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taining as a Persian tale, was verified; and though much of it was borrowed from Buffon, and but little of it written from his own observation; though it was by no means profound, and was chargeable with many errors, yet the charms of his style and the play of his happy disposition throughout have continued to render it far more popular and readable than many works on the subject of much greater scope and science. Cumber land was mistaken, however, in his notion of Goldsmith's ignorance and lack of observation as to the character istics of animals. On the contrary, he was a minute and shrewd observer of them; but he observed them with the eye of a poet and a moralist as well as a naturalist. We quote two passages from his works illustrative of this fact, and we do so the more readily because they are in a manner a part of his history, and give us another peep into his private life in the Temple, of his mode of occupying himself in his lonely and apparently idle moments, and of another class of acquaintances which he made there.

Speaking in his "Animated Nature" of the habitudes of rooks, I have often amused myself," says he, "with observing their plans of policy from my window in the Temple, that looks upon a grove, where they have made a colony in the midst of a city. At the commencement of spring the rookery, which, during the continuance of winter, seemed to have been deserted, or only guarded by about five or six, like old soldiers in a garrison, now begins to be once more frequented; and in a short time all the bustle and hurry of business will be fairly commenced."

The other passage which we take the liberty to quote at some length is from an admirable paper in the "Bee," and relates to the house-spider.

belief. *

*

"Of all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, the spider is the most sagacious, and its motions to me, who have attentively considered them, seem almost to exceed * I perceived, about four years ago, a large spider in one corner of my room making its web; and, though the maid frequently levelled her broom against the labours of the little animal, I had the good fortune then to prevent its destruction, and I may say it more than paid me by the entertaiment it afforded." "In three days the web was, with incredible diligence, completed; nor could I avoid thinking that the insect seemed to exult in its new abode. It frequently tra versed it round, examined the strength of every part of it, retired into its hole, and came out very frequently. The first enemy, however, it had to encounter was another and a much larger spider, which having no web of its own, and having probably exhausted all its stock in former labours of this kind, came to invade the property of its neighbour. Soon, then, a terrible encounter ensued, in which the invader seemed to have the victory, and the laborious spider was obliged to take refuge in its hole. Upon this I perceived the victor using every art to draw the enemy from its stronghold. He seemed to go off, but quickly returned; and when he found all arts in vain, began to demolish the new web without mercy. This brought on another battle, and, contrary to my expectations, the laborious spider became conqueror, and fairly killed his antagonist.

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Now, then, in peaceable possession of what was just y its own, it waited three days with the utmost impa

tience, repairing the breaches of its web, and taking no sustenance that I could perceive. At last, however, a large blue fly fell into the snare, and struggled hard to get loose. The spider gave it leave to entangle itself as much as possible, but seemed to be too strong for the cobweb. I must own I was greatly surprised when I saw the spider immediately sally out, and in less than a minute weave a new net round its captive, by which the motion of its wings was stopped; and, when it was fairly hampered in this manuer, it was seized and drag ged into the hole.

"In this manner it lived in a precarious state; and nature seemed to have fitted it for such a life, for upon a single fly it subsisted for more than a week. I once put a wasp into the net; but when the spider came out in order to seize it as usual, upon perceiving what kind of an enemy it had to deal with it instantly broke all the bands that held it fast, and contributed all that lay in its power to disengage so formidable an antagonist. When the wasp was set at liberty, I expected the spider would have set about repairing the breaches that were made in its net; but those, it seems, were irreparable: wherefore the cobweb was now entirely forsaken, and a new one begun, which was completed in the usual time.

"I had now a mind to try how many cobwebs & single spider could furnish; wherefore I destroyed this, and the insect set about another. When I destroyed the other also, its whole stock seemed exhausted, and it could spin no more. The arts it made use of to support itself, now deprived of its great means of subsistence, were indeed surprising. I have seen it roll up its legs like a ball, and lie motionless for hours together, but cautiously watching all the time: when a fly happened to approach sufficiently near, it would dart out all at once, and often seize its prey.

