutus, wrote on both ſides of a conteſted queſtion, and on both at the ſame time, for HIRE. It is ſaid that Dr. Goldſmith did not ſpeak to Mr. Kelly for ſeven years pre⯑ceeding his death.

He firmly believed the doctrine of a future ſtate, in which the miſeries of the virtuous in this life, would be amply rewarded by a permanency of happineſs, incapable of decay: above flattering the vices or follies of the rich or great, he was ill qualified to puſh his fortune among thoſe whom [14] his genius taught to court his company: yet was he happy in a connection with many of the greateſt and beſt characters of this kingdom.

Dr. Goldſmith being ſeized with a violent indiſ⯑poſition, on the 25th of March, 1774, ſent for Mr. Hawes, an apothecary, in the Strand, the night ſucceeding that day, and declared his intention of taking Dr. James's fever powders; to his perſiſting in which reſolution, many of his warmeſt friends have aſcribed the loſs of this great and good man! How far they are right in their conjectures it would be needleſs, if it were not impoſſible to ſay. Mr. Hawes has publiſhed an account of the Doctor's illneſs, ſo far as relates to the exhibition of theſe powders. The public may be intereſted in the enquiry into the probable effects of ſo powerful a medicine. The writer of theſe pages has only to ſay, that Mr. Hawes is a man whoſe ſkill or vera⯑city will not be doubted for a moment by any one who has the honour of knowing him.

This delightful poet, this ſweet moraliſt, this excellent man! departed this life on the 4th of April, 1774, and was interred in the Burying-Ground of the Temple. It was propoſed to have buried him in Weſtminſter-Abey, where, however, a monument is to be erected to his memory:—but the beſt and moſt laſting monument will be found in his works.

Dr. Goldſmith was in ſtature rather under the middle ſize, and built more like the porter than [15] the gentleman: his complexion was pale, his forehead low, his face almoſt round, and pitted with the ſmall pox; but marked with the ſtrong lines of thinking: upon the whole there was no⯑thing in his appearance that would not rather pre⯑poſſeſs the mind againſt him; but to thoſe who knew him, there appeared a melting ſoftneſs in his eye, that was the genuine effect of his humanity. Never did that eye behold an object of diſtreſs, but it conveyed an intelligence to the heart, that ſtretched out the hand irreſiſtibly to relieve; and it is well known that his unbounded philanthropy contributed to keep him poor; but he ever felt a ſatisfaction in the conſcious dignity and liberality of his mind, that the poſſeſſion of wealth without the will to diſtribute it could never have afforded!

Preſuming that the beſt uſe to which biography can be applied is to profit by the amiable part of the author's character: I ſhall extract, for the en⯑tertainment and inſtruction of my readers, ſuch paſſages of Dr. Goldſmith's works, as mark in a ſtriking manner, the unbounded benevolence of his temper, or the elegant ſimplicity of his mind. That he thought juſtly on moſt occaſions is a fact which will appear inconteſtible from the peruſal of many of the following obſervations:

‘"As ſome men gaze with admiration at the co⯑lours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, ſo I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces."’ Vicar of Wakefield. vol. I. p. 3. 4th edition.

[16] ‘"Never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller, or the poor dependant out of doors."’ Ib. p. 4.

‘"Let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune."’ Ib. p. 19.

‘"The ſlighteſt diſtreſs touched him to the quick, and his ſoul laboured under a ſickly ſenſibility of the miſeries of others."’ Ib. p. 27.

‘"My youngeſt boys being appointed to read the leſſons for the day, and he that read loudeſt, diſtincteſt, and beſt, was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poors box."’ Ib. p. 37.

‘"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 cloathed from the trimmings of the vain."’ Ib. p. 39.

‘"The virtue which requires to be ever guarded, is ſcarce worth the ſentinel."’ Ib. p. 48.

‘"Hoſpitality is one of the firſt Chriſtian duties. The beaſt retires to its ſhelter, and the bird flies to its neſt; but helpleſs man, can only find refuge from his fellow creature. The greateſt ſtranger in this world was he that came to ſave it: he never had a houſe, as if willing to ſee what hoſ⯑pitality was left remaining among us."’ Ib. p. 52.

‘"We ſhould never ſtrike an unneceſſary blow at a victim over whom providence holds the ſcourge of its reſentment."’ Ib. p. 54.

