vistas, present themselves; but when you enter their He remained about a year at Leyden, attending the lectures of Gaubius on chemistry, and Albinus on anatomy; though his studies are said to have been miscellaneous, and directed to literature rather than science. The thirty-three pounds with which he had set out on his travels were soon consumed, and he was put to many a shift to meet his expenses until his precarious remittances should arrive. He had a good friend on these occasions in a fellow-student and countryman, named Ellis, who afterwards rose to eminence as a physician. He used frequently to loan small sums to Goldsmith, which were always scrupulously paid. Ellis discovered the innate merits of the poor awkward student, and used to declare in after life that it was a common remark in Leyden, that in all the peculiarities of Goldsmith an elevation of mind was to be noted—a philosophical tone and manner-the feelings of a gentleman, and the language and information of a scholar. Sometimes in his emergencies Goldsmith undertook to teach the English language. It is true he was ignorant of the Dutch, but he had a smattering of the French, picked up among the Irish priests at Ballymahon. He depicts his whimsical embarrassment in this respect in his account in the "Vicar of Wakefield" of the philosophical vagabond, who went to Holland to teach the natives English without knowing a word of their own language Sometimes, when sorely pinched, and sometimes, perhaps, when flush, he resorted to the gambling tables, which in those days abounded in Holland. His good friend Ellis repeatedly warned him against this unfortunate propensity, but in vain. It brought its own cure, or rather its own punishment, by stripping him of every shilling. Ellis once more stepped in to his relief with a true Irishman's generosity, but with more considerateness than generally characterises an Irishman, for he only granted pecuniary aid on condition of his quitting the sphere of danger. Goldsmith gladly consented to leave Holland, being anxious to visit other parts. He intended to proceed to Paris and pursue his studies there, for which purpose he was furnished by his friend with money for the journey. Unluckily, he rambled into the garden of a florist just before quitting Leyden. The tulip mania was still prevalent in Holland, and some species of that splendid flower brought immense prices. In wandering through the garden, Goldsmith recollected that his uncle Contarine was a tulip-fancier. The thought suddenly struck him that here was an opportunity of testifying in a delicate manner his sense of that generous uncle's past kinduesses. In an instant his hand was in his pocket; a number of choice and costly tulip-roots were purchased and packed up for Mr. Contarine; and it was not until he had paid for them that he bethought himself that he had spent all the money borrowed for his travelling expenses. Too proud, however, to give up his journey, and too shamefaced to make another appeal to his friend's liberality, he determined to travel on foot, and depend upon chance and good luck for the means of getting forward; and it is said that he actually set off on a tour of the continent in February, 1775, with but one spare shirt, a flute, and a single guinea. 66 "Blessed," says one of his biographers," with a good constitution, an adventurous spirit, and with that thoughtiess, or, perhaps, happy disposition which takes no care for to-morrow, he continued his travels for a long time in spite of innumerable privations." In his amusing narrative of the adventures of a Philosophic Vagabond" in the Vicar of Wakefield," we find shadowed out the expedients he pursued. "I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice; I now turned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I pa-sed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to be very merry, for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall I played one of my merriest tunes, and that procured me not only lodging, but subsistence for the next day; but in truth I must own, whenever I attempted to entertain persons of a higher rank they always thought my performances odious, and never made me any return for my endeavours to please them." At Paris he attended the chemical lectures of Rouelle, then in great vogue, where he says he witnessed as bright a circle of beauty as graced the court of Versailles. His love of theatricals, also, led him to attend the performances of the celebrated actress Mademoiselle Clairon, with which he was greatly delighted. He seems to have looked upon the state of society with the eye of a philosopher, but to have read the signs of the times with the prophetic eye of a poet. In his rambles about the environs of Paris, he was struck with the immense quantities of game running about almost in a tame state; and saw in those costly and rigid preserves for the amusement and luxury of the privileged few a sure "badge of the slavery of the people." This slavery he