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Of this life, however, it soon began to grow weary, and resolved to invade the possession of some other spider, since it could not make a web of its own. It formed an attack upon a neighbouring fortification with great vigour, and at first was as vigorously repulsed. Not daunted, however, with one defeat, in this manner it continued to lay siege to another's web for three days, and at length, having killed the defendant, actually took possession. When smaller flies happen to fall into the snare, the spider does not sally out at once, but very patiently waits till it is sure of them; for, upon his iminediately approaching, the terror of his appearance might give the captive strength sufficient to get loose; the manner, then, is to wait patiently till, by ineffectual and impotent struggles, the captive has wasted all its strength, and then he becomes a certain and easy conquest.

The insect I am now describing lived three years, every year it changed its skin and got a new set of legs. I have sometimes plucked off a leg, which grew again in two or three days. At first it dreaded my approach to its web, but at last it became so familiar as to take a fly out of my hand; and, upon touching any part of the web, would immediately leave its hole, prepared either for a defence or an attack."

CHAP. XXVII.

Honours at the Royal Academy-Letter to his brother MauriceFamily fortunes-Jane Contarine and the miniature-Portraits and engravings-School associations-Johnson and Goldsmith in Westminster Abbey.

The latter part of the year 1768 had been made memorable in the world of taste by the institution of the Royal Academy of Arts, under the patronage of the King, and the direction of forty of the most distinguished artists. Reynolds, who had been mainly instrumental in founding it, had been unanimously elected president, and had thereupon received the honour of knighthood.* was so delighted with his friend's elevation, that he broke through a rule of total abstinence with respect to wine, which he had maintained for several

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years, and drank bumpers on the occasion. Sir Joshua eagerly sought to associate his old and valued friends with him in his new honours, and it is supposed to be through his suggestions that, on the first establishment of professorships, which took place in December, 1769, Jolinson was nominated to that of Ancient Literature, and Goldsmith to that of History. They were mere honorary titles, without emolument, but gave distinction, from the noble institution to which they appertained. They also gave the possessors honourable places at the annual banquet, at which were assembled many of the most distinguished persons of rank and talent, all proud to be classed among the patrons of the arts.

The following letter of Goldsmith to his brother alludes to the foregoing appointment, and to a small legacy bequeathed to him by his uncle Contarine :— To Mr. Maurice Goldsmith, at James Lauder's, Esq.,

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at Kilmore, near Carrick-on-Shannon.

"January, 1770.

"DEAR BROTHER,—I should have answered your letter sooner, but, in truth, I am fond of thinking of the necessities of those I love, when it is so very little in my power to help them. I am sorry to find you are every way unprovided for; and what adds to my uneasiness is, that I have received a letter from my sister Jobuson, by which I learn that she is pretty much in the same circumstances. As to myself, I believe I think I could get both you and my poor brother-in-law something like that which you desire, but I am determined never to ask for little things, nor exhaust any little interest I may have, until I can serve you, him, and myself more effectually. As yet no opportunity has offered; but I believe you are pretty well convinced that I will not be remiss when it arrives.

"The king has lately been pleased to make me Professor of Ancient History in the Royal Academy of Painting, which he has just established, but there is no salary annexed; and I took it rather as a compliment to the institution than any benefit to myself. Honours to one in my situation are something like ruffles to one that wants a shirt.

"You tell me that there are fourteen or fifteen pounds left me in the hands of my cousin Lawder, and you ask me what I would have done with them. My dear brother, I would by no means give any directions to my dear worthy relations at Kilmore how to dispose of money which is, properly speaking, more theirs than mine. All that I can say is, that I entirely, and this letter will serve to witness, give up my right and title to it; and I am sure they will dispose of it to the best advantage. To them I entirely leave it; whether they or you may think the whole necessary to fit you out, or whether our poor sister Johnson may not want the half, I leave entirely to their and your discretion. The kindness of that good couple to our shattered family demands our sincerest gratitude; and, though they have almost forgotten me, yet, if good things at last arrive, I hope one day to return and increase their good-humour by adding to my own.