[17] ‘"Such as are poor and will aſſociate with none but the rich, are hated by thoſe they avoid, and deſpiſed by thoſe they follow."’ Ib. p. 123.

‘"The pain which conſcience gives a man who has already done wrong, is ſoon got over: Con⯑ſcience is a coward, and thoſe faults it has not ſtrength enough to prevent, it ſeldom has juſtice enough to accuſe."’ Ib. p. 130.

‘"The opinion a man forms of his own pru⯑dence, is meaſured by that of the company he keeps."’ Ib. p. 132.

‘"Wit and underſtanding are trifles without inte⯑grity; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peaſant without fault, is greater than the philoſopher with many."’ Ib. p. 150.

‘"The reputation of men ſhould be prized not for their exemption from fault, but the ſize of thoſe virtues they are poſſeſſed of."’ ib. p. 150.

‘"When great vices are oppoſed in the ſame mind to as extraordinary virtues, ſuch a character de⯑ſerves contempt."’ Ib. p. 151.

‘"Bad men want ſhame; they only bluſh at being detected in doing good, but glory in their vices."’ Ib. p. 154.

‘"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."’ Ib. p. 185.

[18] ‘"Man little knows what calamities are beyond his patience to bear till he tries them; as in aſcending the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every ſtep we riſe ſhews us ſome new and gloomy proſpect of hidden diſap⯑pointment; 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 mortal eye becomes adapted to its gloomy ſituation."’ Ib. p. 191.

‘"The looks of domeſticks ever tranſmit their maſter's benevolence."’ Ib. vol. II. p. 15.

‘"I found that monarchy was the beſt govern⯑ment for the poor to live in, and common-wealths for the rich. I found that riches in general, were in every country, another name for free⯑dom; and that no man is ſo fond of liberty him⯑ſelf as not to be deſirous of ſubjecting the will of ſome individuals in ſociety to his own."’ Ib. p. 32.

‘"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."’ Ib. p. 40.

‘"Wiſdom makes but a ſlow defence againſt trouble, though at laſt a ſure one."’ Ib. p. 46.

[19] ‘"In all human inſtitutions a ſmaller evil is al⯑lowed to procure a greater good; as in politics, a province may be given away to ſecure a king⯑dom; in medicine, a limb may be lopt off, to preſerve the body. But in Religion the law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil."’ Ib. p. 50.

‘"That ſingle effort by which we ſtop ſhort in the down-hill path to perdition, is itſelf a greater exertion of virtue, than a hundred acts of juſ⯑tice."’ Ib. p. 63.

‘"None but the guilty can be long completely miſerable."’ Ib. p. 65.

‘"That melancholy which is excited by objects of pleaſure, or inſpired by ſounds of har⯑mony, ſooths the heart inſtead of corroding it."’ Ib. p. 77.

‘"Though the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little villainy can at any time get within the ſoul, and ſting it into rage."’ Ib. p. 81.

‘"Good council rejected returns to enrich the giver's boſom."’ Ib. p. 116.

‘"It were highly to be wiſhed, that the legiſ⯑lative power would direct the law rather to re⯑formation than ſeverity. That it would ſeem convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making puniſhments familiar, but formid⯑able. Then inſtead of our preſent priſons, [20] which find or make men guilty, which encloſe wretches for the commiſſion of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the per⯑petration 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."’ Ib. p. 119.

‘"To religion we muſt hold in every circum⯑ſtance of life for our trueſt comfort; for if already we are happy, it is a pleaſure to ſee 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."’ Ib. p. 153.

‘"After a certain degree of pain, every new breach that death opens in the conſtitution, na⯑ture kindly covers with inſenſibility."’ Ib. p. 155.

‘"No efforts of a refined imagination can ſooth 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 philoſo⯑pher from his couch of ſoftneſs, tell us that we can reſiſt all theſe.—Alas! the effort by which we reſiſt them is ſtill the greateſt pain!"’ Ib. p. 157.

‘"The greateſt object in the univerſe (ſays a [21] certain philoſopher) is a good man ſtruggling with adverſity; yet there is ſtill a greater, which is the good man that comes to relieve it."’ ib. p. 173.

‘"You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own life, gives you a right to take that of another; but where, Sir, is the difference between a duelliſt who hazards a life of no value, and the murderer who acts with greater ſecurity? Is it any diminution of the gameſter's fraud when he alledges that he has ſtaked a counter?"’ Ib. p. 174.