predicted was drawing towards a close. "When I consider that these parliaments, the members of which are all created by the court, and the presidents of which can only act by immediate direction, presume even to mention privileges and freedom, who till of late received directions from the throne with implicit humility; when this is considered, I cannot help faucying that the genius of Freedom has entered that kingdom in disguise. If they have but three weak monarchs more successively on the throne the mask will be laid aside, and the country will certainly once more be free." Events have testified to the sage forecast of the poet. During a brief sojourn in Paris he appears to have gained access to valuable society, and to have had the honour and pleasure of making the acquaintance of Voltaire; of whom, in after years, he wrote a memoir. "As a companion," says he, no man ever exceeded him when he pleased to lead the conversation-which, however, was not always the case. In company which he either disliked or despised, few could be more reserved than he; but when he was warmed in discourse, and got over a hesitating manner which sometimes he was subject to, it was rapture to hear him. His meagre visage seemed insensibly to gather beauty; every muscle in it had meaning, and his eye beamed with unusual brightness. The person who writes this memoir," continues he "remembers to have seen him in a select company of wits of both sexes in Paris, when the subject happened to turn upon English taste and learning. Fontenelle (then nearly a hundred years old), who was one of the party, and who being unacquainted with the language or authors of the country he undertook to condemn, with a spirit truly vulgar, began to revile both. Diderot, who liked the English, and knew something of their literary pretensions, attempted to vindicate their poetry and learning, but with unequal abilities. The company quickly perceived that Fontenelle was superior in the dispute, and were surprised at the silence which Voltaire had preserved all the former part of the night, particularly as the conversation happened to turn upon one of his favourite topics. Fontenelle continued his triumph until about twelve o'clock, when Voltaire appeared at last roused from his reverie. His whole frame seemed animated. He began his defence with the utmost defiance mixed with spirit, and now and then let fall the finest strokes of raillery upon his antagonist; and his harangue lasted till three in the morning. I must confess that, whether from natural partiality or from the elegant sensibility of his manner, I never was so charmed, nor did I ever remember so absolute a victory as he gained in this dispute." Goldsmith's ramblings took him into Germany and Switzerland, from which last-mentioned country he sent to his brother in Ireland the first brief sketch, afterwards amplified into his poem of the "Traveller." At Geneva he became travelling tutor to a mongrel young gentleman, son of a London pawnbroker, who had been suddenly elevated into fortune and absurdity by the death of an uncle. The youth, before setting up for a gentleman, had been an attorney's apprentice, and was an arrant pettifogger in money matters. Never were two beings more oppositely assorted than he and Goldsmith. We may form an idea of the tutor and the pupil from the following extract from the narrative of the Philosophic Vagabond." "I was to be the young gentleman's governor, but with a proviso that he should always be permitted to govern himself. My pupil, in fact, understood the art of guiding in money concerns much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies; and his guardiaus, to qualify him for the management of it, had bound him an apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion; all his questions on the road were, how money might be saved-which was the least expensive course of travel-whether anything could be bought that would turn to account when disposed of again in London? Such curiosities on the way as could be seen for nothing he was ready enough to look at; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been told that they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not observe how amazingly expensive travelling was; and all this though not yet twenty-one.” In this sketch, Goldsmith undoubtedly shadows forth his annoyances as travelling tutor to this concrete young gentleman, compounded of the pawnbroker, the pettifogger, and the West Indian heir, with an overlaying of the city miser. They had continual difficulties on all points of expense until they reached Marseilles, where both were glad to separate. 