an Anglomane. She had even written a tragedy in English prose, on a subject from the Spectator; and was now on a round of visitings, reading her tragedy, breakfasting with Walpole, dining with the Duke of Grafton, supping at Beauclerc's, out of patience with every body's ridiculous abuse of every body that meddled in politics, and out of breath with her own social exertions. Dans ce pays-ci,' she exclaimed, 'c'est un effort perpétuel pour se divertir;' and, exhausted with it herself, did not seem to think that any one else succeeded any better. It was a few days after Horace Walpole's great breakfast at Strawberry, where he describes her with her eyes a foot deep in her head, her hands dangling and scarce able to support her knitting-bag, that Beauclerc took her to see Johnson. They sat and talked with him some time; and were retracing their way up Inner Temple Lane to the carriage, when all at once they heard a voice like thunder, and became conscious of Johnson hurrying after them. On nothing priding himself more than his politeness, he had taken it into his head, on a little reflection, that he ought to have done the honours of his literary residence to a foreign lady of quality; and, eager to show himself a man of gallantry, was now hurrying down the staircase in violent agitation. He overtook them before they reached the Temple Gate, and brushing in between Beauclerc and the Countess, seized her hand and conducted her to her coach. His dress was a rusty brown morning suit, a pair of old shoes by way of slippers, a little shrivelled wig sticking on the top of his head, and the sleeves of his

shirt and the knees of his breeches hanging loose. 'A 'considerable crowd of people gathered round,' says Beauclerc, and were not a little struck by this singular ap'pearance.' The hero of the incident would be the last person to be moved by it. The more the state of his toilet dawned upon him, the less it. There was no more remarkable trait in Johnson, and certainly none in which he more contrasted with the subject of this narrative, than that no external circumstances ever prompted him to make the least apology for them, or to seem even sensible of their existence.

likely would he be to notice

It was not many months after this that he went to see Goldsmith in a new lodging he had taken on the then library stair-case of the Temple. They were a humble set of chambers enough; one Jeffs, the butler of the society, sharing them with him; and on Johnson's prying and peering about after his short-sighted fashion, flattening his face against every object he looked at, Goldsmith's uneasy sense of their deficiencies broke out. 'I shall soon 'be in better chambers, sir, than these,' he said. 'sir,' answered Johnson, 'never mind that. ' quæsiveris extra.' Invaluable advice! could Goldsmith, blotting out remembrance of his childhood and youth, and looking solely and steadily on the present and the future, but have dared to act upon it.

“Nay,

Nil te

The removal to this lodging from that of Newbery's relative in Wine-Office Court took place in an early month of 1764, and seems to connect itself with circumstances at

the close of 1763 which indicate a less cordial understanding between himself and Newbery. He had ceased writing for the British Magazine; was contemplating an extensive engagement with James Dodsley; and had attempted to open a connection with Tonson of the Strand. The engagement with Dodsley went as far as a formal signed agreement (for a Chronological History of the Lives of eminent Persons of Great Britain and Ireland), in which the title of Medical Bachelor is first assumed by him; and at the close of which another intimation of his growing importance appears, in the stipulation that 'Oliver 'Goldsmith shall print his name to the said work.' It was to be in two volumes, octavo, of the size and type of the Universal History; each volume was to contain thirtyfive sheets; Goldsmith was to be paid at the rate of three guineas a sheet; and the whole was to be delivered in the space of two years at farthest. But nothing came of it. Dodsley had inserted a cautious proviso that he was not to be required to advance anything till the book should be completed; and hence, in all probability, the book was never begun. The overture to Tonson had not even so much success. It was a proposition from Goldsmith for a new edition of Pope, which Tonson was so little disposed to entertain that he did not condescend to write his refusal. He sent a printer with a message declining it; delivered with so much insolence, that the messenger received a caning for his pains.

The desire to connect himself with Pope, seems to point

in the direction of those secret labours which are to prove such wonderment to Hawkins. He was busy at this time with his poem and his novel; and, if there be any truth in what great fat Doctor Cheyne of Bath told Thomson, that, as you put a bird's eyes out to make it sing the sweeter, you should keep poets poor to animate their genius, he was in excellent condition for such labour; though it may be, with Thomson, he might think both the birds and the poets happier in the light, and singing sweetest amid luxuriant woods, with the full spring blossoming around them. What alone seems certain as to that matter, be it light or dark, is that the song, if a true song, will make itself audible.

There is a note among Newbery's papers with the date of the 17th of December, 1763, which states Goldsmith to have received twenty-five guineas from the publisher, for which he promises to account. At this time, too, he disappears from his usual haunts; and is supposed to have been in concealment somewhere. Certainly he was in distress, and on a less secure footing with Newbery than at the commencement of the year. Yet it is also at this time we find him busied with others' distresses, and helping to relieve them. Among his own papers at his death was found the copy of an appeal to the public for poor Kit Smart, who had married Newbery's step-daughter ten years before, and had since, with his eccentricities and imprudences, wearied out all his friends but Goldsmith and Johnson. Lately, as a last resource, he had been

taken to a mad-house; and it was under this restraint, while pens and ink were denied to him, that he indented on the walls of his cell with a key, his Song to David. His friends accounted for the excellence of the composition by asserting that he was most religious when most mad; but Goldsmith and Johnson were nevertheless now exerting themselves for his release. 'Sir,' said the latter to Boswell, at one of their recent interviews, 'my poor friend Smart 'falls upon his knees and says his prayers in the street, ' and insists on people praying with him; and what of 'that? I'd as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. 'Rationally speaking, sir, it is greater madness not to pray at all than to pray as Smart did. Another charge 'is that he does not love clean linen; and, sir, I have no 'passion for it.'

(

Their exertions were successful. Smart was again at large at the close of the year, and on the 3rd of the following April (1764) a sacred composition named Hannah, with his name as its author, and music by Mr. Worgan, was produced at the king's theatre. The effort connects itself with a similar one by Goldsmith, made at the same time. He wrote the words of an Oratorio in three acts, on the subject of the Captivity in Babylon. But it is easier to help a friend than oneself; and his own Oratorio lay unrepresented in his desk. All of it that escaped to the public while he lived were two songs; in which his own sorrows and hope seemed as legibly written as those of the Israelitish women.