The above will, we conceive, be deemed a ſuf⯑ficient ſpecimen of Dr. Goldſmith's abilities as a proſe writer. The reader will not be diſpleaſed to ſee how the poetical talents of this admirable ge⯑nius are equally adapted to charm the imagination, and win the heart to virtue.

In his TRAVELLER, after having deſcribed the fraternal fondneſs of an ‘"untravelled heart,"’ he ad⯑dreſſes his brother as follows,

" Eternal bleſſings crown my earlieſt friend,
" And round his dwelling guardian ſaints attend;
" Bleſt be that ſpot, where chearful 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;
[22]" Bleſt be thoſe feaſts with ſimple plenty crown'd,
" Where all the ruddy family around,
" Laugh at the jeſt 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."

Is not the following as beautiful, in point of poetry, as the wiſh that concludes it is honour⯑able to the feelings of the writer's heart?

" As ſome lone miſer viſiting his ſtore,
" Bends at his treaſure, counts, recounts it o'er;
" Hoards after hoards his riſing raptures fill,
" Yet ſtill he ſighs, for hoards are wanting ſtill:
" Thus to my breaſt alternate paſſions riſe,
" Pleas'd 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."

Our author ſeems to have been of opinion that, however different in appearance the degrees of happineſs in different countries, the beneficent author of nature has given an equal ſhare to all.

" And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
" And eſtimate the bleſſings which they ſhare;
[23]" Tho' 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."

Speaking of Italy and its inhabitants, our author has the following beautiful lines.

" But ſmall the bliſs that ſenſe alone beſtows,
" And ſenſual bliſs is all the nation knows.
" In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
" Man ſeems the only growth that dwindles here.
" Contraſted faults through all his manners reign,
" Though poor, luxurious, though ſubmiſſive, vain,
" Though grave, yet trifling, zealous, yet untrue,
" And e'en in penance planning ſins anew."

But let us, with the poet, turn to

" Where the bleak Swiſs their ſtormy manſions 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 ling'ring chills the lap of May."

Of France and its inhabitants, he ſays,

" —Oſtentation here, with tawdry art,
" Pants for the vulgar praiſe which fools impart;
" Here vanity aſſumes her pert grimace,
" And trims her robes of frize with copper lace,
" Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
" To boaſt one ſplendid banquet once a year;
[24]" The mind ſtill turns where ſhifting faſhion draws,
" Nor weighs the ſolid worth of ſelf applauſe."

His picture of the Dutch is very ſtriking.

" —Their much-lov'd wealth imparts
" Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts;
" But view them cloſer, craft and fraud appear,
" Even 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."

Is he not equally happy in deſcribing our own country, and its inhabitants?

" —My genius ſpreads her wing,
" And flies where Britain courts the weſtern ſpring;
" Where lawns extend that ſcorn Arcadian pride,
" And brighter ſtreams than fam'd Hydaſpis glide.
" There all around the gentleſt breezes ſtray,
" There gentle muſic melts on every ſpray;
" Creation's mildeſt charms are there combin'd.
" Extremes are only in the maſter's mind!
" Stern o'er each boſom reaſon holds her ſtate,
" With daring aims irregularly great,
" Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
" I ſee the lords of human kind paſs by,
 [...]

[25]This very elegant poem concludes with the following lines:

" Vain, very vain, my weary ſearch to find
" That bliſs which only centers in the mind:
" Why have I ſtray'd, from pleaſure and repoſe,
" To ſeek a good each government beſtows?
" In every government, though terrors reign,
" Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws reſtrain,
" How ſmall of all that human hearts endure,
" That part which laws or kings can cauſe or cure.
" Still to ourſelves in every place conſign'd,
" Our own felicity we make or find:
" With ſecret courſe, which no loud ſtorms annoy,
" Glides the ſmooth current of domeſtic joy.
" The lifted ax, the agonizing wheel,
" Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of ſteel,
" To men remote from power but rarely known,
" Leave reaſon, faith, and conſcience, all our own."

In the DESERTED VILLAGE, our poet execrates and laments that encreaſe of luxury, which will, probably, haſten the ruin of this empire. The co⯑louring of this poem is very warm, but I am afraid it is too juſt.—The luxuries of the higher ranks have been ſo long taxing the induſtry of the low⯑er, and ſuch numerous emigrations have already taken place, that there ſeems every reaſon to appre⯑hend that Dr. Goldſmith's Deſerted Village may, in another century, be realized in a Deſerted Kingdom.

