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 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." 'O, goodness," cried the lovely girl, "how have I been deceived! Mr. Thornhill informed me, for certain, that this gentleman's eldest son, Captain Primrose, was gone off to America with his new-married lady.' 66 My sweetest Miss," cried my wife, "he 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. 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 dissolution of the match. But, finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now saw that his money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his own. | He could bear his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent to his 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 disappointment 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 sufficient competence to give content. Here you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to take her without fortune; they have long loved each other, and for the friendship I bear his father, my interest shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit that happiness which courts your acceptance." 44 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. "Good heavens!" cried Miss Wilmot, "how very near have I There is still, thank heaven, some fortune left, and your promise been to the brink of ruin! but how great is my pleasure to have will make it something more. Only let my old friend here (meanescaped it! Ten thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me! ing me), give me a promise of settling six thousand pounds upon He had at last art enough to persuade me that my promise to the my girl, if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am ready this only man I esteemed was no longer binding, since he had been un-night to be the first to join them together." faithful. By his falsehoods I was taught to detest one equally brave and generous." But 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-dechambre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. He now, there-than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To be possessed of fore, entered the room, 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 wrought in his favour. But no decorum could restrain the impatience of his blushing mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to discover the real sensations of her heart, for having forgotten her former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded by an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and could scarce believe it real. "Sure, Madam," cried he, "this is but delusion, I can never have merited this! To be blessed thus, is to be too happy!" "No, Sir," replied she, "I have been 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 circumstance 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 and 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 dependant upon your favours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles, and a bond for her fortune, are signed and safe in my possession. It was her fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish for this match; and, possessed of the one, let who will take "You As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily made 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 all that's good, and after such an interval of pain! my warmest wishes could never rise so high." "Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride; "now let the wretch take my fortune: since you are happy without it, so am I. O, what an exchange have I made from the basest of men to the dearest, best! Let him enjoy our fortune; I now can be happy even in indigence." "And I promise you," cried the squire, with a malicious grin, "that I shall be very happy with what you despise." "Hold, hold, Sir!" cried Jenkinson; "there are two words to that bargain. As for that lady's fortune, Sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it." Pray, your honour," continued he to Sir William, "can the squire have this lady's fortune if he be 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." lie like a rascal!" returned the squire, who seemed roused by this insult; "I never was legally married to any woman." "Indeed, begging your 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 various schemes this gentleman had 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 behold 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 66 there, this young lady is your lawful wedded wife; and to convince 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 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 that 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 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 your 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 knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was going to spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a few 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 had 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 even our benefactor, Jenkinson, desired to be admitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed scarce 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 from me 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 of sorrow. : 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 sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning. CHAPTER XXXII The Conclusion. THE next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest son the lead; but this the other refused with equal ardour, 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, 1 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 quite disheartened by this 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 melancholy, 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 o. 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 proposed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, excepting my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table, and carving the meat for all the company. But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe our good humour. I can't say whether we had more wit among us now than usual, but I am certain we had more laughing which answered the end as well. One jest I particularly 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 the grave to wish forall 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. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, author of that ever-delightful literary fiction, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, which has been translated into every European and several oriental languages, and which will retain a lasting position in our literature, was, according to some of his biographers, born in 1729, at Elphin, in Ireland, but according to the inscription on his monument in Westminster Abbey, at Fernes, in the province of Leinster, on the 29th of November, 1731. After having acquired the rudiments of education at a private school, he was in June 1744, admitted a Sizer of Trinity College, Dublin, where he graduated B.A., in 1749, but did not display remarkable abilities in the course of his academical studies. Being destined for the medical profession, he attended some courses of Anatomy in Dublin; and in 1751, entered the University of Edinburgh, where he studied medicine under the different professors. His thoughtless, though generous disposition, soon involved him in difficulties, and in order to avoid arrest for the debt of a friend, for which he had made himself responsible, he was obliged to quit Scotland abruptly. He arrived at Sunderland in the early part of 1754. when his person was secured, but being released, through the friendship of Dr. Sleigh, he sailed to Rotterdam, anά after visiting great part of Flanders, proceeded to Louvain, where he remained some time, at the expense of his uncle, and took his degree of Bachelor in Physic. Hence, it is said, with only one clean shirt, and no money in his pocket, he set out on foot for Geneva, which he reached by a circuitous route, in the course of which he supported himself by his abilities, musical and classical. "My learning," he says, "procured me a favourable reception at most of the religious houses I visited, and whenever I approached a peasant's house, I played one of my most merry tunes, and that generally procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day; this, however, was not the case with the rich, who generally despised both me and my music." The reader cannot fail to perceive from the foregoing and the following particulars, that the adventures of the Vicar's son, George, form almost literally the early personal career of Goldsmith. On his arrival at Geneva, he was appointed tutor and travelling companion to a young gentleman of fortune, with whom he continued until they entered the south of France, where, in consequence of a disagreement, they parted. Goldsmith, however, did not turn his steps homeward, till he had still further gratified his passion for travel, although he was obliged to resort to his flute, as before, for lodging and subsistence. The death of his uncle, during our author's stay abroad, had reduced him to these exigencies, and on his arrival in London, in the winter of 1758, a few halfpence constituted the whole of his finances. In this extremity, he applied for employment to the apothecaries, but his awkward appearance,. and broad Irish accent, were much against him, and it was only from motives of humanity that a chemist, at length, consented to take him into his service. Hearing, however, that his old friend, Dr. Sleigh, was in London, he paid him a visit, and accepted an asylum in his house, but soon afterwards left it for an ushership at the Rev. Dr. Milner's academy at Peckham. In this situation he did not remain long; for, having obtained some reputation from criticisms he had written in The Monthly Review, he entered into an engagement with the proprietor, and coming to London, took lodgings near the Old Bailey, and commenced authorship as a profession. Besides writing for The Review, he produced a weekly pamphlet, called The Bee; An Inquiry into the present state of Learning in Europe; and contributed several essays to The Public Ledger, in which his Citizen of the World appeared, under the title of Chinese Letters. These publications had brought him both fame and emolument, and, in 1765, at which time he resided in the Temple, he added to them by the production of his celebrated poem of The Traveller. This had been written during his residence abroad, and was revised and printed at the recommendation of Dr. Johnson, his acquaintance, with whom soon followed other eminent literary characters of the day. In 1766 appeared his Vicar of Wakefield, and his History of England, in a series of letters; two of his most successful performances, and which were received with immediate applause. It was through Dr. Johnson's instrumentality that The Vicar of Wakefield was first introduced to the public. Boswell, in his celebrated Life of Johnson, thus narrates the circumstance in the Doctor's own words:-"I received one morning a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for £60. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." In 1768, his comedy of The Good Natured Man was brought out at Covent Garden, with a prologue by Dr. Johnson; but the success of it was not proportionate to its merits. In 1770 appeared his exquisite poem of The Deserted Village, for which he received £100, but could hardly be prevailed upon to accept it, until satisfied that the profits of the bookseller could afford that sum. It is, indeed, said by one of his biographers, that he went back and returned the money, observing, "he had not been easy since he received it," and left it to the bookseller to pay him according to the profits of the sale. In 1772 was acted his celebrated comedy, She Stoops to Conquer, concerning the acceptance and success of which, he appears to have been equally anxious and doubtful. His letter to Colman, about this time, does not represent his circumstances in a very favourable light: "I have, as you know,” he says, "a large sum of money to make up shortly; by accepting my play, I can readily satisfy my creditors that way; at any rate, I must look about to some certainty to be prepared. For God's sake take the play, and let us make the best of it, and let me have the same measure, at least, which you have given as bad plays as mine.” During the first performance of the comedy, he is said to have walked all the time in St. James's Park, in great uneasiness, until, thinking it must be over, he hastened to the Theatre. His ears were assailed with hisses as he entered the Green Room; when he eagerly inquired of Mr. Colman the cause, " Psha! psha!" said Colman," don't be afraid of squibs, when we have been sitting on a barrel of gunpowder these two hours." The fact was, that the comedy had been completely successful, and that it was the farce that had excited these sounds so terrific to Goldsmith. In the following year, his last Theatrical piece, entitled The Grumbler, a farce, altered from Sedley, was acted for the benefit of Mr. Quick; but it was not repeated, and was never printed. His other productions are, a Roman History, a History of England, in four volumes, a Grecian History, and a History of the Earth and Animated Nature, compiled from Buffon and others. He had acquired more than a sufficiency by his writings for his comforts and necessaries; but his indiscriminate and improvident liberality, added to a passion for gaming, rendered his emoluments comparatively useless; and at length threw him into a state of despondency, which terminated in a nervous fever, and deprived him of life on the 4th of April, 1774. He was buried in the Temple Church, and a monument was afterwards erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey, at the expense of a Literary Club to which he belonged, with an inscription by Dr. Johnson. He is described as a "poet, natural philosopher, and historian, who left no species of writing untouched or unadorned by his pen, whether to move laughter or draw tears. He was a powerful master over the affections, though, at the same time, a gentle tyrant: of a genius at once sublime, lively, and equal to every subject: in expression at once noble, pure, and delicate." |