64 Once more on foot, but freed from the irksome duties of bear-leader," and with some of his pay, as tutor, in his pocket, Goldsmith continued his half-vagrant peregrinations through part of France and Piedmont, and some of the Italian States He had acquired, as has been shown, a habit of shifting along and living by expedients, and a new one presented itself in Italy. My skill in music," says he, in the "Philosophic Vagabond," could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician than I; but by this time I had acquired another talent, which answered my purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical theses maintained against every adventitious disputant: for which, if the champion opposes with zeal and dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night." Though a poor wandering scholar, his reception in these learned piles was as free from humiliation as in the cottages of the peasantry. “With the members of these establish ments," said he, "I could converse on topics of litera ture, and then I always forgot the meanness of the circumstances." At Padua, where he remained some months, he is said to have taken his medical degree. It is probable he was brought to a pause in this city by the death of his uncle Contarine; who had hitherto assisted him in his wanderings by occasional, though, of course, slender remittances. Deprived of this source of supplies, he wrote to his friends in ireland, and especially to his brother-in-law, Hodson, describing his destitute situation. His letters brought him neither money nor reply. It appears, from subsequent correspondence, that his brotherin-law actually exerted himself to raise a subscription for his assistance among his relatives, friends, and acquaintance, but without success. Their faith and hope in him were most probably at an end; as yet he had disappointed them at every point he had given none of the anticipated proofs of talent, and they were too poor to support what they may have considered the wandering propensities of a heedless spendthrift. Thus left to his own precarious resources, Goldsmith gave up all further wandering in Italy, without visiting the south, though Rome and Naples must have held out powerful attractions to one of his poetical cast. Once more resuming his pilgrim staff, he turned his face toward England," walking along from city to city, examining mankind more nearly, and seeing both sides of the picture." In traversing France, his flute-his magic Hute!-was once more in requisition, as we may conclude by the following passage in his Traveller : Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, CHAP. VI. Landing in England-Shifts of a man without money-The pestle and mortar-Theatricals in a barn-Launch upon London-A city night scene-Struggles with penury-Miseries of a tutor-A doctor in the suburb-Poor practice and secondhand finery-A tragedy in embryo-Project of the written mountains. After two years spent in roving about the continent, "pursuing novelty," as he said, "and losing content," Goldsmith landed at Dover early in 1756. He appears The death to have had no definite plan of action. of his uncle Contarine, and the neglect of his relatives and friends to reply to his letters, seem to have produced in him a temporary feeling of loneliness and destitution, and his only thought was to get to London, and throw himself upon the world. But how was he to get there? His purse was empty. England was to him as completely a foreign laud as any part of the continent; and where on earth is a penniless stranger more destitute? His flute and his philosophy were no longer of any avail; the English boors cared nothing for music; there were no convents; and as to the learned and the clergy, not one of them would give a vagrant scholar a supper and a night's lodging for the best theses that ever was argued. You may easily imagine," says "what he, in a subsequent letter to his brother-in-law, difficulties I had to encounter, left as I was without friends, recommendations, money, or impudence, and that in a country, where being born an Irishman was sufficient to keep me unemployed. Many in such circumstances would have had recourse to the friar's cord or the suicide's halter. But with all my follies, I had principle to resist the one and resolution to combat the other." He applied at one place, we are told, for employment in the shop of a country apothecary; but all his medical science gathered in foreign universities could not gain He even him the management of a pestle and mortar. resorted, it is said, to the stage as a temporary expedient, and figured in low comedy at a country town in Kent. This accords with his last shift of the Philosophic Vagabond, and with the kuowledge of country theatricals displayed in his "Adventures of a Strolling Player," or perhaps a story suggested by them. All this part of his career, however, in which he must have trod the lowest paths of humility, are only to be conjectured from vague traditions, or scraps of autobiography gleaned from his miscellaneous writings. At length we find him launched on the great metropolis, or rather drifting about its streets at night, in the gloomy month of February, with but a few halfpence in his pocket. The deserts of Arabia are not more dreary and inhospitable than the streets of London at such a time, and to a stranger in such a plight. Do we want a picture as an illustration? We have it in his own works, and furnished, doubtless, from his own experience. 