"I have sent my cousin Jenny a miniature portrait of myself, as I believe it is the most acceptable present 1 can offer. I have ordered it to be left for her at George Faulkener's folded in a letter. The face, you well know, is ugly enough, but it is finely painted. I will shortly also send my friends over the Shannon some mezzotinto prints of myself, and some more of my friends here, such as Burke, Johnson, Reynolds, and Colman. I believe I have written a hundred letters to different friends in your country, and never received an answer to any of them. I do not know how to account for this, or why they are unwilling to keep up for me those regards which I must ever retain for them.

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If, then, you have a mind to oblige me, you will write often, whether I answer you or not. Let me par

ticularly have the news of our family and old acquaintances. For instance, you may begin by telling me about the family where you reside, how they spend their time, and whether they ever make mention of me. Tell me about my mother, my brother Hodson and his son, my brother Harry's son and daughter, my Sister Johnson, the family of Ballyoughter, what is become of them, where they live, and how they do. You talked of being my only brother: I don't understand you. Where is Charles? A sheet of paper occasionally filled with the news of this kind would make me very happy, and would keep you nearer my mind. As it is, my dear brother, believe me to be, "Yours, most affectionately,

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By this letter we find the Goldsmiths the same shiftscrambling on each other's back as soon as any rise above ing, shiftless race as formerly-a "shattered family," the surface. Maurice is every way unprovided for;" living upon cousin Jane and her husband; and, perhaps, amusing himself by hunting otter in the river Iuny. Sister Johnson and her husband are as poor off as Maurice, with, perhaps, no one at hand to quarter theinselves upon; as to the rest, "what is become of them; where do they live; how do they do; what is become of Charles?" What forlorn, hap-hazard life is implied by these questions! Can we wonder that, with all the love for his native place which is shown throughout Goldsmith's writings, he had not the heart to return there? Yet his affections are still there. He wishes to know whether the Lawders (which means his cousin Jane, his early Valentine) ever make mention of him; he sends Jane his miniature; he believes "it is the most acceptable present he can offer;" he evidently, therefore, does not believe she has almost forgotten him, although he intimates that he does: in his memory she is still Jane Contarine, as he last saw her, when he accompanied her harpsichord with his flute. Absence, like death, sets a seal on the image of those we have loved; we cannot realise the intervening changes which time may have effected.

As to the rest of Goldsmith's relatives, he abandons his legacy of fifteen pounds to be shared among them. It is all he has to give. His heedless improvidence is eating up the pay of the booksellers in advance. With all his literary success, he has neither money nor influence; but he has empty fame, and he is ready to participate with them; he is honorary professor, without pay; his portrait is to be engraved in mezzotint, in compauy with those of his friends, Burke, Reynolds, Johnson, Colman, and others, and he will send prints of them to his friends over the Shannon, though they may not have a house to hang them up in. What a motley letter! How indicative of the motley character of the writer! By-the-by, the publication of a splendid mezzotinto engraving of his likeness by Reynolds was a great matter of glorification to Goldsmith, especially as it appeared in such illustrious company. As he was one day walking the streets in a state of high elation, from having just seen it figuring in the print-shop windows, he met a young gentleman with a newly married wife hanging on his arm, whom he immediately recognised for Master Bishop, one of the boys he had petted and treated with sweetmeats when an humble usher at Milner's school. The kindly feelings of old times revived, and he accosted him with cordial familiarity, though the youth may have found some difficulty in recognising in the personage, arrayed, perhaps, in garments of Tyrian dye, the dingy pedagogue of the Milners. Come, my boy," cried Goldsmith, as if still speaking to a school-boy, “Come, Sam, I am delighted to see you. I must treat you to something-what shall it be? Will you have some apples?" glancing at an old woman's stall; then recollecting the print-shop window, Sam," said he, “have you seen my picture, by Sir Joshua Reynolds? Have

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After all, it was honest pride, not vanity, in Goldsmith, that was gratified at seeing his portrait deemed worthy of being perpetuated by the classic pencil of Reynolds, and hung up in history" beside that of his revered friend Johnson. Even the great moralist himself was not insensible to a feeling of this kind. Walking one day with Goldsmith, in Westminster Abbey, among the tombs of monarchs, warriors, and statesmen, they came to the sculptured mementoes of literary worthies in poet's-corner. Casting his eyes round upon these memorials of genius, Johnson muttered in a low tone to his companion—

Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis.

