114 Gay was of an old Devonshire family, but his pecuniary prospects not

being great, was placed in his youth in the house of a silk-mercer

in London. He was born in 1688—Pope’s year, and in 1712 the Duchess

of Monmouth made him her secretary. Next year he published his

_Rural Sports_, which he dedicated to Pope, and so made an

acquaintance, which became a memorable friendship.

“Gay,” says Pope, “was quite a natural man,—wholly without art or

design, and spoke just what he thought and as he thought it. He

dangled for twenty years about a Court, and at last was offered to

be made usher to the young princess. Secretary Craggs made Gay a

present of stock in the South-Sea year; and he was once worth

20,000_l._, but lost it all again. He got about 500_l._ by the first

_Beggar’s Opera_, and 1,100_l._ or 1,200_l._ by the second. He was

negligent and a bad manager. Latterly, the Duke of Queensberry took

his money into his keeping, and let him only have what was necessary

out of it, and, as he lived with them, he could not have occasion

for much. He died worth upwards of 3,000_l._”—POPE (_Spence’s

Anecdotes_).

115 “Mr. Gay is, in all regards, as honest and sincere a man as ever I

knew.”—SWIFT, _to Lady Betty Germaine_, Jan. 1733.

116 Of manners gentle, of affections mild;

In wit a man; simplicity, a child;

With native humour temp’ring virtuous rage,

Form’d to delight at once and lash the age;

Above temptation in a low estate,

And uncorrupted e’en among the great:

A safe companion, and an easy friend,

Unblamed through life, lamented in the end.

These are thy honours; not that here thy bust

Is mix’d with heroes, or with kings thy dust;

But that the worthy and the good shall say,

Striking their pensive bosoms, “_Here_ lies Gay.”

POPE’S _Epitaph on Gay_.

A hare who, in a civil way,

Complied with everything, like Gay.

_Fables_, “The Hare and Many Friends.”

117 “I can give you no account of Gay,” says Pope, curiously, “since he

was raffled for, and won back by his Duchess.”—_Works_, Roscoe’s

ed., vol. ix, p. 392.

Here is the letter Pope wrote to him when the death of Queen Anne

brought back Lord Clarendon from Hanover, and lost him the

secretaryship of that nobleman, of which he had had but a short

tenure.

Gay’s Court prospects were never happy from this time.—His

dedication of the _Shepherd’s Week_ to Bolingbroke, Swift used to

call the “original sin”, which had hurt him with the house of

Hanover.

“Sept. 23, 1714.

“DEAR MR. GAY,

“Welcome to your native soil! welcome to your friends! thrice

welcome to me! whether returned in glory, blest with Court interest,

the love and familiarity of the great, and filled with agreeable

hopes; or melancholy with dejection, contemplative of the changes of

fortune, and doubtful for the future; whether returned a triumphant

Whig or a depending Tory, equally all hail! equally beloved and

welcome to me! If happy, I am to partake of your elevation; if

unhappy, you have still a warm corner in my heart, and a retreat at

Benfield in the worst of times at your service. If you are a Tory,

or thought so by any man, I know it can proceed from nothing but

your gratitude to a few people who endeavoured to serve you, and

whose politics were never your concern. If you are a Whig, as I

rather hope, and as I think your principles and mine (as brother

poets) had ever a bias to the side of liberty, I know you will be an

honest man and an inoffensive one. Upon the whole, I know you are

incapable of being so much of either party as to be good for

nothing. Therefore, once more, whatever you are or in whatever state

you are, all hail!

“One or two of your own friends complained they had nothing from you

since the Queen’s death; I told them no man living loved Mr. Gay

better than I, yet I had not once written to him in all his voyage.

This I thought a convincing proof, but truly one may be a friend to

another without telling him so every month. But they had reasons,

too, themselves to allege in your excuse, as men who really value

one another will never want such as make their friends and

themselves easy. The late universal concern in public affairs threw

us all into a hurry of spirits: even I, who am more a philosopher

than to expect anything from any reign, was borne away with the

current, and full of the expectation of the successor. During your

journeys, I knew not whither to aim a letter after you; that was a

sort of shooting flying: add to this the demand Homer had upon me,

to write fifty verses a day, besides learned notes, all of which are

at a conclusion for this year. Rejoice with me, O my friend! that my

labour is over; come and make merry with me in much feasting. We

will feed among the lilies (by the lilies I mean the ladies). Are

not the Rosalindas of Britain as charming as the Blousalindas of the

Hague? or have the two great Pastoral poets of our own nation

renounced love at the same time? for Philips, unnatural Philips,

hath deserted it, yea, and in a rustic manner kicked his Rosalind.

Dr. Parnell and I have been inseparable ever since you went. We are

now at the Bath, where (if you are not, as I heartily hope, better

engaged) your company would be the greatest pleasure to us in the

world. Talk not of expenses: Homer shall support his children. I beg

a line from you, directed to the Post-house in Bath. Poor Parnell is

in an ill state of health.

“Pardon me if I add a word of advice in the poetical way. Write

something on the King, or Prince, or Princess. On whatsoever foot

you may be with the court, this can do no harm. I shall never know

where to end, and am confounded in the many things I have to say to

you, though they all amount but to this, that I am, entirely, as

ever,

“Your,” &c.

Gay took the advice “in the poetical way”, and published _An Epistle

to a Lady, occasioned by the arrival of her Royal Highness the

Princess of Wales_. But, though this brought him access to Court,

and the attendance of the Prince and Princess at his farce of the

_What d’ye, call it?_ it did not bring him a place. On the accession

of George II, he was offered the situation of Gentleman Usher to the

Princess Louisa (her Highness being then two years old); but “by

this offer”, says Johnson, “he thought himself insulted.”

118 Gay was a great eater.—As the French philosopher used to prove his

existence by _cogito, ergo sum_, the greatest proof of Gay’s

existence is, _edit, ergo est_—CONGREVE, _in a Letter to Pope_

(_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

119 Swift indorsed the letter—“On my dear friend Mr. Gay’s death;

received Dec. 15, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse

foreboding some misfortune.”

“It was by Swift’s interest that Gay was made known to Lord

Bolingbroke, and obtained his patronage.”—SCOTT’S _Swift_, vol. i,

p. 156.

Pope wrote on the occasion of Gay’s death, to Swift, thus:—

“[Dec. 5, 1732.]

“One of the dearest and longest ties I have ever had is broken all

on a sudden by the unfortunate death of poor Mr. Gay. An

inflammatory fever carried him out of this life in three days.... He

asked of you a few hours before when in acute torment by the

inflammation in his bowels and breast.... His sisters, we suppose,

will be his heirs, who are two widows.... Good God! how often are we

to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a

part of ourselves, and the best part. God keep those we have left!

few are worth praying for, and one’s self the least of all.”

120 “Gay, like Goldsmith, had a musical talent. ‘He could play on the

flute,’ says Malone, ‘and was, therefore, enabled to adapt so

happily some of the airs in the _Beggar’s Opera_.’ ”—_Notes to_

SPENCE.

121 ’Twas when the seas were roaring

With hollow blasts of wind,

A damsel lay deploring

All on a rock reclined.

Wide o’er the foaming billows

She cast a wistful look;

Her head was crown’d with willows

That trembled o’er the brook.

Twelve months are gone and over,

And nine long tedious days;

Why didst thou, venturous lover—

Why didst thou trust the seas?

Cease, cease, thou cruel Ocean,

And let my lover rest;

Ah! what’s thy troubled motion

To that within my breast?

The merchant robb’d of pleasure,

Sees tempests in despair;

But what’s the loss of treasure

To losing of my dear?

Should you some coast be laid on,

Where gold and diamonds grow,

You’d find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.

How can they say that Nature

Has nothing made in vain;

Why, then, beneath the water

Should hideous rocks remain?

No eyes the rocks discover

That lurk beneath the deep,

To wreck the wandering lover,

And leave the maid to weep?

All melancholy lying,

Thus wail’d she for her dear;

Repay’d each blast with sighing,

Each billow with a tear;

When o’er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she spy’d;

Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow’d her head, and died.

_A Ballad_, from the “_What d’ye call it?_”

“What can be prettier than Gay’s ballad, or, rather, Swift’s,

Arbuthnot’s, Pope’s, and Gay’s, in the _What d’ye call it?_ ‘’Twas

when the seas were roaring’? I have been well informed, that they

all contributed.”—Cowper to Unwin, 1783.

122 “Dr. Swift had been observing once to Mr. Gay, what an odd pretty

sort of thing a Newgate Pastoral might make. Gay was inclined to try

at such a thing for some time, but afterwards thought it would be

better to write a comedy on the same plan. This was what gave rise

to the _Beggar’s Opera_. He began on it, and when he first mentioned

it to Swift, the Doctor did not much like the project. As he carried

it on, he showed what he wrote to both of us; and we now and then

gave a correction, or a word or two of advice; but it was wholly of

his own writing. When it was done, neither of us thought it would

succeed. We showed it to Congreve, who, after reading it over, said,

‘It would either take greatly, or be damned confoundedly.’ We were

all at the first night of it, in great uncertainty of the event,

till we were very much encouraged by overhearing the Duke of Argyle,

who sat in the next box to us, say, ‘It will do—it must do!—I see it

in the eyes of them!’ This was a good while before the first Act was

over, and so gave us ease soon; for the Duke [besides his own good

taste] has a more particular research than any one now living in

discovering the taste of the public. He was quite right in this as

usual; the good nature of the audience appeared stronger and

stronger every act, and ended in a clamour of applause.”—POPE

(_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

123 “Waller, Spenser, and Dryden were Mr. Pope’s great favourites, in

the order they are named, in his first reading, till he was about

twelve years old.”—POPE (_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

“Mr. Pope’s father (who was an honest merchant, and dealt in

Hollands, wholesale) was no poet, but he used to set him to make

English verses when very young. He was pretty difficult in being

pleased; and used often to send him back to new turn them. ‘These

are not good rhimes;’ for that was my husband’s word for

verses.”—POPE’S MOTHER (_Spence_).

“I wrote things, I’m ashamed to say how soon. Part of an Epic Poem

when about twelve. The scene of it lay at Rhodes, and some of the

neighbouring islands; and the poem opened under water with a

description of the Court of Neptune.”—POPE (ibid.).

“His perpetual application (after he set to study of himself)

reduced him in four years’ time to so bad a state of health, that,

after trying physicians for a good while in vain, he resolved to

give way to his distemper; and sat down calmly in a full expectation

of death in a short time. Under this thought, he wrote letters to

take a last farewell of some of his more particular friends, and,

among the rest, one to the Abbé Southcote. The Abbé was extremely

concerned, both for his very ill state of health and the resolution

he said he had taken. He thought there might yet be hope, and went

immediately to Dr. Radcliffe, with whom he was well acquainted, told

him Mr. Pope’s case, got full directions from him, and carried them

down to Pope in Windsor Forest. The chief thing the Doctor ordered

him was to apply less, and to ride every day. The following his

advice soon restored him to his health.”—POPE (ibid.).

124 MR. POPE TO THE REV. MR. BROOME, PULHAM, NORFOLK.

“Aug. 29, 1730.