66 The clock has just struck two; what a gloom hangs all around! no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch-dog. How few appear in those streets, which but some few hours ago were crowded! But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? They are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are too great even for pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and others emaciated with disease; the world has disclaimed them; society turns its back upon their distress, and has given them up to nakedness and hunger. These poor shivering females have once seen happier days, and been flattered into beauty. They are now turned out to meet the severity of winter. Perhaps, now, lying at the doors of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts are insensible, or debauchees who may curse but will not relieve them. Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings of wretches I cannot relieve! Poor houseless creatures! The world will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief." Poor houseless Goldsmith! we may here ejaculate-to what shifts he must have been driven to find shelter and sustenance for himself in this first adventure into London! Many years afterwards, in the days of his social elevation, he startled a polite circle at Sir Joshua Reynolds's by humorously relating an anecdote about the time he lived among the beggars of Axe Lane." Such may have been the desolate quarters with which he was fain to content himself when thus adrift upon the town, with but a few halfpence in his pocket. The first authentic trace we have of him in this new part of his career, is filling the situation of an usher to a school; and even this employ he obtained with some difficulty, after a reference for a character to his friends in the University of Dublin. In the "Vicar of Wakefield" he makes George Primrose undergo a whimsical catechism concerning the requisites for an usher. "Have you been 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. Can you lie three in a bed?' No.' Then you will never do for a school. Have you a good stomach?' 'Yes.' Then you will by no means do for a school.' I have been an usher in a boarding-school myself, and may I die of an anodyne necklace, but I had rather be underturnkey in Newgate. I was up early and late: I was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, and worried by the boys." Goldsmith remained but a short time in this situation, and to the mortifications experienced there we doubtless owe the picturings given in his writings of the hardships of an usher's life. He is generally," says he 'the laughing-stock of the school. Every trick is played upon him; the oddity of his manner, his dress or his language, is a fund of eternal ridicule; the master himself now and then cannot avoid joining in the laugh; and the poor wretch, eternally resenting this ill usage, lives in a state of war with all the family." 'He is obliged, perhaps, to sleep in the same bed with the French teacher, who disturbs him for an hour every night in preparing and filleting his hair, and stinks worse than carrion with his rancid pomatums when he lays his head beside him on the bolster." His next shift was as assistant in the laboratory of a chemist near Fish street Hill. After remaining here a few months, he heard that Dr. Sleight, who had been his friend and fellow-student at Edinburgh, was in London. Eager to meet with a friendly face in this land of strangers, he immediately called on him; “but though it was Sunday, and it is to be supposed I was in my best clothes, Sleight scarcely knew me-such is the tax the unfortunate pay to poverty. However, when he did recollect me, I found his heart as warm as ever, and he shared his purse and friendship with me during his continuance in London." Through the advice and assistance of Dr. Sleight, be now commenced the practice of medicine, but in a small way, in Bankside, Southwark, and chiefly among the poor; for he wanted the figure, address, polish, and management to succeed among the rich. His old schoolmate and college companion, Beatty, who used to aid him with his purse at the university, met him about this time, decked out in the tarnished finery of a second-hand suit of green and gold, with a shirt and neckcloth of a fortnight's wear. Poor Goldsmith endeavoured to assume a prosperous air in the eyes of his early associate. He was practising physic" he said, and doing very well!" At this moment poverty was pinching him to the bone in spite of his practice and his dirty finery. His fees were neces sarily small and ill paid, and he was fain to seek some precarious assistance from his pen. Here his quondam fellow-student, Dr. Sleight, was again of service, introducing him to some of the booksellers, who gave him occasional, though starving employment. According to tradition, however, his most