[26]This poem is every where, and ſo equally excel⯑lent, that we know not to which particular beauty to turn the eye of the reader. The following ex⯑tracts will ſhew to what a height of elegance the Engliſh language may arrive, and how aſtoniſhing⯑ly ſweet may be the harmony of its periods, with⯑out their deducting any thing from the ſterling man⯑lineſs of their ſenſe.

" Sweet AUBURN, lovelieſt village of the plain,
" Where health and plenty chea'rd the labouring ſwain,
" Where ſmiling ſpring its earlieſt viſit paid,
" And parting ſummer's lingering blooms delayed."

" Ill fares the land, to haſtening ills a prey,
" Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
" Princes and lords may flouriſh, or may fade;
" A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
" But a bold peaſantry, their country's pride,
" When once deſtroy'd, can never be ſupplied.

" Near yonder copſe, where once the garden ſmil'd,
" And ſtill where many a garden flower grows wild;
" There, where a few torn ſhrubs the place diſcloſe,
" The village preacher's modeſt manſion roſe.
" A man he was, to all the country dear,
" And paſſing rich with forty pounds a year."

" Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
" And even his failings leaned to Virtue's ſide;
[27]" But in his duty prompt at every call,
" He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all.
" And, as a bird each fond endearment ties,
" 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 layed,
" And ſorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns diſmayed,
" 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 faultering accents whiſpered praiſe."

Behold the picture of the country ſcoolmaſter.

" Beſide yon ſtraggling fence that ſkirts the way,
" With bloſſomed furze unprofitable gay,
" There, in his noiſy manſion, ſkill'd to rule,
" The village maſter taught his little ſchool;
" A man ſevere he was, and ſtern to view,
" I knew him well, and every truant knew;
" Well had the boding tremblers learned 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,
" Conveyed the diſmal tidings when he frown'd;
" Yet he was kind, or if ſevere in aught,
" The love he bore to learning was in fault;
[28]" 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 even tho' vanquiſhed, 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 could carry all he knew."

Having painted the village Ale-houſe, (decayed of courſe ſince its cuſtomers had been obliged to leave their native land in ſearch of bread) our poet has the following pictureſque lines.

" Thither no more the peaſant ſhall repair
" To ſweet oblivion of his daily care;
" Nor more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
" No more the wood-man'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 mantling bliſs go round;
" Nor the coy maid, half willing to be preſt,
" Shall kiſs the cup to paſs it to the reſt."

This following picture of a ruſtic family, on the point of emigrating, will give a melancholy, but, [29] I fear, a juſt idea, of ſcenes that too often occur in the diſtant parts of theſe kingdoms!

" Good Heaven! what ſorrows gloom'd that parting day,
" That called them from their native walks away;
" When the poor exiles, every pleaſure paſt,
" Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their laſt,
" And took a long farewell, and wiſhed in vain
" For ſeats like theſe beyond the weſtern main;
" And ſhuddering ſtill to face the diſtant deep,
" Retuned and wept, and ſtill returned to weep.
" The good old ſire, the firſt prepared to go
" To new found worlds, and wept for others woe;
" But for himſelf, in conſcious virtue brave,
" He only wiſhed for worlds beyond the grave.
" His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
" The fond companion of his helpleſs years,
" Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
" And left a lover's for a father's arms.
" With louder plaints the mother ſpoke her woes,
" And bleſt the cot where every pleaſure roſe;
" And kiſt her thoughtleſs babes with many a tear,
" And claſpt them cloſe in ſorrow doubly dear;
" Whilſt her fond huſband ſtrove to lend relief
" In all the ſilent manlineſs of grief."

We ſhall conclude with the following lines, ſorry only that, as general experience has proved their [30] truth, England ſeems reſolved not to become an exception to the rule.

" O luxury! Thou curſt by Heaven's decree,
" How ill exchanged are things like theſe for thee,
" How do thy potions with inſidious joy,
" Diffuſe their pleaſures only to deſtroy!
" Kingdoms, by thee, to ſickly greatneſs grown,
" Boaſt of a florid vigour not their own;
" At every draught more large and large they grow,
" A bloated maſs of rank unwieldy woe;
" Till ſapped their ſtrength, and every part unſound,
" Down, down they ſink, and ſpread a ruin round."