“DEAR SIR,—

“I intended to write to you on this melancholy subject, the death of

Mr. Fenton, before yours came, but stayed to have informed myself

and you of the circumstances of it. All I hear is, that he felt a

gradual decay, though so early in life, and was declining for five

or six months. It was not, as I apprehended, the gout in his

stomach, but, I believe, rather a complication first of gross

humours, as he was naturally corpulent, not discharging themselves,

as he used no sort of exercise. No man better bore the approaches of

his dissolution (as I am told), or with less ostentation yielded up

his being. The great modesty which you know was natural to him, and

the great contempt he had for all sorts of vanity and parade, never

appeared more than in his last moments: he had a conscious

satisfaction (no doubt) in acting right, in feeling himself honest,

true, and unpretending to more than his own. So he died as he lived,

with that secret, yet sufficient contentment.

“As to any papers left behind him, I dare say they can be but few;

for this reason, he never wrote out of vanity, or thought much of

the applause of men. I know an instance when he did his utmost to

conceal his own merit that way; and if we join to this his natural

love of ease, I fancy we must expect little of this sort: at least,

I have heard of none, except some few further remarks on Waller

(which his cautious integrity made him leave an order to be given to

Mr. Tonson), and perhaps, though it is many years since I saw it, a

translation of the first book of _Oppian_. He had begun a tragedy of

_Dion_, but made small progress in it.

“As to his other affairs, he died poor but honest, leaving no debts

or legacies, except of a few pounds to Mr. Trumbull and my lady, in

token of respect, gratefulness, and mutual esteem.

“I shall, with pleasure, take upon me to draw this amiable, quiet,

deserving, unpretending, Christian, unphilosophical character in his

epitaph. There truth may be spoken in a few words; as for flourish,

and oratory, and poetry, I leave them to younger and more lively

writers, such as love writing for writing sake, and would rather

show their own fine parts than report the valuable ones of any other

man. So the elegy I renounce.

“I condole with you from my heart on the loss of so worthy a man,

and a friend to us both....

“Adieu; let us love his memory, and profit by his example. Am very

sincerely, dear sir,

“Your affectionate and real servant.”

TO THE EARL OF BURLINGTON.

“August, 1714.

“MY LORD,

“If your mare could speak she would give you an account of what

extraordinary company she had on the road, which, since she cannot

do, I will.”

“It was the enterprising Mr. Lintot, the redoubtable rival of Mr.

Tonson, who, mounted on a stonehorse, overtook me in Windsor Forest.

He said he heard I designed for Oxford, the seat of the Muses, and

would, as my bookseller, by all means accompany me thither.

“I asked him where he got his horse? He answered he got it of his

publisher; ‘for that rogue, my printer,’ said he, ‘disappointed me.

I hoped to put him in good humour by a treat at the tavern of a

brown fricassée of rabbits, which cost ten shillings, with two

quarts of wine, besides my conversation. I thought myself cocksure

of his horse, which he readily promised me, but said that Mr. Tonson

had just such another design of going to Cambridge, expecting there

the copy of a new kind of Horace from Dr. ——; and if Mr. Tonson

went, he was pre-engaged to attend him, being to have the printing

of the said copy. So, in short, I borrowed this stonehorse of my

publisher, which he had of Mr. Oldmixon for a debt. He lent me, too,

the pretty boy you see after me. He was a smutty dog yesterday, and

cost me more than two hours to wash the ink off his face; but the

devil is a fair-conditioned devil, and very forward in his

catechism. If you have any more bags he shall carry them.’

“I thought Mr. Lintot’s civility not to be neglected, so gave the

boy a small bag containing three shirts and an Elzevir Virgil, and,

mounting in an instant, proceeded on the road, with my man before,

my courteous stationer beside, and the aforesaid devil behind.

“Mr. Lintot began in this manner: ‘Now, damn them! What if they

should put it into the newspaper how you and I went together to

Oxford? What would I care? If I should go down into Sussex they

would say I was gone to the Speaker; but what of that? If my son

were but big enough to go on with the business, by G-d, I would keep

as good company as old Jacob.’

“Hereupon, I inquired of his son. ‘The lad,’ says he, ‘has fine

parts, but is somewhat sickly, much as you are. I spare for nothing

in his education at Westminster. Pray, don’t you think Westminster

to be the best school in England? Most of the late Ministry came out

of it; so did many of this Ministry. I hope the boy will make his

fortune.’

“ ‘Don’t you design to let him pass a year at Oxford?’ ‘To what

purpose?’ said he. ‘The Universities do but make pedants, and I

intend to breed him a man of business.’

“As Mr. Lintot was talking I observed he sat uneasy on his saddle,

for which I expressed some solicitude. ‘Nothing,’ says he. ‘I can

bear it well enough; but, since we have the day before us, methinks

it would be very pleasant for you to rest awhile under the woods.’

When we were alighted, ‘See, here, what a mighty pretty Horace I

have in my pocket! What, if you amused yourself in turning an ode

till we mount again? Lord! if you pleased. What a clever miscellany

might you make at leisure hours!’ ‘Perhaps I may,’ said I, ‘if we

ride on; the motion is an aid to my fancy; a round trot very much

awakens my spirits; then jog on apace, and I’ll think as hard as I

can.’

“Silence ensued for a full hour; after which Mr. Lintot lugged the

reins, stopped short, and broke out, ‘Well, sir, how far have you

gone?’ I answered, seven miles. ‘Z—ds, sir,’ said Lintot, ‘I thought

you had done seven stanzas. Oldisworth, in a ramble round Wimbledon

Hill, would translate a whole ode in half this time. I’ll say that

for Oldisworth [though I lost by his Timothy’s] he translates an ode

of Horace the quickest of any man in England. I remember Dr. King

would write verses in a tavern, three hours after he could not

speak: and there is Sir Richard, in that rumbling old chariot of

his, between Fleet Ditch and St. Giles’s pound shall make you half a

Job.’

“ ‘Pray, Mr. Lintot,’ said I, ‘now you talk of translators, what is

your method of managing them?’ ‘Sir,’ replied he, ‘these are the

saddest pack of rogues in the world: in a hungry fit, they’ll swear

they understand all the languages in the universe. I have known one

of them take down a Greek book upon my counter, and cry, “Ah, this

is Hebrew,” and must read it from the latter end. By G-d, I can

never be sure in these fellows, for I neither understand Greek,

Latin, French, nor Italian myself. But this is my way; I agree with

them for ten shillings per sheet, with a proviso that I will have

their doings corrected with whom I please; so by one or the other

they are led at last to the true sense of an author; my judgement

giving the negative to all my translators.’ ‘Then how are you sure

these correctors may not impose upon you?’ ‘Why, I get any civil

gentleman (especially any Scotchman) that comes into my shop, to

read the original to me in English; by this I know whether my first

translator be deficient, and whether my corrector merits his money

or not.

“ ‘I’ll tell you what happened to me last month. I bargained with

S—— for a new version of _Lucretius_, to publish against Tonson’s,

agreeing to pay the author so many shillings at his producing so

many lines. He made a great progress in a very short time, and I

gave it to the corrector to compare with the Latin; but he went

directly to Creech’s translation, and found it the same, word for

word, all but the first page. Now, what d’ye think I did? I arrested

the translator for a cheat; nay, and I stopped the corrector’s pay,

too, upon the proof that he had made use of Creech instead of the

original.’

“ ‘Pray tell me next how you deal with the critics?’ ‘Sir,’ said he,

‘nothing more easy. I can silence the most formidable of them; the

rich ones for a sheet a-piece of the blotted manuscript, which cost

me nothing; they’ll go about with it to their acquaintance, and

pretend they had it from the author, who submitted it to their

correction: this has given some of them such an air, that in time

they come to be consulted with and dedicated to as the tip-top

critics of the town.—As for the poor critics, I’ll give you one

instance of my management, by which you may guess the rest: a lean

man, that looked like a very good scholar, came to me, t’other day;

he turned over your Homer, shook his head, shrugged up his

shoulders, and pish’d at every line of it. “One would wonder,” says

he, “at the strange presumption of some men; Homer is no such easy

task as every stripling, every versifier—” He was going on, when my

wife called to dinner; “Sir,” said I, “will you please to eat a

piece of beef with me?” “Mr. Lintot,” said he, “I am very sorry you

should be at the expense of this great book, I am really concerned

on your account.” “Sir, I am much obliged to you: if you can dine

upon a piece of beef together with a slice of pudding—?” “Mr.

Lintot, I do not say but Mr. Pope, if he would condescend to advise

with men of learning—” “Sir, the pudding is upon the table, if you

please to go in.” My critic complies; he comes to a taste of your

poetry, and tells me in the same breath, that the book is

commendable, and the pudding excellent.’

“ ‘Now, sir,’ continued Mr. Lintot, ‘in return for the frankness I

have shown, pray tell me, is it the opinion of your friends at Court

that my Lord Lansdowne will be brought to the bar or not?’ I told

him I heard he would not, and I hoped it, my lord being one I had

particular obligations to.—‘That may be,’ replied Mr. Lintot; ‘but

by G— if he is not, I shall lose the printing of a very good trial.’

“These, my lord, are a few traits with which you discern the genius

of Mr. Lintot, which I have chosen for the subject of a letter. I

dropped him as soon as I got to Oxford, and paid a visit to my Lord

Carleton, at Middleton....

“I am,” &c.

DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE.

“Sept. 29, 1725.

“I am now returning to the noble scene of Dublin—into the _grand

monde_—for fear of burying my parts; to signalize myself among

curates and vicars, and correct all corruptions crept in relating to

the weight of bread-and-butter through those dominions where I

govern. I have employed my time (besides ditching) in finishing,

correcting, amending, and transcribing my _Travels_ [_Gulliver’s_],

in four parts complete, newly augmented, and intended for the press

when the world shall deserve them, or rather, when a printer shall

be found brave enough to venture his ears. I like the scheme of our

meeting after distresses and dissensions; but the chief end I

propose to myself in all my labours is to vex the world rather than

divert it; and if I could compass that design without hurting my own

person and fortune, I would be the most indefatigable writer you

have ever seen, without reading. I am exceedingly pleased that you

have done with translations; Lord Treasurer Oxford often lamented

that a rascally world should lay you under a necessity of

misemploying your genius for so long a time; but since you will now

be so much better employed, when you think of the world, give it one

lash the more at my request. I have ever hated all societies,

professions, and communities; and all my love is towards

individuals—for instance, I hate the tribe of lawyers, but I love

Councillor Such-a-one and Judge Such-a-one: it is so with physicians

(I will not speak of my own trade), soldiers, English, Scotch,

French, and the rest. But principally I hate and detest that animal

called man—although I heartily love John, Peter, Thomas, and so on.

“... I have got materials towards a treatise proving the falsity of

that definition _animal rationale_, and to show it should be only

_rationis capax_.... The matter is so clear that it will admit of no

dispute—nay, I will hold a hundred pounds that you and I agree in

the point....

“Dr. Lewis sent me an account of Dr. Arbuthnot’s illness, which is a

very sensible affliction to me, who, by living so long out of the

world, have lost that hardness of heart contracted by years and

general conversation. I am daily losing friends, and neither seeking

nor getting others. Oh, if the world had but a dozen of Arbuthnots

in it, I would burn my _Travels_!”

MR. POPE TO DR. SWIFT.

“October 15, 1725.

“I am wonderfully pleased with the suddenness of your kind answer.