Goldsmith treasured up the intimated hope, and shortly afterwards, as they were passing by Temple-bar, where the heads of the Jacobite rebels, executed for treason, were mouldering aloft on spikes, pointed up to the grizzly mementoes, and echoed the intimationForsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis.

CHAP. XXVIII.

Publication of the "Deserted Village"-Notices and illustrations

of it.

Several years had now elapsed since the publication of "The Traveller," and much wonder was expressed that the great success of that poem had not incited the author to further poetic attmepts. On being questioned at the annual dinner of the Royal Academy by the Earl of Lisburn, why he neglected the muses to compile histories and write novels, “My Lord," replied he, "by courting the muses I shall starve; but by my other labours 1 eat, drink, have good clothes, and can enjoy the luxuries of life." So, also, on being asked by a poor writer what was the most profitable mode of exercising the pen, "My dear fellow," replied he, good humouredly, "pay no regard to the draggle-tailed muses; for my part I have found productions in prose much more sought after and better paid for."

Still, however, as we have heretofore shown, he found sweet moments of dalliance to steal away from his prosaic toils, and court the muse among the green lanes and hedge-rows in the rural environs of London, and on the 26th of May, 1770, he was enabled to bring his "Deserted Village" before the public.

The popularity of "The Traveller" had prepared the way for this poem, and its sale was instantaneous and immense. The first edition was immediately exhausted; in a few days more a second was issued; in a few days more a third, and by the 16th of August the fifth edition was hurried through the press. As is the case with popular writers, he had become his own rival, and critics were inclined to give the preference to his first poem; but with the public at large, we believe the "Deserted Village" has ever been the greatest favourite. Previous to its publication, the bookseller gave him in advance a note for the price agreed upon, one hundred gineas. As the latter was returning home he met a friend, to whom he mentioned the circumstance, and who, apparently judging of the poetry by quantity rather than quality, observed that it was a great sum for so small a poem. "In truth," said Goldsmith, "I think so too; it is much more than the honest man can afford or the piece is worth. I have not been easy since I received it." In fact, he actually returned the note to

the bookseller, and left it to him to graduate the payment according to the success of the work. The bookseller, as may well be supposed, soon repaid him in fuli, with many acknowledgments of his disinterestedness. This anecdote has been called in question, we know not on what grounds; we see nothing in it incompatible with the character of Goldsmith, who was very impul sive, and prone to acts of inconsiderate generosity.

As we do not pretend, in this summary memoir, to go into a criticism or analysis of any of Goldsmith's writ ings, we shall not dwell upon the peculiar merits of this poem; we cannot help noticing, however, how truly it is a mirror of the author's heart, and of all fond pictures of early friends and early life for ever present there. It seems to us as if the very last accounts received from home of his shattered family," and the desolation that seemed to have settled upon the haunts of his childhood, had cut to the roots one feebly-cherished hope, and produced the following exquisitely tender and mournful

lines:

In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has giv'n my shareI still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amid 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, Amid 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 which at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return-and die at home at last. How touchingly expressive are the succeeding lines, wrung from a heart which all the trials and temptations which, amid a thousand follies and errors of the head, and buffetings of the world could not render worldly! still retained its childlike innocence; and which, doomed to struggle on to the last amidst the din and turmoil of the metropolis, had ever been cheating itself with a dream of rural quiet and seclusion:

Oh bless'd retirement! friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine; How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, 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. NOTE. The following article, which appeared in a London periodical, shows the eflect of Goldsmith's poem in renovating the fortunes of Lissoy :—

"About three miles from Ballymahon, a very central town in the sister kingdom, is the mansion and village of Auburn, so called by their present possessor, Captain Hogan. Through the taste and improvement of this gentleman, it is now a beautiful spot, although fifteen years since it presented a very bare and unpoetical aspect. This, however, was owing to a cause which serves strongly to corroborate the assertion, that Goldsmith had this scene in view when he wrote his poem of The Deserted Village.' The then possessor, General Napier, turned all his tenants out of their farms, that he might enclose them in his own private domain. Littleton, the mansion of the general, stands not far off, a complete emblem of the desolating spirit lamented by the poet, dilapidated, and converted into a barrack.