As Dr. Goldſmith's Ballad of the Hermit has been juſtly celebrated, on account of its elegant tender⯑neſs, and ſweet ſimplicity, I preſume I cannot oblige my readers with a more acceptable preſent.

A BALLAD.

I." Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
" And guide my lonely way,
" To where yon taper cheers the vale,
" With hoſpitable ray.

II." For here, forlorne and loſt I tread,
" With fainting ſteps and ſlow;
" Where wilds immeaſurably ſpread,
" Seem lengthening as I go.

[31]III.

" Forbear, my ſon," the hermit cries,

" To tempt the dangerous gloom;

" For yonder faithleſs phantom flies

" To lure thee to thy doom.

IV." Here to the houſeleſs child of want,
" My door is open ſtill;
" And tho' my portion is but ſcant,
" I give it with good will.

V." Then turn to-night, and freely ſhare
" Whate'er my cell beſtows;
" My ruſhy couch, and frugal fare,
" My bleſſing and repoſe.

VI." No flocks that range the valley free,
" To ſlaughter I condemn:
" Taught by that power that pities me,
" I learn to pity them.

[32]VII.

" But from the mountain's graſſy ſide,

" A guiltleſs feaſt I bring;

" A ſcrip with herbs and fruits ſupply'd,

" And water from the ſpring.

VIII." Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
" All earth-born cares are wrong;
" Man wants but little here below,
" Nor wants that little long."

IX.Soft as the dew from heav'n deſcends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modeſt ſtranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

X.Far in a wilderneſs obſcure
The lonely manſion lay,
A refuge to the neighbouring poor
And ſtrangers led aſtray.

[33]XI.

No ſtores beneath its humble thatch,

Requir'd a maſter's care;

The wicket opening with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmleſs pair.

XII.And now when buſy crouds retire
To take their evening reſt,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his penſive gueſt;

XIII.And ſpread his vegetable ſtore,
And gayly preſt and ſmil'd,
And, ſkill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguil'd.

XIV.Around in ſympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
The crackling faggot flies.

[34]XV.

But nothing could a charm impart

To ſooth the ſtranger's woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

XVI.His riſing cares the hermit ſpy'd,
With anſwering care oppreſt:
" And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd,
" The ſorrows of thy breaſt?

XVII." From better habitations ſpurn'd,
" Reluctant doſt thou rove;
" Or grieve for friendſhip unreturn'd,
" Or unregarded love?

XVIII." Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
" Are trifling, and decay;
" And thoſe who prize the paltry things,
" More trifling ſtill than they.

[35]XIX.

" 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?

XX." 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.

XXI." 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.

XXII.Surpriz'd he ſees new beauties riſe
Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning ſkies,
As bright, as tranſient too.

[36]XXIII.

The baſhful look, the riſing breaſt,

Alternate ſpread alarms,

The lovely ſtranger ſtands confeſt

A maid in all her charms.

XXIV." And, ah, forgive a ſtranger rude,
" A wretch forlorn," ſhe cry'd,
" Whoſe feet unhallowed thus intrude
" Where heaven and you reſide.

XXV." But let a maid thy pity ſhare,
" Whom love has taught to ſtray;
" Who ſeeks for reſt, but finds deſpair
" Companion of her way.

XXVI." 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.

[37]XXVII.

" To win me from his tender arms,

" Unnumber'd ſuitors came;

" Who praiſed me for imputed charms,

" And felt or feign'd a flame.

XXVIII." Each hour a mercenary croud
" With richeſt proffers ſtrove:
" Among the reſt young Edwin bow'd,
" But never talk'd of love.

XXIX" In humbleſt ſimpleſt habit clad,
" No wealth nor power had he;
" Wiſdom and worth were all he had,
" But theſe were all to me.

XXX." The bloſſom opening to the day,
" The dews of heaven refin'd,
" Could nought of purity diſplay,
" To emulate his mind.

[38]XXXI.

" The dew, the bloſſom on the tree,

" With charms inconſtant ſhine;

" Their charms were his, but woe to me,

" Their conſtancy was mine.

XXXII." For ſtill I try'd each fickle art,
" Importunate and vain:
" And while his paſſion touch'd my heart,
" I triumph'd in his pain.

XXXIII." Till quite dejected with my ſcorn,
" He left me to my pride;
" And ſought a ſolitude forlorn,
" In ſecret where he died.