It makes me hope you are coming towards us, and that you incline

more and more to your old friends.... Here is one [Lord Bolingbroke]

who was once a powerful planet, but has now (after long experience

of all that comes of shining) learned to be content with returning

to his first point without the thought or ambition of shining at

all. Here is another [Edward, Earl of Oxford], who thinks one of the

greatest glories of his father was to have distinguished and loved

you, and who loves you hereditarily. Here is Arbuthnot, recovered

from the jaws of death, and more pleased with the hope of seeing you

again than of reviewing a world, every part of which he has long

despised but what is made up of a few men like yourself....

“Our friend Gay is used as the friends of Tories are by Whigs—and

generally by Tories too. Because he had humour, he was supposed to

have dealt with Dr. Swift, in like manner as when any one had

learning formerly, he was thought to have dealt with the devil....

“Lord Bolingbroke had not the least harm by his fall; I wish he had

received no more by his other fall. But Lord Bolingbroke is the most

improved mind since you saw him, that ever was improved without

shifting into a new body, or being _paullo minus ab angelis_. I have

often imagined to myself, that if ever all of us meet again, after

so many varieties and changes, after so much of the old world and of

the old man in each of us has been altered, that scarce a single

thought of the one, any more than a single action of the other,

remains just the same; I have fancied, I say, that we should meet

like the righteous in the millennium, quite at peace, divested of

all our former passions, smiling at our past follies, and content to

enjoy the kingdom of the just in tranquillity.

——

“I designed to have left the following page for Dr. Arbuthnot to

fill, but he is so touched with the period in yours to me,

concerning him, that he intends to answer it by a whole letter.”

125 Of the Earl of Peterborough, Walpole says:—“He was one of those men

of careless wit, and negligent grace, who scatter a thousand _bons

mots_ and idle verses, which we painful compilers gather and hoard,

till the authors stare to find themselves authors. Such was this

lord, of an advantageous figure, and enterprising spirit; as gallant

as Amadis and as brave; but a little more expeditious in his

journeys; for he is said to have seen more kings and more postilions

than any man in Europe.... He was a man, as his friend said, who

would neither live nor die like any other mortal.”

FROM THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH TO POPE.

“You must receive my letter with a just impartiality, and give

grains of allowance for a gloomy or rainy day; I sink grievously

with the weather-glass, and am quite spiritless when oppressed with

the thoughts of a birthday or a return.

“Dutiful affection was bringing me to town, but undutiful laziness,

and being much out of order keep me in the country: however, if

alive, I must make my appearance at the birthday....

“You seem to think it vexatious that I shall allow you but one woman

at a time either to praise or love. If I dispute with you on this

point, I doubt, every jury will give a verdict against me. So, sir,

with a Mahometan indulgence, I allow you pluralities, the favourite

privileges of our Church.

“I find you don’t mend upon correction; again I tell you you must

not think of women in a reasonable way; you know we always make

goddesses of those we adore upon earth; and do not all the good men

tell us we must lay aside reason in what relates to the Deity?

“... I should have been glad of anything of Swift’s. Pray when you

write to him next, tell him I expect him with impatience, in a place

as odd and as out of the way as himself.

“Yours.”

Peterborough married Mrs. Anastasia Robinson, the celebrated singer.

126 “Button had been a servant in the Countess of Warwick’s family, who,

under the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house on the south

side of Russell Street, about two doors from Covent Garden. Here it

was that the wits of that time used to assemble. It is said that

when Addison had suffered any vexation from the Countess, he

withdrew the company from Button’s house.

“From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where he often sat

late and drank too much wine.”—DR. JOHNSON.

Will’s coffee-house was on the west side of Bow Street, and “corner

of Russell Street”. See _Handbook of London_.

127 “My acquaintance with Mr. Addison commenced in 1712: I liked him

then as well as I liked any man, and was very fond of his

conversation. It was very soon after that Mr. Addison advised me

‘not to be content with the applause of half the nation’. He used to

talk much and often to me, of moderation in parties: and used to

blame his dear friend Steele for being too much of a party man. He

encouraged me in my design of translating the _Iliad_, which was

begun that year, and finished in 1718.”—POPE (_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

128 “Addison, who was no stranger to the world, probably saw the

selfishness of Pope’s friendship; and, resolving that he should have

the consequences of his officiousness to himself, informed Dennis by

Steele that he was sorry for the insult.”—JOHNSON (_Life of

Addison_).

129 “While I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a letter to Mr.

Addison, to let him know ‘that I was not unacquainted with this

behaviour of his; that if I was to speak of him severely in return

for it, it should not be in such a dirty way; that I should rather

tell him himself fairly of his faults, and allow his good qualities;

and that it should be something in the following manner.’ I then

subjoined the first sketch of what has since been called my satire

on Addison. He used me very civilly ever after; and never did me any

injustice, that I know of, from that time to his death, which was

about three years after.”—POPE (_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

130 “That Tickell should have been guilty of a villany seems to us

highly improbable; that Addison should have been guilty of a villany

seems to us highly improbable; but that these two men should have

conspired together to commit a villany, seems, to us, improbable in

a tenfold degree.”—MACAULAY.

131 LORD BOLINGBROKE TO THE THREE YAHOOS OF TWICKENHAM.

“July 23, 1726.

“JONATHAN, ALEXANDER, JOHN, MOST EXCELLENT TRIUMVIRS OF PARNASSUS,—

“Though you are probably very indifferent where I am, or what I am

doing, yet I resolve to believe the contrary. I persuade myself that

you have sent at least fifteen times within this fortnight to Dawley

farm, and that you are extremely mortified at my long silence. To

relieve you, therefore, from this great anxiety of mind, I can do no

less than write a few lines to you; and I please myself beforehand

with the vast pleasure which this epistle must needs give you. That

I may add to this pleasure, and give further proofs of my beneficent

temper, I will likewise inform you, that I shall be in your

neighbourhood again, by the end of next week: by which time I hope

that Jonathan’s imagination of business will be succeeded by some

imagination more becoming a professor of that divine science, _la

bagatelle_. Adieu. Jonathan, Alexander, John, mirth be with you!”

132 Prior must be excepted from this observation. “He was lank and

lean.”

133 Swift exerted himself very much in promoting the _Iliad_

subscription; and also introduced Pope to Harley and

Bolingbroke.—Pope realized by the _Iliad_ upwards of 5,000_l._,

which he laid out partly in annuities, and partly in the purchase of

his famous villa. Johnson remarks that “it would be hard to find a

man so well entitled to notice by his wit, that ever delighted so

much in talking of his money”.

134 Garth, whom Dryden calls “generous as his Muse”, was a Yorkshireman.

He graduated at Cambridge, and was made M.D. in 1691. He soon

distinguished himself in his profession, by his poem of the

_Dispensary_, and in society, and pronounced Dryden’s funeral

oration. He was a strict Whig, a notable member of the Kit-Kat and a

friendly, convivial, able man. He was knighted by George I, with the

Duke of Marlborough’s sword. He died in 1718.

135 “Arbuthnot was the son of an episcopal clergyman in Scotland, and

belonged to an ancient and distinguished Scotch family. He was

educated at Aberdeen; and, coming up to London—according to a Scotch

practice often enough alluded to—to make his fortune—first made

himself known by ‘an examination of Dr. Woodward’s account of the

Deluge’. He became physician, successively to Prince George of

Denmark and to Queen Anne. He is usually allowed to have been the

most learned, as well as one of the most witty and humorous members

of the Scriblerus Club. The opinion entertained of him by the

humourists of the day is abundantly evidenced in their

correspondence. When he found himself in his last illness, he wrote

thus, from his retreat at Hampstead, to Swift:

“Hampstead, Oct. 4, 1734.

“MY DEAR AND WORTHY FRIEND,—

“You have no reason to put me among the rest of your forgetful

friends, for I wrote two long letters to you, to which I never

received one word of answer. The first was about your health; the

last I sent a great while ago, by one De la Mar. I can assure you

with great truth that none of your friends or acquaintance has a

more warm heart towards you than myself. I am going out of this

troublesome world, and you, among the rest of my friends, shall have

my last prayers and good wishes.

“... I came out to this place so reduced by a dropsy and an asthma,

that I could neither sleep, breathe, eat, nor move. I most earnestly

desired and begged of God that he would take me. Contrary to my

expectation, upon venturing to ride (which I had forborne for some

years), I recovered my strength to a pretty considerable degree,

slept, and had my stomach again.... What I did, I can assure you was

not for life, but ease; for I am at present in the case of a man

that was almost in harbour, and then blown back to sea—who has a

reasonable hope of going to a good place, and an absolute certainty

of leaving a very bad one. Not that I have any particular disgust at

the world; for I have as great comfort in my own family and from the

kindness of my friends as any man; but the world, in the main,

displeases me, and I have too true a presentiment of calamities that

are to befall my country. However, if I should have the happiness to

see you before I die, you will find that I enjoy the comforts of

life with my usual cheerfulness. I cannot imagine why you are

frightened from a journey to England: the reasons you assign are not

sufficient—the journey I am sure would do you good. In general, I

recommend riding, of which I have always had a good opinion, and can

now confirm it from my own experience.

“My family give you their love and service. The great loss I

sustained in one of them gave me my first shock, and the trouble I

have with the rest to bring them to a right temper to bear the loss

of a father who loves them, and whom they love, is really a most

sensible affliction to me. I am afraid, my dear friend, we shall

never see one another more in this world. I shall, to the last

moment, preserve my love and esteem for you, being well assured you

will never leave the paths of virtue and honour; for all that is in

this world is not worth the least deviation from the way. It will be

great pleasure to me to hear from you sometimes; for none are with

more sincerity than I am, my dear friend, your most faithful friend

and humble servant.”

“Arbuthnot,” Johnson says, “was a man of great comprehension,

skilful in his profession, versed in the sciences, acquainted with

ancient literature, and able to animate his mass of knowledge by a

bright and active imagination; a scholar with great brilliance of

wit; a wit who in the crowd of life, retained and discovered a noble

ardour of religious zeal.”

Dugald Stewart has testified to Arbuthnot’s ability in a department

of which he was particularly qualified to judge: “Let me add, that,

in the list of philosophical reformers, the authors of _Martinus

Scriblerus_ ought not to be overlooked. Their happy ridicule of the

scholastic logic and metaphysics is universally known; but few are

aware of the acuteness and sagacity displayed in their allusions to

some of the most vulnerable passages in Locke’s Essay. In this part

of the work it is commonly understood that Arbuthnot had the

principal share.”—See Preliminary Dissertation to _Encyclopaedia

Britannica_, note to p. 242, and also note B. B. B., p. 285.

136 TO MR. RICHARDSON.

“Twickenham, June 10, 1733.

“As I know you and I mutually desire to see one another, I hope that

this day our wishes would have met, and brought you hither. And this

for the very reason, which possibly might hinder you coming, that my

poor mother is dead. I thank God, her death was as easy as her life

was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, or even a sigh, there

is yet upon her countenance such an expression of tranquillity, nay,

almost of pleasure, that it is even amiable to behold it. It would

afford the finest image of a saint expired that ever painter drew;

and it would be the greatest obligation which even that obliging art

could ever bestow on a friend, if you could come and sketch it for

me. I am sure, if there be no very precedent obstacle, you will

leave any common business to do this; and I hope to see you this

evening, or to-morrow morning as early, before this winter flower is

faded. I will defer her interment till to-morrow night. I know you

love me, or I could not have written this—I could not (at this time)

have written at all. Adieu! May you die as happy!

“Yours,” &c.

