ved Indgangen til sin lange og ærefulde, men tornede Bane; det var først mange Aar bagefter, at han fik Navnet "the dinner-bell of the House of Commons", Underhusets Madklokke.

Med dette Digt, som er efterladt ufuldendt, afsluttedes Goldsmiths Skribentbane. Efter et eventyrligt og flakkende Ungdomsliv, hvorunder han havde havt Anledning til at 'se mange Menneskers Byer og lære deres Væsen at kjende', var han, da alt andet slog feil for ham, af Nøden dreven til at blive Forfatter. Fra den Tid havde de smaa Fingre arbeidet utrætteligt. De færreste Dage i hans Liv havde de været, hvori han med Tryghed kunde se fremad til den næste Morgen, og mere end een Gang havde han prøvet deres Erfaringer, til hvem han paa en saa rørende Maade hentyder i et af sine Skrifter, „Mennesker, om hvem det heder, at de dø af et knust Hjerte, men som i Virkeligheden dø af Hunger". Under alle Gjenvordigheder havde hans fortrøstningsfulde Sind, hans „knack at hoping", som han selv kaldte det, holdt ham oppe, men med de svigtende Kræfter og voxende Bekymringer forlod tilsidst ogsaa dette ham. En Feber kastede ham paa et kort Sygeleie, af hvilket han ikke stod op. Doktoren følte hans Puls, som slog stærkere, end Sygdommens Beskaffenhed skulde lade formode, og spurgte ham, om hans Sind var roligt. „Nei, det er ikke", var det melankolske Svar. Det var hans sidste Ord. Han døde den 4de April 1774, lidt over femogfyrretyve Aar gammel, i sin Bolig i Middle Temple. Budskabet om hans Død vakte dyb og oprigtig Sorg hos alle hans Venner; da Burke fik Efterretningen, brast han i Graad, og Reynolds lagde sin Pensel ned og betraadte ikke mere sit Atelier den Dag. Men paa Trappen og Gangen udenfor hans Værelser var der Hulken og Jamren af de Fattige og Forladte, som nu havde mistet den Mand, der havde været saa god imod dem, og for hvem de aldrig forgjæves havde klaget sin Nød. Han blev begravet paa TempleKirkens Kirkegaard, hvor en Gravsten sees med hans Navn paa, men den betegner ikke hans virkelige Grav, som er ukjendt. Hans Monument staar i Westminster Abbedi: et Portræt i Profil, med Johnsons skjønne Indskrift derunder paa Latin.

THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND.

(From The Vicar of Wakefield, Ch. XX.)

After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to send a couple of her footmen for my son's baggage, which he at first seemed to decline; but upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that a stick and a wallet were all the moveable things upon this earth that he could boast of. >> Why, aye, my son«, cried I, »you left me but poor, and poor I find you are come back; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a great deal of the world<<. >> Yes, Sir«, replied my son, »but travelling after fortune, is not the way to secure her; and indeed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit«. - »I fancy, Sir«, cried Mrs. Arnold, >> that the account of your adventures would be amusing; the first part of them I have often heard from my niece, but could the company prevail for the rest, it would be an additional obligation«. >> Madam «<, replied my son, »I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing, will not be half so great as my vanity in repeating them; and yet in the whole narrative I can scarce promise you one adventure, as my account is rather of what I saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all know, was great, but though it distressed, it could not sink me. No person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I found Fortune at one time, the more I expected from her another, and being now at the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that carolled by the road, and comforted myself with reflecting, that London was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and reward.

>> Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was to deliver your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, Sir, was to be usher at an academy, and I asked

his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true sardonic grin. Aye, cried he, this is indeed a very pretty career, that has been chalked out for you. I have been an usher at a boarding-school myself, and may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I had rather be an underturnkey in Newgate. I was up early and late; I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school? Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred an apprentice to the business?« »No«. »Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' hair?« »No«. »Then you won't do for a school. Have you had the small pox?« »No«. >> Then you won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed?« »No«. >> Then you will never do for a school. Have you got a good stomach?<«< >Yes<. >> Then you will by no means do for a school. No, Sir; if you are for a genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's wheel; but avoid a school by any means. Yet come, continued he, I see you are å lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade: at present I'll show you forty very dull fellows about town that live by it in opulence. All honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write history and politics, and are praised: men, Sir, who had they been bred coblers, would all their lives have only mended shoes, but never made them.

»Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal, and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub Street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess of this region as the parent of excellence; and, however an intercourse with the world might give us good sense, the poverty she granted I supposed to be the nurse of genius. Big with these reflections, I sat down, and finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up some paradoxes with some ingenuity. They were false indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by others, that nothing was left for me to import, but some splendid things that, at a distance, looked every bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied importance

sat perched upon my quill while I was writing! The whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems; but then I was prepared to oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer «.

>>Well said, my boy«, cried I, »and what subject did you treat upon? I hope you did not pass over the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt: go on. You published your paradoxes; well, and what did the learned world say to your paradoxes?<<

>> Sir«, replied my son, »the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes; nothing at all, Sir. Every man of them was employed in praising his friends and himself, or condemning his enemies; and unfortunately as I had neither, I suffered the cruellest mortification, neglect.

» As I was meditating one day, in a coffeehouse, on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, placed himself in the box before me, and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was going to give to the world of Propertius, with notes. This demand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and that confession led him to inquire into the nature of my expectations. Finding that my expectations were just as great as my purse, I see, cried he, you are unacquainted with the town; I'll teach you a part of it. Look at these proposals; upon these very proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or dowager from her country-seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more for engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus, continued he, I live by vanity, and laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too well known, I should be glad to borrow your face a bit: a nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy; my face is familiar to his porter; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.

>> Bless us, George«, cried I, »and is this the employment of poets now! Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary! Can they so far disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?<<

» O no, Sir«, returned he, »a true poet can never be so base; for wherever there is genius there is pride. The creatures I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so is he equally a coward to contempt, and none but those who are unworthy protection condescend to solicit it.

«

Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was to ensure success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for applause; but usually consumed that time in efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, when it should have been more advantageously employed in the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of periodical publications, unnoticed and unknown. The public were more importantly employed than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. » My essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while Philautus, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote better, because they wrote faster, than I«.

>> Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed authors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer's attempts, was inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade.

In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a bench in St. James's park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. We saluted each other with some hesitation; he almost ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my suspicions soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very good-natured fellow.

>>My friend's first care was to alter my appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then I was admitted to his table, upon the footing of half friend, half underling. My business was to attend him at auctions, to put him in