XXXIV." 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.—

[39]XXXV.

" And there forlorn deſpairing hid,

" I'll lay me down and die:

" 'Twas ſo for me that Edwin did,

" And ſo for him will I."

XXXVI." Forbid it, heaven!" the hermit cry'd,
And claſp'd her to his breaſt:
The wondering fair one turned to chide,
'Twas Edwin's ſelf that preſt.

XXXVII." Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
" My charmer, turn to ſee,
" Thy own, thy long loſt Edwin here,
" Reſtor'd to love and thee.

XXXVIII." 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.

[40]XXXIX.

" 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."

Since Doctor Goldſmith's death a poem has ap⯑peared entitled RETALIATION, which owes its origin to the following circumſtance: The Doc⯑tor was a member of a kind of club of wits, which met, occaſionally, at the St. James's Coffee Houſe; and a member of the ſociety having propoſed to write Epitaphs on our poet, he was called upon for Retaliation, in conſequence of which he wrote, and produced at the next meeting of the club, a poem under that title, from which the following charac⯑ters are ſelected:

" Here lies our good †Edmund, whoſe genius was ſuch,
" We ſcarcely can praiſe it, or blame it too much:
[41]" Who, born for the Univerſe, narrow'd his mind,
" And to party gave up, what was meant for man⯑kind.
" Tho' fraught with all learning, yet ſtraining his throat,
" To perſwade *Tommy Townſend to lend him a vote;
" Who, too deep for his hearers ſtill went on re⯑fining,
" And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
" Tho' 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 †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.
[42]" 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 given a rout.
" His fools have their follies ſo loſt in a croud
" Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud,
" And coxcombs alike in their failings alone,
" Adopting his portraits are pleas'd 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 from himſelf?"

" Here lies David Garrick, deſcribe me who can,
" An abridgement of all that was pleaſant in man;
" As an actor, confeſt without rival to ſhine,
" As a wit, if not firſt, in the very firſt line;
" Yet with talents like theſe, and an excellent heart,
" The man had his failings, a dupe to his art;
" Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he ſpread,
" And beplaſter'd, with rouge, his own natural red.
[43]" 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 turn'd and he varied full ten times a day;
" Tho' 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 pleas'd he could whiſtle them back.
" Of praiſe a mere glutton, he ſwallow'd what came,
" And the puff of a dunce, he miſtook it for fame;
" '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?
[44]" How did Grub-ſtreet re-echo the ſhouts that ye rais'd,
" While he was beroſcius'd, and you were be⯑prais'd?
" But peace to his ſpirit, wherever it flies,
" To act as an angel, and mix with the ſkies:
" Thoſe poets, who owe their beſt fame to his ſkill,
" Shall ſtill be his flatterers, go where he will.
" Old Shakeſpeare, receive him, with praiſe and with love,
" And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above."

" 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 judg'd without ſkill he was ſtill hard of hearing:
" When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and ſtuff,
" He ſhifted his trumpet † and only took ſnuff."

[45]" Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
" Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a † grave man;
" Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun!
" Who reliſh'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
" Whoſe temper was generous, open, ſincere;
" A ſtranger to flatt'ry, a ſtranger to fear;
" Who ſcatter'd around wit and humour at will,
" Whoſe daily bon mots half a column might fill;
" A Scotchman from pride and from prejudice free,
" A Scholar, yet ſurely no pedant was he.
" What pity, alas! that ſo lib'ral a mnid
" Should ſo long be to news-paper-eſſays confi'nd!
" Who perhaps to the ſummit of ſcience could ſoar,
" Yet content "if the table he ſet on a roar;"
" Whoſe talents to fill any ſtation were fit,
" Yet happy if † Woodfall confeſs'd him a wit.
" Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert ſcribling-folks!"
[46]" Who copied his ſquibs, and re-echoed his jokes,
" Ye tame imitators, ye ſervile herd come,
" Still follow your maſter, and viſit his tomb:
" To deck it, bring with you feſtoons of the vine,
" And copious libations beſtow on his ſhrine;
" Then ſtrew all around it (you can do no leſs)
"† Croſs-reading, Ship-news, and Miſtakes of the Preſs.
" Merry Whitfoord, farewell! for thy ſake I admit
" That a Scot may have humour, I had almoſt ſaid wit:
" This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuſe,
" Thou beſt humour'd man with the worſt hu⯑mour'd muſe!

THE END.