137 “Mr. Pope was with Sir Godfrey Kneller one day, when his nephew, a

Guinea trader, came in. ‘Nephew,’ said Sir Godfrey, ‘you have the

honour of seeing the two greatest men in the world.’—‘I don’t know

how great you may be,’ said the Guinea man, ‘but I don’t like your

looks: I have often bought a man, much better than both of you

together, all muscles and bones, for ten guineas.’ ”—DR. WARBURTON

(_Spence’s Anecdotes_).

138 Swift’s mention of him as one

—— whose filial piety excels,

Whatever Grecian story tells,

is well known. And a sneer of Walpole’s may be put to a better use

than he ever intended it for, à propos of this subject.—He

charitably sneers, in one of his letters, at Spence’s “fondling an

old mother—in imitation of Pope!”

139 Joseph Spence was the son of a clergyman, near Winchester. He was a

short time at Eton, and afterwards became a Fellow of New College,

Oxford, a clergyman, and professor of poetry. He was a friend of

Thomson’s, whose reputation he aided. He published an _Essay on the

Odyssey_ in 1726, which introduced him to Pope. Everybody liked him.

His _Anecdotes_ were placed, while still in MS., at the service of

Johnson and also of Malone. They were published by Mr. Singer in

1820.

140 He speaks of Arbuthnot’s having helped him through “that long

disease, my life”. But not only was he so feeble as is implied in

his use of the “buckram”, but “it now appears”, says Mr. Peter

Cunningham, “from his unpublished letters, that, like Lord Hervey,

he had recourse to ass’s-milk for the preservation of his health.”

It is to his lordship’s use of that simple beverage that he alludes

when he says—

Let Sporus tremble!—A. What, that thing of silk,

Sporus, that mere white-curd of ass’s-milk?

141 “He (Johnson) repeated to us, in his forcible melodious manner, the

concluding lines of the _Dunciad_.”—BOSWELL.

142 “Mr. Langton informed me that he once related to Johnson (on the

authority of Spence), that Pope himself admired these lines so much

that when he repeated them his voice faltered. ‘And well it might,

sir,’ said Johnson, ‘for they are noble lines.’ ”

J. BOSWELL, junior.

143 Coleridge speaks of the “beautiful female faces” in Hogarth’s

pictures, “in whom,” he says, “the satirist never extinguished that

love of beauty which belonged to him as a poet.”—_The Friend._

144 “I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who, being asked which

book he esteemed most in his library, answered, ‘Shakespeare’: being

asked which he esteemed next best, replied ‘Hogarth’. His graphic

representations are indeed books: they have the teeming, fruitful,

suggestive meaning of _words_. Other pictures we look at—his prints

we read....

“The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture

would almost unvulgarize every subject which he might choose....

“I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have

necessarily something in them to make us like them; some are

indifferent to us, some in their nature repulsive, and only made

interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the

painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that sprinkling

of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away and

disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in them, besides,

that they bring us acquainted with the every-day human face,—they

give us skill to detect those gradations of sense and virtue (which

escape the careless or fastidious observer) in the circumstances of

the world about us; and prevent that disgust at common life, that

_taedium quotidianarum formarum_, which an unrestricted passion for

ideal forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in

many other things, they are analogous to the best novels of Smollett

and Fielding.”—CHARLES LAMB.

“It has been observed that Hogarth’s pictures are exceedingly unlike

any other representations of the same kind of subjects—that they

form a class, and have a character, peculiar to themselves. It may

be worth while to consider in what this general distinction

consists.

“In the first place, they are, in the strictest sense, _historical_

pictures; and if what Fielding says be true, that his novel of _Tom

Jones_ ought to be regarded as an epic prose-poem, because it

contained a regular development of fable, manners, character, and

passion, the compositions of Hogarth, will, in like manner, be found

to have a higher claim to the title of epic pictures than many which

have of late arrogated that denomination to themselves. When we say

that Hogarth treated his subjects historically, we mean that his

works represent the manners and humours of mankind in action, and

their characters by varied expression. Everything in his pictures

has life and motion in it. Not only does the business of the scene

never stand still, but every feature and muscle is put into full

play; the exact feeling of the moment is brought out, and carried to

its utmost height, and then instantly seized and stamped on the

canvas for ever. The expression is always taken _en passant_, in a

state of progress or change, and, as it were, at the salient

point.... His figures are not like the background on which they are

painted: even the pictures on the wall have a peculiar look of their

own. Again, with the rapidity, variety, and scope of history,

Hogarth’s heads have all the reality and correctness of portraits.

He gives the extremes of character and expression, but he gives them

with perfect truth and accuracy. This is, in fact, what

distinguishes his compositions from all others of the same kind,

that they are equally remote from caricature, and from mere still

life.... His faces go to the very verge of caricature, and yet never

(we believe in any single instance) go beyond it.”—HAZLITT.

145 He made this excursion in 1732, his companions being John Thornhill

(son of Sir James), Scott the landscape-painter, Tothall, and

Forrest.

146 “Dr. Johnson made four lines once, on the death of poor Hogarth,

which were equally true and pleasing: I know not why Garrick’s were

preferred to them:—

The hand of him here torpid lies,

That drew th’ essential forms of grace;

Here, closed in death, th’ attentive eyes,

That saw the manners in the face.

“Mr. Hogarth, among the variety of kindnesses shown to me when I was

too young to have a proper sense of them, was used to be very

earnest that I should obtain the acquaintance, and if possible the

friendship, of Dr. Johnson; whose conversation was, to the talk of

other men, like Titian’s painting compared to Hudson’s, he said:

‘but don’t you tell people now that I say so’ (continued he) ‘for

the connoisseurs and I are at war, you know; and because I hate

_them_, they think I hate _Titian_—and let them!’ ... Of Dr.

Johnson, when my father and he were talking about him one day, ‘That

man’ (says Hogarth) ‘is not contented with believing the Bible; but

he fairly resolves, I think, to believe nothing _but_ the Bible.

Johnson’ (added he), ‘though so wise a fellow, is more like King

David than King Solomon, for he says in his haste, _All men are

liars_.’ ”—MRS. PIOZZI.

Hogarth died on the 26th of October, 1764. The day before his death,

he was removed from his villa at Chiswick to Leicester Fields, “in a

very weak condition, yet remarkably cheerful.” He had just received

an agreeable letter from Franklin. He lies buried at Chiswick.

147 TO SIR WATKIN PHILLIPS, BART., OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXON.

“DEAR PHILLIPS,—In my last, I mentioned my having spent an evening

with a society of authors, who seemed to be jealous and afraid of

one another. My uncle was not at all surprised to hear me say I was

disappointed in their conversation. ‘A man may be very entertaining

and instructive upon paper,’ said he, ‘and exceedingly dull in

common discourse. I have observed, that those who shine most in

private company are but secondary stars in the constellation of

genius. A small stock of ideas is more easily managed, and sooner

displayed, than a great quantity crowded together. There is very

seldom anything extraordinary in the appearance and address of a

good writer; whereas a dull author generally distinguishes himself

by some oddity or extravagance. For this reason I fancy that an

assembly of grubs must be very diverting.’

“My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend Dick

Ivy, who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which was Sunday

last. He carried me to dine with S——, whom you and I have long known

by his writings. He lives in the skirts of the town; and every

Sunday his house is open to all unfortunate brothers of the quill,

whom he treats with beef, pudding, and potatoes, port, punch, and

Calvert’s entire butt beer. He has fixed upon the first day of the

week for the exercise of his hospitality, because some of his guests

could not enjoy it on any other, for reasons that I need not

explain. I was civilly received in a plain, yet decent habitation,

which opened backwards into a very pleasant garden, kept in

excellent order; and, indeed, I saw none of the outward signs of

authorship either in the house or the landlord, who is one of those

few writers of the age that stand upon their own foundation, without

patronage, and above dependence. If there was nothing characteristic

in the entertainer, the company made ample amends for his want of

singularity.

“At two in the afternoon, I found myself one of ten messmates seated

at table; and I question if the whole kingdom could produce such

another assemblage of originals. Among their peculiarities, I do not

mention those of dress, which may be purely accidental. What struck

me were oddities originally produced by affectation, and afterwards

confirmed by habit. One of them wore spectacles at dinner, and

another his hat flapped; though (as Ivy told me) the first was noted

for having a seaman’s eye, when a bailiff was in the wind; and the

other was never known to labour under any weakness or defect of

vision, except about five years ago, when he was complimented with a

couple of black eyes by a player, with whom he had quarrelled in his

drink. A third wore a laced stocking, and made use of crutches,

because, once in his life, he had been laid up with a broken leg,

though no man could leap over a stick with more agility. A fourth

had contracted such an antipathy to the country, that he insisted

upon sitting with his back towards the window that looked into the

garden; and when a dish of cauliflower was set upon the table, he

snuffed up volatile salts to keep him from fainting; yet this

delicate person was the son of a cottager, born under a hedge, and

had many years run wild among asses on a common. A fifth affected

distraction: when spoke to, he always answered from the purpose.

Sometimes he suddenly started up, and rapped out a dreadful oath;

sometimes he burst out a-laughing; then he folded his arms, and

sighed; and then he hissed like fifty serpents.

“At first, I really thought he was mad; and, as he sat near me,

began to be under some apprehensions for my own safety; when our

landlord, perceiving me alarmed, assured me aloud that I had nothing

to fear. ‘The gentleman,’ said he, ‘is trying to act a part for

which he is by no means qualified: if he had all the inclination in

the world, it is not in his power to be mad; his spirits are too

flat to be kindled into phrenzy.’ ‘’Tis no bad p-p-puff,

how-owever,’ observed a person in a tarnished laced coat:

‘aff-ffected m-madness w-will p-pass for w-wit w-with nine-nineteen

out of t-twenty.’ ‘And affected stuttering for humour,’ replied our

landlord; ‘though, God knows! there is no affinity betwixt them.’ It

seems this wag, after having made some abortive attempts in plain

speaking, had recourse to this defect, by means of which he

frequently extorted the laugh of the company, without the least

expense of genius; and that imperfection, which he had at first

counterfeited, was now become so habitual, that he could not lay it

aside.

“A certain winking genius, who wore yellow gloves at dinner, had, on

his first introduction, taken such offence at S——, because he looked

and talked, and ate and drank, like any other man, that he spoke

contemptuously of his understanding ever after, and never would

repeat his visit, until he had exhibited the following proof of his

caprice. Wat Wyvil, the poet, having made some unsuccessful advances

towards an intimacy with S——, at last gave him to understand, by a

third person, that he had written a poem in his praise, and a satire

against his person: that if he would admit him to his house, the

first should be immediately sent to press; but that if he persisted

in declining his friendship, he would publish the satire without

delay. S—— replied, that he looked upon Wyvil’s panegyric as, in

effect, a species of infamy, and would resent it accordingly with a

good cudgel; but if he published the satire, he might deserve his

compassion, and had nothing to fear from his revenge. Wyvil having

considered the alternative, resolved to mortify S—— by printing the

panegyric, for which he received a sound drubbing. Then he swore the

peace against the aggressor, who, in order to avoid a prosecution at

law, admitted him to his good graces. It was the singularity in

S——’s conduct on this occasion, that reconciled him to the

yellow-gloved philosopher, who owned he had some genius; and from

that period cultivated his acquaintance.