efficient patron just now was a journeyman printer, one of his poor patients of Bankside; who had formed a good opinion of his talents, and perceived his poverty and his literary shifts. The printer was in the employ of Mr. Samuel Richardson, the author of Pamela, Clarissa, and Sir Charles Grandison, who combined the novelist and the publisher, and was in flourishing circumstances. Through the journeyman's intervention Goldsmith is said to have become acquainted with Richardson, who employed him as reader and corrector of the press, at his printing establishment in Salisbury court; an occupation which he alternated with his medical duties. Being admitted occasionally to Richardson's parlour, he began to form literary acquaintances, among whom the most important was Dr. Young, the author of "Night Thoughts," a poem in the height of fashion. It is not probable, however, that much familiarity took place at the time between the literary lion of the day and the poor Esculapius of Bankside, the humble corrector of the press. Still the communion with literary men had its effect to set his imagination teeming. Dr. Farr, one of his Edinburgh fellow students, who was at London about this time attending the hospital and lectures, gives us an amusing account of Goldsmith in his literary character. 64 Early in January he called upon me one morning before I was up, and, on my entering the room, I recognised my old acquaintance, dressed in a rusty, fulltrimmed black suit, with his pocket full of papers, which instantly reminded me of the poet in Garrick's farce of Lethe. After we had finished our breakfast, he drew from his pocket part of a tragedy, which he said he had brought for my correction. In vain I pleaded inability, when he began to read; and every part on which I expressed a doubt as to the propriety was immediately blotted out. I then most earnestly pressed him not to trust to my judgment, but to take the opinion of persons better qualified to decide on dramatic compositions. He now told me he had submitted his production, so far as he had written, to Mr. Richardson, the author of Clarissa, on which I peremptorily declined offering another criticism on the performance." From the graphic description given of him by Dr. Farr, it will be perceived that the tarnished finery of green and gold had been succeeded by a professional suit of black, to which, we are told, were added the wig and cane indispensable to medical doctors in those days. The coat was a second-hand one, of rusty velvet, with a patch on the left breast, which he adroitly covered with his three-cornered hat during his medical visits; and we have an amusing anecdote of his contest of courtesy with a patient who persisted in endeavouring to relieve him from the hat, which only made him press it more devoutly to his heart. Nothing further has ever been heard of the tragedy mentioned by Dr. Farr; it was probably never completed. The same gentleman speaks of a strange Quixotic scheme which Goldsmith had in contemplation at the time," of going to decipher the inscriptions on the written mountains," though he was altogether ignoraut of Arabic, or the language in which they might be supposed to be written. The salary of three hundred pounds," adds Dr. Farr, "which had been left for the purpose, was the temptation." This was probably one of many dreamy projects with which his fervid brain was apt to teem. On such subjects he was prone to talk vaguely and magnificently, but inconsiderately, from a kindled imagination rather than a well-instructed judgment. He had always a great notion of expeditions to the East, and wonders to be seen and effected in the Oriental countries. CHAP. VII. Life of a pedagogue-Kindness to schoolboys-Pertness in re turn-Expensive charities-The Griffiths and the "Monthly Review"--Toils of a literary hack-Rupture with the Griffiths. Among the most cordial of Goldsmiths intimates in London during this time of precarious struggle were certain of his former fellow students in Edinburgh. One of these was the son of a Dr. Miluer, a dissenting minister, who kept a classical school of eminence at Peckham, in Surrey Young Milner had a favourable opinion of Goldsmith's abilities and attainments, and cherished for him that good with which his genial nature seems ever to have inspired among his school and college associates. His father falling ill, the young man negotiated with Goldsmith to take temporary charge of the school. The latter readily consented, for he was discouraged by the slow growth of medical reputation and practice, and as yet had no confidence in the coy smiles of the muse Laying by his wig and cane, therefore, and once more wielding the ferule, he resumed the character of the pedagogue, and for some time reigned as His vicegerent over the academy at Peckham. He appears to have been well treated by both Dr. Milner and his wife; and became a favourite with the scholars from his easy, indulgent good nature. He mingled in their sports; told them droll stories; played