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erty a man sometimes has. We must not underrate him who uses it for subsistence, and fees from the ingratitude of the age, even to a bookseller for redress."

“If the author be necessary among us, let us treat him with proper consideration as a child of the public, not as a rent- 5 charge on the community. And indeed a child of the public he is in all respects; for while so well able to direct others, how incapable is he frequently found of guiding himself. His simplicity exposes him to all the insidious approaches of cunning : his sensibility to the slightest invasions of contempt. 10 Though possessed of fortitude to stand unmoved the expected bursts of an earthquake, yet of feelings so exquisitely poignant, as to agonize under the slightest disappointment. Broken rest, tasteless meals, and causeless anxieties shorten life and render it unfit for active employments; prolonged vigils and intense 15 applications still farther contract his span, and make his time glide insensibly away." While

poor Goldsmith was thus struggling with the difficulties and discouragements which in those days beset the path of an author, his friends in Ireland received accounts of his literary 20 success and of the distinguished acquaintances he was making. This was enough to put the wise heads at Lissoy and Ballymahon in a ferment of conjectures. With the exaggerated notions of provincial relatives concerning the family great man in the metropolis, some of Goldsmith's poor kindred pictured 25 him to themselves seated in high places, clothed in purple and fine linen, and hand and glove with the givers of gifts and dispensers of patronage. Accordingly, he was one day surprised at the sudden apparition, in his miserable lodging, of his younger brother Charles, a raw youth of twenty-one, endowed with a 30 double share of the family heedlessness, and who expected to be forthwith helped into some snug by-path to fortune by one or other of Oliver's great friends. Charles was sadly disconcerted on learning that, so far from being able to provide for others, his brother could scarcely take care of himself. He looked 35 round with a rueful eye on the poet's quarters, and could not help expressing his surprise and disappointment at finding him no better off. “ All in good time, my dear boy,” replied poor Goldsmith, with infinite good-humor; “I shall be richer by-and

by. Addison, let me tell you, wrote his poem of the Campaigno in a garret in the Haymarket

, three stories high, and you see I am not come to that yet, for I have only got to the second story.” 5

Charles Goldsmith did not remain long to embarrass his brother in London. With the same roving disposition and inconsiderate temper of Oliver, he suddenly departed in an humble capacity to seek his fortune in the West Indies, and

nothing was heard of him for above thirty years, when, after 10 having been given up as dead by his friends, he made his reappearance in England.

Shortly after his departure, Goldsmith wrote a letter to his brother-in-law, Daniel Hodson, Esq., of which the following

is an extract; it was partly intended, no doubt, to dissipate 15 any further illusions concerning his fortunes which might

float on the magnificent imagination of his friends in Ballymahon :

“I suppose you desire to know my present situation. As there is nothing in it at which I should blush or which man20 kind could censure, I see no reason for making it a secret.

In short, by a very little practice as a physician, and a very little reputation as a poet, I make a shift to live. Nothing is more apt to introduce us to the gates of the Muses than pov

erty; but it were well if they only left us at the door. The 25 mischief is, they sometimes choose to give us their company

to the entertainment; and want, instead of being gentlemanusher, often turns master of the ceremonies.

“ Thus, upon learning I write, no doubt you imagine I starve; and the name of an author naturally reminds you of 30 a garret. In this particular I do not think proper to unde

ceive my friends. But, whether I eat or starve, live in a first floor or four pairs of stairs high, I still remember them with ardor; nay, my very country comes in for a share of my

affection. Unaccountable fondness for country, this maladie 35 du pais, as the French call it! Unaccountable that he should

still have an affection for a place, who never, when in it, received above common civility; who never brought anything out of it except his brogue and his blunders. Surely my affection is equally ridiculous with the Scotchman's, who

refused to be cured of the itch because it made him unco'• thoughtful of his wife and bonny Inverary.

“ But, now, to be serious : let me ask myself what gives me a wish to see Ireland again. The country is a fine one, perhaps? No. There are good company in Ireland ? No. The 5 conversation there is generally made up of a smutty toast or a bawdy song; the vivacity supported by some humble cousin, who had just folly enough to earn his dinner. Then, perhaps, there's more wit and learning among the Irish? Oh, Lord, no! There has been more money spent in the encouragement 10 of the Padareen mare there one season, than given in rewards to learned men since the time of Usher. All their productions in learning amount to perhaps a translation, or a few tracts in divinity; and all their productions in wit to just nothing at all. Why the plague, then, so fond of Ireland? Then, all at 15 once, because you, my dear friend, and a few more who are exceptions to the general picture, have a residence there. This it is that gives me all the pangs I feel in separation. I confess I carry this spirit sometimes to the souring the pleasures I at present possess. If I go to the opera, where Signora 20 Columba pours out all the mazes of melody, I sit and sigh for Lissoy fireside, and Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-night from Peggy Golden. If I climb Hampstead Hill, than where nature never exhibited more magnificent prospect, I confess it fine; but then I had rather be placed on the little mount 25 before Lissoy gate, and there take in, to me, the most pleasing horizon in nature.