“Curious to know upon what subjects the several talents of my fellow

guests were employed, I applied to my communicative friend Dick Ivy,

who gave me to understand that most of them were, or had been,

understrappers, or journeymen, to more creditable authors, for whom

they translated, collated, and compiled, in the business of

bookmaking; and that all of them had, at different times, laboured

in the service of our landlord, though they had now set up for

themselves in various departments of literature. Not only their

talents, but also their nations and dialects, were so various, that

our conversation resembled the confusion of tongues at Babel. We had

the Irish brogue, the Scotch accent, and foreign idiom, twanged off

by the most discordant vociferation; for as they all spoke together,

no man had any chance to be heard, unless he could bawl louder than

his fellows. It must be owned, however, there was nothing pedantic

in their discourse; they carefully avoided all learned

disquisitions, and endeavoured to be facetious; nor did their

endeavours always miscarry; some droll repartee passed, and much

laughter was excited; and if any individual lost his temper so far

as to transgress the bounds of decorum, he was effectually checked

by the master of the feast, who exerted a sort of paternal authority

over this irritable tribe.

“The most learned philosopher of the whole collection, who had been

expelled the university for atheism, has made great progress in a

refutation of Lord Bolingbroke’s metaphysical works, which is said

to be equally ingenious and orthodox: but in the meantime, he has

been presented to the grand jury as a public nuisance for having

blasphemed in an alehouse on the Lord’s Day. The Scotchman gives

lectures on the pronunciation of the English language, which he is

now publishing by subscription.

“The Irishman is a political writer, and goes by the name of My Lord

Potatoe. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication of a minister, hoping

his zeal would be rewarded with some place or pension; but finding

himself neglected in that quarter, he whispered about that the

pamphlet was written by the minister himself, and he published an

answer to his own production. In this he addressed the author under

the title of ‘your lordship’, with such solemnity, that the public

swallowed the deceit, and bought up the whole impression. The wise

politicians of the metropolis declared they were both masterly

performances, and chuckled over the flimsy reveries of an ignorant

garreteer, as the profound speculations of a veteran statesman,

acquainted with all the secrets of the cabinet. The imposture was

detected in the sequel, and our Hibernian pamphleteer retains no

part of his assumed importance but the bare title of ‘my lord’, and

the upper part of the table at the potatoe-ordinary in Shoe Lane.

“Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who had obliged the public with a

humorous satire, entitled _The Balance of the English Poets_; a

performance which evinced the great modesty and taste of the author,

and, in particular, his intimacy with the elegances of the English

language. The sage, who laboured under the ἀγροφοβία, or ‘horror of

green fields’, had just finished a treatise on practical

agriculture, though, in fact, he had never seen corn growing in his

life, and was so ignorant of grain, that our entertainer, in the

face of the whole company, made him own that a plate of hominy was

the best rice-pudding he had ever eat.

“The stutterer had almost finished his travels through Europe and

part of Asia, without ever budging beyond the liberties of the

King’s Bench, except in term-time, with a tipstaff for his

companion: and as for little Tim Cropdale, the most facetious member

of the whole society, he had happily wound up the catastrophe of a

virgin tragedy, from the exhibition of which no promised himself a

large fund of profit and reputation. Tim had made shift to live many

years by writing novels, at the rate of five pounds a volume; but

that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors, who

publish merely for the propagation of virtue, with so much ease, and

spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart, and all in

the serene tranquillity of high life, that the reader is not only

enchanted by their genius, but reformed by their morality.

“After dinner, we adjourned into the garden, where I observed Mr.

S—— give a short separate audience to every individual in a small

remote filbert-walk, from whence most of them dropped off one after

another, without further ceremony.”

Smollett’s house was in Lawrence Lane, Chelsea, and is now

destroyed. See _Handbook of London_, p. 115.

“The person of Smollett was eminently handsome, his features

prepossessing, and, by the joint testimony of all his surviving

friends, his conversation, in the highest degree, instructive and

amusing. Of his disposition, those who have read his works (and who

has not?) may form a very accurate estimate; for in each of them he

has presented, and sometimes, under various points of view, the

leading features of his own character without disguising the most

unfavourable of them.... When unseduced by his satirical

propensities, he was kind, generous, and humane to others; bold,

upright, and independent in his own character; stooped to no patron,

sued for no favour, but honestly and honourably maintained himself

on his literary labours.... He was a doating father, and an

affectionate husband; and the warm zeal with which his memory was

cherished by his surviving friends, showed clearly the reliance

which they placed upon his regard.”—SIR WALTER SCOTT.

148 Smollett of Bonhill, in Dumbartonshire. _Arms_, az. “a bend, or,

between a lion rampant, ppr., holding in his paw a banner, arg. and

a bugle-horn, also ppr. _Crest_, an oak-tree, ppr. _Motto,

Viresco._”

Smollett’s father, Archibald, was the fourth son of Sir James

Smollett of Bonhill, a Scotch judge and Member of Parliament, and

one of the commissioners for framing the Union with England.

Archibald married, without the old gentleman’s consent, and died

early, leaving his children dependent on their grandfather. Tobias,

the second son, was born in 1721, in the old house of Dalquharn in

the valley of Leven; and all his life loved and admired that valley

and Loch Lomond beyond all the valleys and lakes in Europe. He

learned the “rudiments” at Dumbarton Grammar-school, and studied at

Glasgow.

But when he was only eighteen, his grandfather died, and left him

without provision (figuring as the old judge in _Roderick Random_ in

consequence, according to Sir Walter). Tobias, armed with the

_Regicide_, a tragedy—a provision precisely similar to that with

which Dr. Johnson had started, just before—came up to London. The

_Regicide_ came to no good, though at first patronized by Lord

Lyttelton (“one of those little fellows who are sometimes called

great men,” Smollett says); and Smollett embarked as “surgeon’s

mate” on board a line-of-battle ship, and served in the Carthagena

expedition, in 1741. He left the service in the West Indies, and,

after residing some time in Jamaica, returned to England in 1746.

He was now unsuccessful as a physician, to begin with; published the

satires, _Advice_ and _Reproof_—without any luck; and (1747) married

the “beautiful and accomplished Miss Lascelles”.

In 1748 he brought out his _Roderick Random_, which at once made a

“hit”. The subsequent events of his life may be presented,

chronologically, in a bird’s-eye view:—

1750. Made a tour to Paris, where he chiefly wrote _Peregrine

Pickle_.

1751. Published _Peregrine Pickle_.

1753. Published _Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom_.

1755. Published version of _Don Quixote_.

1756. Began the _Critical Review_.

1758. Published his _History of England_.

1763-1766. Travelling in France and Italy; published his _Travels_.

1769. Published _Adventures of an Atom_.

1770. Set out for Italy; died at Leghorn 21st of Oct., 1771, in the

fifty-first year of his age.

149 A good specimen of the old “slashing” style of writing is presented

by the paragraph on Admiral Knowles, which subjected Smollett to

prosecution and imprisonment. The admiral’s defence on the occasion

of the failure of the Rochfort expedition came to be examined before

the tribunal of the _Critical Review_.

“He is,” said our author, “an admiral without conduct, an engineer

without knowledge, an officer without resolution, and a man without

veracity!”

Three months imprisonment in the King’s Bench avenged this stinging

paragraph.

But the _Critical_ was to Smollett a perpetual fountain of “hot

water”. Among less important controversies may be mentioned that

with Grainger, the translator of _Tibullus_. Grainger replied in a

pamphlet; and in the next number of the _Review_ we find him

threatened with “castigation”, as an “owl that has broken from his

mew”!

In Dr. Moore’s biography of him is a pleasant anecdote. After

publishing the _Don Quixote_, he returned to Scotland to pay a visit

to his mother:—

“On Smollett’s arrival, he was introduced to his mother with the

connivance of Mrs. Telfer (her daughter), as a gentleman from the

West Indies, who was intimately acquainted with her son. The better

to support his assumed character, he endeavoured to preserve a

serious countenance, approaching to a frown; but while his mother’s

eyes were riveted on his countenance, he could not refrain from

smiling: she immediately sprung from her chair, and throwing her

arms round his neck, exclaimed, ‘Ah, my son! my son! I have found

you at last!’

“She afterwards told him, that if he had kept his austere looks and

continued to _gloom_, he might have escaped detection some time

longer, but ‘your old roguish smile’, added she, ‘betrayed you at

once.’ ”

“Shortly after the publication of _The Adventures of an Atom_,

disease again attacked Smollett with redoubled violence. Attempts

being vainly made to obtain for him the office of Consul in some

part of the Mediterranean, he was compelled to seek a warmer

climate, without better means of provision than his own precarious

finances could afford. The kindness of his distinguished friend and

countryman, Dr. Armstrong (then abroad), procured for Dr. and Mrs.

Smollett a house at Monte Nero, a village situated on the side of a

mountain overlooking the sea, in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, a

romantic and salutary abode, where he prepared for the press, the

last, and like music ‘sweetest in the close’, the most pleasing of

his compositions, _The Expedition of Humphry Clinker_. This

delightful work was published in 1771.”—SIR WALTER SCOTT.

150 The dispute with the captain arose from the wish of that functionary

to intrude on his right to his cabin, for which he had paid thirty

pounds. After recounting the circumstances of the apology, he

characteristically adds:—

“And here, that I may not be thought the sly trumpeter of my own

praises, I do utterly disclaim all praise on the occasion. Neither

did the greatness of my mind dictate, nor the force of my

Christianity exact this forgiveness. To speak truth, I forgave him

from a motive which would make men much more forgiving, if they were

much wiser than they are; because it was convenient for me so to

do.”

151 Lady Mary was his second cousin—their respective grandfathers being

sons of George Fielding, Earl of Desmond, son of William, Earl of

Denbigh.

In a letter dated just a week before his death, she says:—

“H. Fielding has given a true picture of himself and his first wife

in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth, some compliments to his own

figure excepted; and I am persuaded, several of the incidents he

mentions are real matters of fact. I wonder he does not perceive Tom

Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoundrels.... Fielding has really a

fund of true humour, and was to be pitied at his first entrance into

the world, having no choice, as he said himself, but to be a hackney

writer or a hackney coachman. His genius deserved a better fate; but

I cannot help blaming that continued indiscretion, to give it the

softest name, that has run through his life, and I am afraid still

remains.... Since I was born no original has appeared excepting

Congreve, and Fielding, who would, I believe, have approached nearer

to his excellences, if not forced by his necessities to publish

without correction, and throw many productions into the world he

would have thrown into the fire, if meat could have been got without

money, or money without scribbling.... I am sorry not to see any

more of Peregrine Pickle’s performances; I wish you would tell me

his name,”—_Letters and Works_ (Lord Wharncliffe’s ed.), vol. iii,

pp. 93, 94.

152 He sailed for Lisbon, from Gravesend, on Sunday morning, June 30th,

1754; and began the _Journal of a Voyage_ during the passage. He

died at Lisbon, in the beginning of October of the same year. He

lies buried there, in the English Protestant church-yard, near the

Estrella Church, with this inscription over him:—

“HENRICUS FIELDING,

LUGET BRITANNIA GREMIO NON DATUM

FOVERE NATUM.”

153 Fielding himself is said by Dr. Warton to have preferred _Joseph

Andrews_ to his other writings.

154 “Richardson,” says worthy Mrs. Barbauld, in her Memoir of him,

prefixed to his Correspondence, “was exceedingly hurt at this

(_Joseph Andrews_), the more so as they had been on good terms, and

he was very intimate with Fielding’s two sisters. He never appears

cordially to have forgiven it (perhaps it was not in human nature he

should), and he always speaks in his letters with a great deal of

asperity of _Tom Jones_, more indeed than was quite graceful in a

rival author. No doubt he himself thought his indignation was solely

excited by the loose morality of the work and of its author, but he

could tolerate Cibber.”