on the flute for their amusement, and spent his money in treating them to sweetmeats and other schoolboy dainties. familiarities were sometimes carried too far; he indulged in boyish pranks and practical jokes, and drew upon himself retorts in kind, which, however, he bore with great good humour. Once, indeed, he was touched to the quick by a piece of schoolboy pertness. After playing on the flute, he spoke with enthusiasm of music, as delightful in itself, and as a valuable accomplishment for a gentleman, whereupon a youngster, with a glance at his ungainly person, wished to know if he considered himself a gentleman. Poor Goldsmith, feelingly alive to the awkwardness of his appearance and the humility of his situation, winced at this unthinking sneer, which long rankled in his mind. As usual, while in Dr. Milner's employ, his benevolent feelings were a heavy tax upon his purse, for he never could resist a tale of distress, and was apt to be fleeced by every sturdy beggar; so that between his charity and his munificence he was generally in advance of his slender salary. "You had better, Mr Goldsmith, let me take care of your money," said Mrs. Milner, one day, "as I do for some of the young gentlemen."-" In truth, madam, there is equal need!" was the good-humoured reply. Dr. Milner was a man of some literary pretensions, and wrote occasionally for the "Monthly Review," of which a bookseller, by the name of Griffiths, was proprietor. This work was an advocate for Whig principles, and had been in prosperous existence for nearly eight years. Of late, however, periodicals had multiplied exceedingly, and a formidable Tory rival had started up in the "Critical Review," published by Archibald Hamilton, a bookseller, and aided by the powerful and popular pen of Dr. Smollett. Griffiths was obliged to recruit his forces. While so doing, he met Goldsmith, an humble occupant of a seat at Dr. Milner's table, and was struck with remarks on men and books which fell from him in the course of conversation. He took occasion to sound him privately as to his inclination and capacity as a reviewer, and was furnished by him with specimens of his literary and critical talents. They proved satisfactory. The consequence was that Goldsmith once more changed his mode of life, and in April, 1757, became a contributor to the "Monthly Review," at a small fixed salary, with board and lodging; and accordingly took up his abode with Mr. Griffiths, at the sign of the Dunciad, Paternoster-row. As usual, we trace this phase of his fortunes in his semifictitious writings; his sudden transmutation of the pedagogue into the author being humorously set forth in the case of "George Primrose," in the Vicar of Wakefield." "Come," says George's adviser, "I see you are a 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 cobblers would all their lives only have mended shoes, but never made them." "Finding," says George, "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." Alas! Dryden struggled with indigence all his days; and Otway, it is said, fell a victim to famine in his thirty-fifth year, being strangled by a roll of bread, 66 which he devoured with the voracity of a starving man. In Goldsmith's experience the track soon proved a thorny one; Griffiths was a hard business man, of shrewd, worldly good sense, but little refinement or cultivation. He meddled, or rather muddled, with literature, too, in a business way, altering and modifying occasionally the writings of his contributors; and in this he was aided by his wife, who, according to Smollett, was an antiquated female critic and a dabbler in the Review." Such was the literary vassalage to which Goldsmith had unwarily subjected himself. A diurnal drudgery was imposed on him, irksome to his indolent habits, and attended by circumstances humiliating to his pride. He had to write daily from nine o'clock until two, and often throughout the day, whether in the vein or not, and on subjects dictated by his task-master, however foreign to his taste; in a word, he was treated as a mere literary hack. But this was not the worst; it was the critical supervision of Griffiths and his wife which grieved illiterate bookselling Griffiths," as Smollett called them, "who presumed to revise, alter, and amend the articles contributed to their 'Review.' Thank heaven," crowed Smollett, "the Critical Review' is not written under the restraint of a bookseller and his wife. Its principal writers are independent of each other, unconnected with booksellers and unawed by old women!" This literary vassalage, however, did not last long. The bookseller became more and more exacting. He accused his hack writer of idleness-of abandoning his writing-desk and literary workshop at an early hour of the day, and of assuming a tone and manner above his situation. Goldsmith, iù return, charged him with impertinence, his wife with meanness and parsimony in her household treatment of him, and both of literary meddling and marring. The engagement