"The chief object of attraction is Lissoy, once the parsonage-house of Henry Goldsmith, that brother to

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whom the poet dedicated his Traveller,' and who is there being no such bird in the island. The objection represented as the village-pastor, is slighted, on the other hand, by considering the pasBesides,' say they, sage as a mere poetical licence.

Passing rich with forty pounds a year.

"When I was in the country the lower chambers were inhabited by pigs and sheep, and the drawing-room by oats. Captain Hogan, however, has, I believe, got it since into his possession, and has, of course, improved

its condition.

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Though at first strongly inclined to dispute the identity of Auburn, Lissoy House overcame my scruples. As I clambered over the rotten gate, and crossed the grass-grown lawn or court, the tide of association became too strong for casuistry: here the poet dwelt and wrote, and here his thoughts fondly recurred when composing his Traveller' in a foreign land. Yonder was the decent church, that literally topped the neighbouring hill. Before me lay the little hill of Knockrue, on which he declares, in one of his letters, he had rather sit with a book in hand than mingle in the proudest assemblies. And, above all, startlingly true, beneath my feet was

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Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden-flower grows wild. "A painting from the life could not be more exact. The stubborn currant-bush' lifts its head above the rank grass, and the proud hollyoak flaunts where its sisters of the flower-knot are no more.

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'In the middle of the village stands the old hawthorntree, built up with masonry to distinguish and preserve it; it is old and stunted, and suffers much from the depredations of post-chaise travellers, who generally stop to procure a twig. Opposite to it is the village alehouse, over the door of which swings The Three Jolly Pigeons.' Within, everything is arranged according to the letter:The whitewash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door: The chest, contrived a double debt to payA bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;

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The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose. Captain Hogan, I have heard, found great difficulty in obtaining the twelve good rules,' but at length purchased them at some London bookstall to adorn the whitewashed parlour of The Three Pigeons.' However laudable this may be, nothing shook my faith in the reality of Auburn so much as this exactness, which had the disagreeable air of being got up for the occasion. The last object of pilgrimage is the quondam habitation

of the schoolmaster

There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. It is surrounded with fragrant proofs of identity in The blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay. "There is to be seen the chair of the poet, which fell into the hands of its present possessors at the wreck of the parsonage-house; they have frequently refused large offers of purchase; but more, I dare say, for the sake of drawing contributions from the curious than from any reverence for the bard. The chair is of oak, with back and seat of cane, which precluded all hopes of a secret drawer, like that lately discovered in Gay's. There is no fear of its being worn out by the devout earnestness of sitters-as the cocks and hens have usurped undis puted possession of it, and protest most clamorously against all attempts to get it cleansed, or to seat one's

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the robin is the Irish nightingale.' And if it be hinted the scene in a place from which he was, and had been, how unlikely it was that Goldsmith should have laid so long absent, the rejoinder is always, Pray, sir, was

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Milton in hell when he built Pandemonium ?'
"The line is naturally drawn between; there can be
no doubt that the poet intended England by

The land to hast ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay.

But it is very natural to suppose that, at the same time,
his imagination had in view the scenes of his youth,
which give such strong features of resemblance to the
picture."