155 It must always be borne in mind, that besides that the Doctor

couldn’t be expected to like Fielding’s wild life (to say nothing of

the fact, that they were of opposite sides in politics), Richardson

was one of his earliest and kindest friends. Yet Johnson too (as

Boswell tells us) read _Amelia_ through without “stopping”.

156 “Manners change from generation to generation, and with manners

morals appear to change—actually change with some, but appear to

change with all but the abandoned. A young man of the present day

who should act as Tom Jones is supposed to act at Upton, with Lady

Bellaston, &c., would not be a Tom Jones; and a Tom Jones of the

present day, without perhaps being in the ground a better man, would

have perished rather than submit to be kept by a harridan of

fortune. Therefore, this novel is, and indeed, pretends to be, no

example of conduct. But, notwithstanding all this, I do loathe the

cant which can recommend _Pamela_ and _Clarissa Harlowe_ as strictly

moral, although they poison the imagination of the young with

continued doses of _tinct. lyttae_, while _Tom Jones_ is prohibited

as loose. I do not speak of young women; but a young man whose heart

or feelings can be injured, or even his passions excited by this

novel, is already thoroughly corrupt. There is a cheerful, sunshiny,

breezy spirit, that prevails everywhere, strongly contrasted with

the close, hot, day dreamy continuity of Richardson.”—COLERIDGE,

_Literary Remains_, vol. ii, p. 374.

157 “Nor was she (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu) a stranger to that beloved

first wife, whose picture he drew in his _Amelia_, when, as she

said, even the glowing language he knew how to employ, did not do

more than justice to the amiable qualities of the original, or to

her beauty, although this had suffered a little from the accident

related in the novel—a frightful overturn, which destroyed the

gristle of her nose. He loved her passionately, and she returned his

affection....

“His biographers seem to have been shy of disclosing that after the

death of this charming woman, he married her maid. And yet the act

was not so discreditable to his character as it may sound. The maid

had few personal charms, but was an excellent creature, devotedly

attached to her mistress, and almost brokenhearted for her loss. In

the first agonies of his own grief, which approached to frenzy, he

found no relief but from weeping along with her; nor solace when a

degree calmer, but in talking to her of the angel they mutually

regretted. This made her his habitual confidential associate, and in

process of time he began to think he could not give his children a

tenderer mother, or secure for himself a more faithful housekeeper

and nurse. At least, this was what he told his friends; and it is

certain that her conduct as his wife confirmed it, and fully

justified his good opinion.”—_Letters and Works of Lady Mary Wortley

Montagu._ Edited by Lord Wharncliffe. _Introductory Anecdotes_, vol.

i, pp. 80, 81.

Fielding’s first wife was Miss Craddock, a young lady from

Salisbury, with a fortune of 1,500_l._, whom he married in 1736.

About the same time he succeeded, himself, to an estate of 200_l._

per annum, and on the joint amount he lived for some time as a

splendid country gentleman in Dorsetshire. Three years brought him

to the end of his fortune; when he returned to London, and became a

student of law.

158 In the _Gentleman’s Magazine_, for 1786, an anecdote is related of

Harry Fielding, “in whom,” says the correspondent, “good nature and

philanthropy in their extreme degree were known to be the prominent

features.” It seems that “some parochial taxes” for his house in

Beaufort Buildings had long been demanded by the collector. “At

last, Harry went off to Johnson, and obtained by a process of

literary mortgage the needful sum. He was returning with it, when he

met an old college chum whom he had not seen for many years. He

asked the chum to dinner with him at a neighbouring tavern; and

learning that he was in difficulties, emptied the contents of his

pocket into his. On returning home he was informed that the

collector had been twice for the money. ‘Friendship has called for

the money and had it,’ said Fielding; ‘let the collector call

again.’ ”

It is elsewhere told of him, that being in company with the Earl of

Denbigh, his kinsman, and the conversation turning upon their

relationship, the Earl asked him how it was that he spelled his name

“Fielding”, and not “Feilding”, like the head of the house? “I

cannot tell, my lord,” said he, “except it be that my branch of the

family were the first that knew how to spell.”

159 In 1749, he was made Justice of the Peace for Westminster and

Middlesex, an office then paid by fees, and very laborious, without

being particularly reputable. It may be seen from his own words, in

the Introduction to the _Voyage_, what kind of work devolved upon

him, and in what a state he was, during these last years; and still

more clearly, how he comported himself through all.

“Whilst I was preparing for my journey, and when I was almost

fatigued to death with several long examinations, relating to five

different murders, all committed within the space of a week, by

different gangs of street-robbers, I received a message from his

grace the Duke of Newcastle, by Mr. Carrington, the King’s

messenger, to attend his grace the next morning in Lincoln’s Inn

Fields, upon some business of importance: but I excused myself from

complying with the message, as, besides being lame, I was very ill

with the great fatigues I had lately undergone, added to my

distemper.

“His grace, however, sent Mr. Carrington the very next morning, with

another summons; with which, though in the utmost distress, I

immediately complied; but the duke happening, unfortunately for me,

to be then particularly engaged, after I had waited some time, sent

a gentleman to discourse with me on the best plan which could be

invented for these murders and robberies, which were every day

committed in the streets; upon which I promised to transmit my

opinion in writing to his grace, who, as the gentleman informed me,

intended to lay it before the Privy Council.

“Though this visit cost me a severe cold, I, notwithstanding, set

myself down to work, and in about four days sent the duke as regular

a plan as I could form, with all the reasons and arguments I could

bring to support it, drawn out on several sheets of paper; and soon

received a message from the Duke, by Mr. Carrington, acquainting me

that my plan was highly approved of, and that all the terms of it

would be complied with.

“The principal and most material of these terms was the immediately

depositing 600_l._ in my hands; at which small charge I undertook to

demolish the then reigning gangs, and to put the civil policy into

such order, that no such gangs should ever be able for the future,

to form themselves into bodies, or at least to remain any time

formidable to the public.

“I had delayed my Bath journey for some time, contrary to the

repeated advice of my physical acquaintances, and the ardent desire

of my warmest friends, though my distemper was now turned to a deep

jaundice; in which case the Bath waters are generally reputed to be

almost infallible. But I had the most eager desire to demolish this

gang of villains and cut-throats....

“After some weeks the money was paid at the Treasury, and within a

few days, after 200_l._ of it had come into my hands, the whole gang

of cut-throats was entirely dispersed....”

Further on, he says—

“I will confess that my private affairs at the beginning of the

winter had but a gloomy aspect; for I had not plundered the public

or the poor of those sums which men, who are always ready to plunder

both as much as they can, have been pleased to suspect me of taking;

on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming, the quarrels of

porters and beggars (which I blush when I say hath not been

universally practised), and by refusing to take a shilling from a

man who most undoubtedly would not have had another left, I had

reduced an income of about 500_l._, a year of the dirtiest money

upon earth, to little more than 300_l._, a considerable portion of

which remained with my clerk.”

160 He came of a Suffolk family—one of whom settled in Nottinghamshire.

The famous “starling” was actually the family crest.

161 “It was in this parish” (of Animo, in Wicklow), “during our stay,

that I had that wonderful escape in falling through a mill-race,

whilst the mill was going, and of being taken up unhurt; the story

is incredible, but known for truth in all that part of Ireland,

where hundreds of the common people flocked to see me.”—STERNE.

162 “My wife returns to Toulouse, and proposes to pass the summer at

Bagnères—I, on the contrary, go and visit my wife, the church, in

Yorkshire. We all live the longer, at least the happier, for having

things our own way; this is my conjugal maxim. I own ’tis not the

best of maxims, but I maintain ’tis not the worst.”—STERNE’S

_Letters_, 20th January, 1764.

163 In a collection of _Seven Letters by Sterne and His Friends_,

(printed for private circulation), in 1844, is a letter of M.

Tollot, who was in France with Sterne and his family in 1764. Here

is a paragraph:—

“Nous arrivâmes le lendemain à Montpellier, où nous trouvâmes notre

ami Mr. Sterne, sa femme, sa fille, Mr. Huet, et quelques autres

Anglaises; j’eus, je vous l’avoue, beaucoup de plaisir en revoyant

le bon et agréable Tristram.... Il avait été assez longtemps à

Toulouse, où il se serait amusé sans sa femme, qui le poursuivit

partout, et qui voulait être de tout. Ces dispositions dans cette

bonne dame, lui ont fait passer d’assez mauvais momens; il supporte

tous ces désagrémens avec une patience d’ánge.”

About four months after this very characteristic letter, Sterne

wrote to the same gentleman to whom Tollot had written; and from his

letter we may extract a companion paragraph:—

“... All which being premised, I have been for eight weeks smitten

with the tenderest passion that ever tender wight underwent. I wish,

dear cousin, thou couldst conceive (perhaps thou canst without my

wishing it) how deliciously I canter’d away with it the first month,

two up, two down, always upon my _hanches_, along the streets from

my hotel to hers, at first once—then twice, then three times a day,

till at length I was within an ace of setting up my hobby-horse in

her stable for good and all. I might as well, considering how the

enemies of the Lord have blasphemed thereupon. The last three weeks

we were every hour upon the doleful ditty of parting—and thou mayest

conceive, dear cousin, how it altered my gait and air—for I went and

came like any louden’d carl, and did nothing but _jouer des

sentimens_ with her from sun-rising even to the setting of the same;

and now she is gone to the south of France; and to finish the

_comédie_, I fell ill and broke a vessel in my lungs, and half bled

to death. _Voilà mon histoire!_”

Whether husband or wife had most of the _patience d’ánge_ may be

uncertain; but there can be no doubt which needed it most!

164 “_Tristram Shandy_ is still a greater object of admiration, the man

as well as the book; one is invited to dinner, when he dines, a

fortnight before. As to the volumes yet published, there is much

good fun in them, and humour sometimes hit and sometimes missed.

Have you read his _Sermons_, with his own comick figure, from a

painting by Reynolds, at the head of them? They are in the style I

think most proper for the pulpit, and show a strong imagination and

a sensible heart; but you see him often tottering on the verge of

laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the face of the

audience.”—GRAY’S _Letters_, June 22nd, 1760.

“It having been observed that there was little hospitality in

London—Johnson: ‘Nay, sir, any man who has a name, or who has the

power of pleasing, will be very generally invited in London. The

man, Sterne, I have been told, has had engagements for three

months.’ Goldsmith: ‘And a very dull fellow.’ Johnson: ‘Why, no,

sir.’ ”—BOSWELL’S _Life of Johnson_.

“Her [Miss Monckton’s] vivacity enchanted the sage, and they used to

talk together with all imaginable ease. A singular instance happened

one evening, when she insisted that some of Sterne’s writings were

very pathetic. Johnson bluntly denied it. ‘I am sure,’ said she,

‘they have affected me.’ ‘Why,’ said Johnson, smiling, and rolling

himself about—‘that is, because, dearest, you’re a dunce.’ When she

some time afterwards mentioned this to him, he said with equal truth

and politeness, ‘Madam, if I had thought so, I certainly should not

have said it.’ ”—BOSWELL’s _Life of Johnson_.