“Before Charles came hither, my thoughts sometimes found refuge from severer studies among my friends in Ireland. I fancied strange revolutions at home; but I find it was the 30 rapidity of my own motion that gave an imaginary one to objects really at rest. No alterations there. Some friends, he tells me, are still lean, but very rich; others very fat, but still very poor. Nay, all the news I hear of you is, that you sally out in visits among the neighbors, and sometimes make 35 a migration from the blue bed to the brown. I could from my heart wish that you and she (Mrs. Hodson), and Lissoy and Ballymahon, and all of you, would fairly make a migration into Middlesex; though, upon second thoughts, this might

be attended with a few inconveniences. Therefore, as the mountain will not come to Mohammed, why Mohammed shall go to the mountain; or, to speak plain English, as you cannot conveniently pay me a visit, if next summer I can contrive to 5 be absent six weeks from London, I shall spend three of them among my friends in Ireland. But first, believe me, my design is purely to visit, and neither to cut a figure nor levy contributions; neither to excite envy nor solicit favor; in fact, my

circumstances are adapted to neither. I am too poor to be 10 gazed at, and too rich to need assistance.”

CHAPTER IX

Hackney Authorship. — Thoughts of Literary Suicide. — Return to Peck

ham. — Oriental Projects. — Literary Enterprise to raise Funds. — Letter to Edward Mills; to Robert Bryanton. – Death of Uncle Contarine. - Letter to Cousin Jane.

For some time Goldsmith continued to write miscellaneously for reviews and other periodical publications, but without making any decided hit, to use a technical term. Indeed as yet he

appeared destitute of the strong excitement of literary am15 bition, and wrote only on the spur of necessity and at the

urgent importunity of his bookseller. His indolent and truant disposition, ever averse from labor and delighting in holiday, had to be scourged up to its task; still it was this very truant

disposition which threw an unconscious charm over everything 20 he wrote; bringing with it honeyed thoughts and pictured

images which had sprung up in his mind in the sunny hours of idleness: these effusions, dashed off on compulsion in the exigency of the moment, were published anonymously; so that

they made no collective impression on the public, and reflected 25 no fame on the name of their author.

In an essay published some time subsequently in the Bee, Goldsmith adverts in his own humorous way to his impatience at the tardiness with which his desultory and unacknowledged essays crept into notice. “I was once induced,” says he, a to

show my indignation against the public by discontinuing my efforts to please; and was bravely resolved, like Raleigli,o to vex them by burning my manuscripts in a passion. Upon reflection, however, I considered what set or body of people would be displeased at my rashness. The sun, after so sad an accident, 5 might shine next morning as bright as usual; men might laugh and sing the next day, and transact business as before; and not a single creature feel any regret but myself. Instead of having Apollo in mourning or the Muses in a fit of the spleen; instead of having the learned world apostrophizing at my untimely 10 decease; perhaps all Grub Street might laugh at my fate, and self-approving dignity be unable to shield me from ridicule.”

Circumstances occurred about this time to give a new direction to Goldsmith's hopes and schemes. Having resumed for a brief period the superintendence of the Peckham school, 15 during a fit of illness of Dr. Milner, that gentleman, in requital for his timely services, promised to use his influence with a friend, an East-India director,' to procure him a medical appointment in India.

There was every reason to believe that the influence of Dr. 20 Milner would be effectual; but how was Goldsmith to find the ways and means of fitting himself out for a voyage to the Indies? In this emergency he was driven to a more extended exercise of the pen than he had yet attempted. His skirmishing among books as a reviewer, and his disputatious ramble 25 among the schools and universities and literati of the Continent, had filled his mind with facts and observations which he now set about digesting into a treatise of some magnitude, to be entitled An Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe. As the work grew on his hands, his sanguine 30 temper ran ahead of his labors. Feeling secure of success in England, he was anxious to forestall the piracy of the Irish press; for as yet, the union not having taken place, the English law of copyright did not extend to the other side of the Irish channel. He wrote, therefore, to his friends in Ireland, 35 urging them to circulate his proposals for his contemplated work, and obtain subscriptions payable in advance; the money to be transmitted to a Mr. Bradley, an eminent bookseller in Dublin, who would give a receipt for it and be accountable for

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