Best, an Irish clergyman, told Davis, the traveller in America, that the hawthorn bush, mentioned in the poem, was still remarkably large. "I was riding once," said he, "with Brady, titular Bishop of Ardagh, when he observed to me, Ma foy, Best, this huge overgrown bush is mightily in the way. I will order it to be cut down. What, sir!' replied I, cut down the bush that supplies so beautiful an image in The Deserted Village? Ma foy" exclaimed the bishop, 'is that the hawthorn-bush? Then let it be sacred from the edge of the axe, and evil be to him that should cut off a branch."-The hawthorn bush, however, has long since been cut up, root and branch, in furnishing relics to literary pilgrims.

CHAP. XXIX.

The Poet among the ladies-Description of his person and man. ners-Expedition to Paris with the Horneck family-The traveller of twenty and the traveller of forty-Hickey, the special attorney-An unlucky exploit.

"The Deserted Village" had shed an additional poetic grace round the homely person of the author; he was becoming more and more acceptable in ladies' eyes, and finding himself more and more at ease in their society; at least in the society of those whom he met in the Reynolds circle, among whom he particularly affected the beautiful family of the Hornecks.

But let us see what were really the looks and manners of Goldsmith about this time, and what right he had to aspire to ladies' smiles; and, in so doing, let us not take the sketches of Boswell and his compeers, who had a propensity to represent him in caricature; but let us take the apparently truthful and discriminating picture of him as he appeared to Judge Day, when the latter was a student in the Temple.

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In person," says the judge, "he was short; about five feet five or six inches; strong, but not heavy made; rather fair in complexion, with brown hair; such, at least, as could be distinguished from his wig. His features were plain but not repulsive certainly not so when lighted up by conversation. His manners weic simple, natural, and perhaps on the whole, we may say, not polished-at least, without the refinement and goodbreeding which the exquisite polish of his compositions would lead us to expect. He was always cheerful and animated, often, indeed, boisterous in his mirth; entered with spirit into convivial society; contributed largely to its enjoyments by solidity of information, and the naïveté and originality of his character; talked often without premeditation, and laughed loudly without restraint."

This, it will be recollected, represents him as he ap peared to a young Templar, who probably saw him only in Temple coffee-houses, at students' quarters, or at the jovial supper-parties given at the poet's own chambers; here, of course, his mind was in its rough dress; his

laugh may have been loud, and his mirth boisterous; but we trust all these matters became softened and modified when he found himself in polite drawing-rooms and in female society.

But what say the ladies themselves of him? and here, fortunately, we have another sketch of him, as he appeared at the time to one of the Horneck circle-in fact, we believe, to the Jessamy Bride herself. After admitting, apparently with some reluctance, that he was a very plain man," she goes on to say, "but had he been much more so, it was impossible not to love and respect his goodness of heart, which broke out on every occasion. His benevolence was unquestionable, and his countenance bore every trace of it: no one that knew him intimately could avoid admiring and loving his good qualities." When to all this we add the idea of intellectual delicacy and refinement associated with him by his poetry, and the newly-plucked bays that were flourishing round his brow, we cannot be surprised that fine and fashionable ladies should be proud of his attentions, and that even a young beauty should not be altogether displeased with the thoughts of having a man of his genius in her chains.

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We are led to indulge some notions of the kind from finding him in the month of July, but a few weeks after the publication of the Deserted Village," setting off on a six weeks' excursion to Paris, in company with Mrs. Horn ck and her two beautiful daughters A day or two before his departure, we find another new gala suit charged to him on the books of Mr. William Filby. Were the bright eyes of the Jessamy Bride responsible for this additional extravagance of wardrobe? Goldsmith had recently been editing the works of Parnell; had he taken courage from the example of Edwin, in the Fairy tale ?

Yet spite of all that nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dared to love.
He felt the force of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize
Could ladies look within-

All this we throw out as mere hints and surmises, leaving it to our readers to draw their own conclusions. It will be found, however, that the poet was subject to shrewd bantering among his contemporaries about the beautiful Mary Horneck, and that he was extremely sensitive on the subject.