165 A passage or two from Sterne’s _Sermons_ may not be without interest

here. Is not the following, levelled against the cruelties of the

Church of Rome, stamped with the autograph of the author of the

_Sentimental Journey_?—

“To be convinced of this, go with me for a moment into the prisons

of the Inquisition—behold _religion_ with mercy and justice chained

down under her feet,—there, sitting ghastly upon a black tribunal,

propped up with racks, and instruments of torment.—Hark!—what a

piteous groan!—See the melancholy wretch who uttered it, just

brought forth to undergo the anguish of a mock-trial, and endure the

utmost pain that a studied system of _religious cruelty_ has been

able to invent. Behold this helpless victim delivered up to his

tormentors. _His body so wasted with sorrow and long confinement,

you’ll see every nerve and muscle as it suffers._ Observe the last

movement of that horrid engine.—What convulsions it has thrown him

into! Consider the nature of the posture in which he now lies

stretched.—What exquisite torture he endures by it.—’Tis all nature

can bear.—Good GOD! see how it keeps his weary soul hanging upon his

trembling lips, willing to take its leave, but not suffered to

depart. Behold the unhappy wretch led back to his cell,—dragg’d out

of it again to meet the flames—and the insults in his last agonies,

which this principle—this principle, that there can be religion

without morality—has prepared for him.”—_Sermon 27th_.

The next extract is preached on a text to be found in Judges xix,

ver. 1, 2, 3, concerning a “certain Levite”:—

“Such a one the Levite wanted to share his solitude and fill up that

uncomfortable blank in the heart in such a situation; for,

notwithstanding all we meet with in books, in many of which, no

doubt, there are a good many handsome things said upon the secrets

of retirement, &c.... yet still, ‘_it is not good for man to be

alone_’: nor can all which the cold-hearted pedant stuns our ears

with upon the subject, ever give one answer of satisfaction to the

mind; in the midst of the loudest vauntings of philosophy, nature

will have her yearnings for society and friendship;—a good heart

wants some object to be kind to—and the best parts of our blood, and

the purest of our spirits, suffer most under the destitution.

“Let the torpid monk seek Heaven comfortless and alone. God speed

him! For my own part, I fear I should never so find the way; _let me

be wise and religious, but let me be_ MAN; wherever Thy Providence

places me, or whatever be the road I take to Thee, give me some

companion in my journey, be it only to remark to, ‘How our shadows

lengthen as our sun goes down’;—to whom I may say, ‘How fresh is the

face of Nature! how sweet the flowers of the field! how delicious

are these fruits!’ ”—_Sermon 18th._

The first of these passages gives us another drawing of the famous

“Captive”. The second shows that the same reflection was suggested

to the Rev. Laurence, by a text in Judges, as by the

_fille-de-chambre_.

Sterne’s _Sermons_ were published as those of “Mr. Yorick”.

166 “I am glad that you are in love—’twill cure you at least of the

spleen, which has a bad effect on both man and woman—I myself must

even have some Dulcinea in my head; it harmonizes the soul; and in

these cases I first endeavour to make the lady believe so, or

rather, I begin first to make myself believe that I am in love—but I

carry on my affairs quite in the French way, sentimentally—_l’amour_

(say they) _n’est rien sans sentiment_. Now, notwithstanding they

make such a pother about the _word_, they have no precise idea

annexed to it. And so much for that same subject called

love.”—STERNE’S _Letters_, May 23rd, 1765.

“PS.—My _Sentimental Journey_ will please Mrs. J—— and my Lydia [his

daughter, afterwards Mrs. Medalle]—I can answer for those two. It is

a subject which works well, and suits the frame of mind I have been

in for some time past. I told you my design in it was to teach us to

love the world and our fellow creatures better than we do—so it runs

most upon those gentler passions and affections which aid so much to

it.”—_Letters_ [1767].

167 TO MRS. H——.

“Coxwould, Nov. 15th, 1767.

“Now be a good, dear woman, my H——, and execute those commissions

well, and when I see you I will give you a kiss—there’s for you! But

I have something else for you which I am fabricating at a great

rate, and that is my _Sentimental Journey_, which shall make you cry

as much as it has affected me, or I will give up the business of

sentimental writing ...

“I am yours, &c. &c.,

“T. SHANDY.”

TO THE EARL OF ——.

“Coxwould, Nov. 28th, 1767.

“MY LORD—’Tis with the greatest pleasure I take my pen to thank your

lordship for your letter of inquiry about Yorick—he was worn out,

both his spirits and body, with the _Sentimental Journey_; ’tis

true, then, an author must feel himself, or his reader will not—but

I have torn my whole frame into pieces by my feelings—I believe the

brain stands as much in need of recruiting as the body; therefore I

shall set out for town the twentieth of next month, after having

recruited myself a week at York. I might indeed solace myself with

my wife (who is come from France), but, in fact, I have long been a

sentimental being, whatever your lordship may think to the

contrary.”

168 “It is known that Sterne died in hired lodgings, and I have been

told that his attendants robbed him even of his gold sleeve-buttons

while he was expiring.”—DR. FERRIAR.

“He died at No. 41 (now a cheesemonger’s) on the west side of Old

Bond Street.—_Handbook of London._”

169 “In February, 1768, Laurence Sterne, his frame exhausted by long

debilitating illness, expired at his lodgings in Bond Street,

London. There was something in the manner of his death singularly

resembling the particulars detailed by Mrs. Quickly, as attending

that of Falstaff, the compeer of Yorick for infinite jest, however

unlike in other particulars. As he lay on his bed totally exhausted,

he complained that his feet were cold, and requested the female

attendant to chafe them. She did so, and it seemed to relieve him.

He complained that the cold came up higher; and whilst the assistant

was in the act of chafing his ankles and legs, he expired without a

groan. It was also remarkable that his death took place much in the

manner which he himself had wished; and that the last offices were

rendered him, not in his own house, or by the hand of kindred

affection, but in an inn, and by strangers.

“We are well acquainted with Sterne’s features and personal

appearance, to which he himself frequently alludes. He was tall and

thin, with a hectic and consumptive appearance.”—SIR WALTER SCOTT.

170 “With regard to Sterne, and the charge of licentiousness which

presses so seriously upon his character as a writer, I would remark

that there is a sort of knowingness, the wit of which depends,

firstly, on the modesty it gives pain to; or, secondly, on the

innocence and innocent ignorance over which it triumphs; or thirdly,

on a certain oscillation in the individual’s own mind between the

remaining good and the encroaching evil of his nature—a sort of

dallying with the devil—a fluxionary art of combining courage and

cowardice, as when a man snuffs a candle with his fingers for the

first time, or better still, perhaps, like that trembling daring

with which a child touches a hot tea-urn, because it has been

forbidden; so that the mind has its own white and black angel; the

same or similar amusement as may be supposed to take place between

an old debauchee and a prude—the feeling resentment, on the one

hand, from a prudential anxiety to preserve appearances and have a

character; and, on the other, an inward sympathy with the enemy. We

have only to suppose society innocent, and then nine-tenths of this

sort of wit would be like a stone that falls in snow, making no

sound, because exciting no resistance; the remainder rests on its

being an offence against the good manners of human nature itself.

“This source, unworthy as it is, may doubtless be combined with wit,

drollery, fancy, and even humour; and we have only to regret the

misalliance; but that the latter are quite distinct from the former,

may be made evident by abstracting in our imagination the morality

of the characters of Mr. Shandy, my Uncle Toby, and Trim, which are

all antagonists to this spurious sort of wit, from the rest of

_Tristram Shandy_, and by supposing, instead of them, the presence

of two or three callous debauchees. The result will be pure disgust.

Sterne cannot be too severely censured for thus using the best

dispositions of our nature as the panders and condiments for the

basest.”—COLERIDGE, _Literary Remains_, vol. i, pp. 141, 142.

171 “He was a friend to virtue, and in his most playful pages never

forgets what is due to it. A gentleness, delicacy, and purity of

feeling distinguishes whatever he wrote, and bears a correspondence

to the generosity of a disposition which knew no bounds but his last

guinea....

“The admirable ease and grace of the narrative, as well as the

pleasing truth with which the principal characters are designed,

make the _Vicar of Wakefield_ one of the most delicious morsels of

fictitious composition on which the human mind was ever employed.

“... We read the _Vicar of Wakefield_ in youth and in age—we return

to it again and again, and bless the memory of an author who

contrives so well to reconcile us to human nature.”—SIR WALTER

SCOTT.

172 “Now Herder came,” says Goethe in his Autobiography, relating his

first acquaintance with Goldsmith’s masterpiece, “and together with

his great knowledge brought many other aids, and the later

publications besides. Among these he announced to us the _Vicar of

Wakefield_ as an excellent work, with the German translation of

which he would make us acquainted by reading it aloud to us

himself....

“A Protestant country clergyman is perhaps the most beautiful

subject for a modern idyl; he appears like Melchizedeck, as priest

and king in one person. To the most innocent situation which can be

imagined on earth, to that of a husbandman, he is, for the most

part, united by similarity of occupation as well as by equality in

family relationships; he is a father, a master of a family, an

agriculturist, and thus perfectly a member of the community. On this

pure, beautiful, earthly foundation rests his higher calling; to him

is it given to guide men through life, to take care of their

spiritual education, to bless them at all the leading epochs of

their existence, to instruct, to strengthen, to console them, and if

consolation is not sufficient for the present, to call up and

guarantee the hope of a happier future. Imagine such a man with pure

human sentiments, strong enough not to deviate from them under any

circumstances, and by this already elevated above the multitude of

whom one cannot expect purity and firmness; give him the learning

necessary for his office, as well as a cheerful, equable activity,

which is even passionate, as it neglects no moment to do good—and

you will have him well endowed. But at the same time add the

necessary limitation, so that he must not only pause in a small

circle, but may also, perchance, pass over to a smaller; grant him

good nature, placability, resolution, and everything else

praiseworthy that springs from a decided character, and over all

this a cheerful spirit of compliance, and a smiling toleration of

his own failings and those of others,—then you will have put

together pretty well the image of our excellent Wakefield.

“The delineation of this character on his course of life through

joys and sorrows, the ever-increasing interest of the story, by the

combination of the entirely natural with the strange and the

singular, make this novel one of the best which has ever been

written; besides this, it has the great advantage that it is quite

moral, nay, in a pure sense, Christian—represents the reward of a

goodwill and perseverance in the right, strengthens an unconditional

confidence in God, and attests the final triumph of good over evil;

and all this without a trace of cant or pedantry. The author was

preserved from both of these by an elocution of mind that shows

itself throughout in the form of irony, by which this little work

must appear to us as wise as it is amiable. The author, Dr.

Goldsmith, has, without question, a great insight into the moral

world, into its strength and its infirmities; but at the same time

he can thankfully acknowledge that he is an Englishman, and reckon

highly the advantages which his country and his nation afford him.

The family, with the delineation of which he occupies himself,

stands upon one of the last steps of citizen comfort, and yet comes

in contact with the highest; its narrow circle, which becomes still

more contracted, touches upon the great world through the natural

and civil course of things; this little skiff floats on the agitated

waves of English life, and in weal or woe it has to expect injury or

help from the vast fleet which sails around it.

“I may suppose that my readers know this work, and have it in

memory; whoever hears it named for the first time here, as well as

he who is induced to read it again, will thank me.”—GOETHE, _Truth

and Poetry; from my own Life_ (English translation, vol. i, pp.

378-9).

“He seems from infancy to have been compounded of two natures, one

bright, the other blundering; or to have had fairy gifts laid in his

cradle by the ‘good people’ who haunted his birthplace, the old

goblin mansion, on the banks of the Inny.

“He carries with him the wayward elfin spirit, if we may so term it,

throughout his career. His fairy gifts are of no avail at school,

academy, or college: they unfit him for close study and practical

science, and render him heedless of everything that does not address

itself to his poetical imagination, and genial and festive feelings;

they dispose him to break away from restraint, to stroll about

hedges, green lanes, and haunted streams, to revel with jovial

companions, or to rove the country like a gipsy in quest of odd

adventures....

“Though his circumstances often compelled him to associate with the

poor, they never could betray him into companionship with the

depraved. His relish for humour, and for the study of character, as

we have before observed, brought him often into convivial company of

a vulgar kind; but he discriminated between their vulgarity and

their amusing qualities, or rather wrought from the whole store

familiar features of life which form the staple of his most popular

writings.”—WASHINGTON IRVING.

173 “The family of Goldsmith, Goldsmyth, or, as it was occasionally

written, Gouldsmith, is of considerable standing in Ireland, and

seems always to have held a respectable station in society. Its

origin is English, supposed to be derived from that which was long

settled at Crayford in Kent.”—PRIOR’S _Life of Goldsmith_.

Oliver’s father, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather were

clergymen; and two of them married clergymen’s daughters.

174 At church with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorn’d the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevail’d with double sway,

And fools who came to scoff remain’d to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal each honest rustic ran;

E’en children follow’d with endearing wile,

And pluck’d his gown to share the good man’s smile.

His ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts his awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

_The Deserted Village._

175 “In May this year (1768), he lost his brother, the Rev. Henry

Goldsmith, for whom he had been unable to obtain preferment in the

Church....

“....To the curacy of Kilkenny West, the moderate stipend of which,

forty pounds a year, is sufficiently celebrated by his brother’s

lines. It has been stated that Mr. Goldsmith added a school, which,

after having been held at more than one place in the vicinity, was

finally fixed at Lissoy. Here his talents and industry gave it

celebrity, and under his care the sons of many of the neighbouring

gentry received their education. A fever breaking out among the boys

about 1765, they dispersed for a time, but reassembling at Athlone,

he continued his scholastic labours there until the time of his

death, which happened, like that of his brother, about the

forty-fifth year of his age. He was a man of an excellent heart and

an amiable disposition.”—PRIOR’S _Goldsmith_.

Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see,

My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee:

Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

_The Traveller_.

176 “When Goldsmith died, half the unpaid bill he owed to Mr. William

Filby (amounting in all to 79_l_.) was for clothes supplied to this

nephew Hodson.”—FORSTER’S _Goldsmith_, p. 520.

As this nephew Hodson ended his days (see the same page) “a

prosperous Irish gentleman”, it is not unreasonable to wish that he

had cleared off Mr. Filby’s bill.

177 “Poor fellow! He hardly knew an ass from a mule, nor a turkey from a

goose, but when he saw it on the table.”—CUMBERLAND’S _Memoirs_.

178 “These youthful follies, like the fermentation of liquors, often

disturb the mind only in order to its future refinement: a life

spent in phlegmatic apathy resembles those liquors which never

ferment and are consequently always muddy.”—GOLDSMITH, _Memoir of

Voltaire_.

“He (Johnson) said Goldsmith was a plant that flowered late. There

appeared nothing remarkable about him when he was young.”—BOSWELL.

179 “An ‘inspired idiot’, Goldsmith, hangs strangely about him [Johnson]

... Yet, on the whole, there is no evil in the ‘gooseberry-fool’,

but rather much good; of a finer, if of a weaker sort than

Johnson’s; and all the more genuine that he himself could never

become _conscious_ of it, though unhappily never cease attempting to

become so: the author of the genuine _Vicar of Wakefield_, nill he

will he, must needs fly towards such a mass of genuine

manhood.”—CARLYLE’S _Essays_ (2nd ed.), vol. iv, p. 91.

180 “At present, the few poets of England no longer depend on the great

for subsistence; they have now no other patrons but the public, and

the public, collectively considered, is a good and a generous

master. It is indeed too frequently mistaken as to the merits of

every candidate for favour; but to make amends, it is never mistaken

long. A performance indeed may be forced for a time into reputation,

but, destitute of real merit, it soon sinks; time, the touchstone of

what is truly valuable, will soon discover the fraud, and an author

should never arrogate to himself any share of success till his works

have been read at least ten years with satisfaction.

“A man of letters at present, whose works are valuable, is perfectly

sensible of their value. Every polite member of the community, by

buying what he writes, contributes to reward him. The ridicule,

therefore, of living in a garret might have been wit in the last

age, but continues such no longer, because no longer true. A writer

of real merit now may easily be rich, if his heart be set only on

fortune: and for those who have no merit, it is but fit that such

should remain in merited obscurity.”—GOLDSMITH, _Citizen of the

World_, Let. 84.

181 Goldsmith attacked Sterne, obviously enough, censuring his

indecency, and slighting his wit, and ridiculing his manner, in the

53rd letter in the _Citizen of the World_.

“As in common conversation,” says he, “the best way to make the

audience laugh is by first laughing yourself; so in writing, the

properest manner is to show an attempt at humour, which will pass

upon most for humour in reality. To effect this, readers must be

treated with the most perfect familiarity; in one page the author is

to make them a low bow, and in the next to pull them by the nose; he

must talk in riddles, and then send them to bed in order to dream

for the solution,” &c.

Sterne’s humorous _mot_ on the subject of the gravest part of the

charges, then, as now, made against him, may perhaps be quoted here,

from the excellent, the respectable Sir Walter Scott. “Soon after

_Tristram_ had appeared, Sterne asked a Yorkshire lady of fortune

and condition, whether she had read his book, ‘I have not, Mr.

Sterne,’ was the answer; ‘and to be plain with you, I am informed it

is not proper for female perusal.’ ‘My dear good lady,’ replied the

author, ‘do not be gulled by such stories; the book is like your

young heir there’ (pointing to a child of three years old, who was

rolling on the carpet in his white tunics): ‘he shows at times a

good deal that is usually concealed, but it is all in perfect

innocence.’ ”

182 “Goldsmith told us that he was now busy in writing a Natural

History; and that he might have full leisure for it, he had taken

lodgings at a farmer’s house, near to the six-mile stone in the

Edgeware Road, and had carried down his books in two returned

post-chaises. He said he believed the farmer’s family thought him an

odd character, similar to that in which the _Spectator_ appeared to

his landlady and her children; he was _The Gentleman_. Mr. Mickle,

the translator of the _Lusiad_, and I, went to visit him at this

place a few days afterwards. He was not at home; but having a

curiosity to see his apartment, we went in, and found curious scraps

of descriptions of animals scrawled upon the wall with a blacklead

pencil.”—BOSWELL.

183 “When Goldsmith was dying, Dr. Turton said to him, ‘Your pulse is in

greater disorder than it should be, from the degree of fever which

you have; is your mind at ease?’ Goldsmith answered it was not.”—DR.

JOHNSON (_in Boswell_).

“Chambers, you find, is gone far, and poor Goldsmith is gone much

farther. He died of a fever, exasperated, as I believe, by the fear

of distress. He had raised money and squandered it, by every

artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But let not his

failings be remembered; he was a very great man.”—DR. JOHNSON to

Boswell, July 5th, 1774.

184 “When Burke was told [of Goldsmith’s death] he burst into tears.

Reynolds was in his painting-room when the messenger went to him;

but at once he laid his pencil aside, which in times of great family

distress he had not been known to do, left his painting-room, and

did not re-enter it that day....

“The staircase of Brick Court is said to have been filled with

mourners, the reverse of domestic; women without a home, without

domesticity of any kind, with no friend but him they had come to

weep for; outcasts of that great, solitary, wicked city, to whom he

had never forgotten to be kind and charitable. And he had domestic

mourners, too. His coffin was reopened at the request of Miss

Horneck and her sister (such was the regard he was known to have for

them!) that a lock might be cut from his hair. It was in Mrs. Gwyn’s

possession when she died, after nearly seventy years.”—FORSTER’S

_Goldsmith_.

185 “Goldsmith’s incessant desire of being conspicuous in company was

the occasion of his sometimes appearing to such disadvantage, as one

should hardly have supposed possible in a man of his genius. When

his literary reputation had risen deservedly high, and his society

was much courted, he became very jealous of the extraordinary

attention which was everywhere paid to Johnson. One evening, in a

circle of wits, he found fault with me for talking of Johnson as

entitled to the honour of unquestionable superiority. ‘Sir,’ said

he, ‘you are for making a monarchy of what should be a republic.’

“He was still more mortified, when, talking in a company with fluent

vivacity, and, as he flattered himself, to the admiration of all

present, a German who sat next him, and perceived Johnson rolling

himself as if about to speak, suddenly stopped him, saying, ‘Stay,

stay—Toctor Shonson is going to zay zomething.’ This was no doubt

very provoking, especially to one so irritable as Goldsmith, who

frequently mentioned it with strong expressions of indignation.

“It may also be observed that Goldsmith was sometimes content to be

treated with an easy familiarity, but upon occasions would be

consequential and important. An instance of this occurred in a small

particular. Johnson had a way of contracting the names of his

friends, as Beauclerk, Beau; Boswell, Bozzy.... I remember one day,

when Tom Davies was telling that Dr. Johnson said—‘We are all in

labour for a name to _Goldy’s_ play,’ Goldsmith seemed displeased

that such a liberty should be taken with his name, and said, ‘I have

often desired him not to call me _Goldy_.’ ”

This is one of several of Boswell’s depreciatory mentions of

Goldsmith—which may well irritate biographers and admirers—and also

those who take that more kindly and more profound view of Boswell’s

own character, which was opened up by Mr. Carlyle’s famous article

on his book. No wonder that Mr. Irving calls Boswell an “incarnation

of toadyism”. And the worst of it is, that Johnson himself has

suffered from this habit of the Laird of Auchenleck’s. People are

apt to forget under what Boswellian stimulus the great Doctor

uttered many hasty things:—things no more indicative of the nature

of the depths of his character than the phosphoric gleaming of the

sea, when struck at night, is indicative of radical corruption of

nature! In truth, it is clear enough on the whole that both Johnson

and Goldsmith _appreciated_ each other, and that they mutually knew

it. They were, as it were, tripped up and flung against each other,

occasionally, by the blundering and silly gambolling of people in

company.

Something must be allowed for Boswell’s “rivalry for Johnson’s good

graces” with Oliver (as Sir Walter Scott has remarked), for Oliver

was intimate with the Doctor before his biographer was,—and as we

all remember, marched off with him to “take tea with Mrs. Williams”

before Boswell had advanced to that honourable degree of intimacy.

But, in truth, Boswell—though he perhaps showed more talent in his

delineation of the Doctor than is generally ascribed to him—had not

faculty to take a fair view of _two_ great men at a time. Besides,

as Mr. Forster justly remarks, “he was impatient of Goldsmith from

the first hour of their acquaintance.”—_Life and Adventures_, p.

292.

186 The above portraits are from contemporary prints of this princess,

before her marriage, and in her old age.

187 Here [below in the text] are the figures, as drawn by young Gilray,

of Lord North, Mr. Fox, Mr. Pitt, and Mr. Burke.