It was in the month of June that he set out for Paris with his fair companions, and the following letter was written by him to Sir Joshua Reynolds, soon after the party landed at Calais :

MY DEAR FRIEND,-We had a very quick passage from Dover to Calais, which we performed in three hours and twenty minutes, all of us extremely sea-sick, which must necessarily have happened, as my machine to prevent sea-sickness was not completed. We were glad to leave Dover, because we hated to be imposed upon; so were in high spirits at coming to Calais, where we were told that a little money would go a great way.

"Upon landing, with two little trunks, which were all we carried with us, we were surprised to see fourteen or fifteen fellows all running down to the ship to lay their hands upon them; four got under each trunk, the rest surrounded and held the hasps; and in this manner our little baggage was conducted with a kind of funeral solemnity, till it was safely lodged at the custom-house. We were well enough pleased with the people's civility till they came to be paid; every creature that had the happiness of but touching our trunks with their finger expected sixpence; and they had so pretty and civil a manner of demanding it, that there was no refusing them.

"When we had done with the porters, we had next to speak with the custom-house officers, who had their pretty civil way too. We were directed to the Hotel d'Angelterre, where a valet-de-place came to offer his

service, and spoke to me ten minutes before I once found out that he was speaking English. We had no occasion for his services, so we gave him a little money because he spoke English, and because he wanted it. I cannot help mentioning another circumstance: I bought a new riband for my wig at Canterbury, and the barber at Calais broke it, in order to gain sixpence by buying me a new one."

An incident which occurred in the course of this tour has been tortured by that literary magpie, Boswell, into a proof of Goldsmith's absurd jealousy of any admiration shown to others in his presence. While stopping at an hotel in Lisle, they were drawn to the windows by a military parade in front. The extreme beauty of the Miss Hornecks immediately attracted the attention of the officers, who broke forth with enthusiastic speeches and compliments intended for their ears. Goldsmith was amused for awhile, but at length affected impatience at this exclusive admiration of his beautiful companions, and exclaimed with mock severity of aspect, Elsewhere I also would have my admirers."

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It is difficult to conceive the obtuseness of intellect necessary to misconstrue so obvious a piece of mock petulance and dry humour into an instance of mortified vanity and jealous self-conceit.

Goldsmith jealous of the admiration of a group of gay officers for the charms of two beautiful young women! This even out-Boswells Boswell; yet this is but one of several similiar absurdities, evidently misconceptions of Goldsmith's peculiar vein of humour, by which the charge of envious jealousy has been attempted to be fixed upon him. In the present instance it was contradicted by one of the ladies herself, who was an noyed that it had been advanced against him. “I am sure," said she," from the peculiar manner of his humour and assumed frown of countenance what was often uttered in jest was mistaken by those who did not know him for earnest." No one was more prone to err on this point than Boswell. He had a tolerable perception of wit, but none of humour.

The following letter to Sir Joshua Reynolds was subsequently written :

“To Sir Joshua Reynolds.

"Paris, July 29, 1770. "MY DEAR FRIEND,-I began a long letter to you from Lisle, giving a description of that we had done and seen; but finding it very duil, and knowing that you would show it again, I threw it aside and it was lost. You see by the top of this letter that we are at Paris, and (as I have often heard you say) we have brought our own amusement with us, for the ladies do not seem to be very fond of what we have yet seen.

With regard to myself, I find that travelling at twenty and forty are very different things I set out with all my confirmed habits about me, and can find nothing on the continent so good as when I formerly left it. One of our chief amusements here is scolding at everything we meet with, and praising everything and every person we left at home. You may judge, therefore, whether your name is not frequently bandied at table among us. To tell you the truth, I never thought I could regret your absence so much as our various mortifications on the road have often taught me to do. I could tell you of disasters and adventures without number; of our lying in barns, and of my being halfpoisoned with a dish of green peas; of our quarrelling with postillions, and being cheated by our landladies; but I reserve all this for a happy hour, which I expect to share with you upon my return.

"I have little to tell you more but that we are at present all well, and expect returning when we have stayed out one month, which I did not care if it were over this very day. I long to hear from you all, how you yourself do, how Johnson, Brooke, Dyer, Chamier, Colman, and every one of the club do. I wish I could send you

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