was broken off at the end of five months by mutual consent, and without any violent rupture, as it will be found they afterwards had occasional dealings with each other. him the The Though Goldsmith was now nearly thirty years of age, he had produced nothing to give him a decided reputation. He was as yet a mere writer for bread. articles he had contributed to the " Review" were anonymous, and were never avowed by him. They have since been, for the most part, ascertained; and though thrown off hastily, often treating on subjects of temporary interest, and marred by the Griffith interpolations, they are still characterised by his sound, easy good sense, and the genial graces of his style. Johnson observed that Goldsmith's genius flowered late; he should have said it flowered early, but was late in bringing its fruit to maturity. CHAP. VIII. Newbery, of picture-book memory-How to keep up appearances Miseries of authorship-A poor relation-Letter to Hodson. Being now known in the publishing world, Goldsmith began to find casual employment in various quarters; among others he wrote occasionally for the "Literary Magazine," a production set on foot by Mr. John Newbery, bookseller, St. Paul's Churchyard, renowned in nursery literature throughout the latter half of the last century for his picture-books for children. Newbery was a worthy, intelligent, kind-hearted man, and a seasonable, though cautious friend to authors, relieving them with small loans when in pecuniary difficulties, though always taking care to be well repaid by the labour of their pens. Goldsmith introduces him in a humorous yet friendly manner in his novel of the Vicar of Wakefield." "This person was no other than the philanthropic book seller in St. Paul's Churchyard, who has written so many little books for children; he called himself their friend; but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner 64 alighted but he was in haste to be gone; for he was ever on business of importance, and was at that time actually compiling materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this good-natured man's red-pimpled face." 66 The Besides his literary job-work, Goldsmith also resumed his medical practice, but with very trifling success. scantiness of his purse still obliged him to live in obscure lodgings somewhere in the vicinity of Salisbury-square, Fleet-street; but his extended acquaintance and rising importance caused him to consult appearances. He adopted an expedient, then very common, and still practised in London among those who have to tread the narrow path between pride and poverty; while he burrowed in lodgings suited to his means, he bailed," as it is termed, from the Temple Exchange Coffee-house near Temple Bar. Here he received his medical calls; hence he dated his letters, and here he passed much of his leisure hours, conversing with the frequenters of the place. "Thirty pounds a year," said a poor Irish painter, who understood the art of shifting, "is enough to enable a man to live in London without being contemptible. Ten pounds will find him in clothes and linen; he can live in a garret on eighteen-pence a week; hail from a coffee-house, where, by occasionally spending threepence, he may pass some hours each day in good company; he may breakfast on bread and milk for a penny; dine for sixpence; do without supper; and on clean-shirt day he may go abroad and pay visits." Goldsmith seems to have taken a leaf from this poor devil's manual, in respect to the coffee-house at least. Indeed, coffee-houses in those days were the resorts of wits and literati, where the topics of the day were gossiped over, and the affairs of literature and the drama discussed and criticised. In this way he enlarged the circle of his intimacy, which now embraced several names of notoriety. 64 Do we want a picture of Goldsmith's experience in this part of his career, we have it in his observations on the life of an author in the "Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning," published some years afterwards. The author unpatronised by the great has naturally recourse to the bookseller. There cannot, perhaps, be a combination more prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of the one to allow as little for writing, and for the other to write as much as possible; accordingly tedious compilations and periodical magazines are the result of their joint endeavours. In these circumstances the author bids adieu to fame; he writes for bread; and for that only imagination is seldom called in. He sits down to address the venal muse with the most phlegmatic apathy; and, as we are told of the Russian, courts his mistress by falling asleep in her lap." Again. Those who are unacquainted with the world are apt to fancy the man of wit as leading a very agreeable life. They conclude, perhaps, that he is attended with silent admiration, and dictates to the rest of mankind with all the eloquence of conscious superiority. Very different is his present situation. He is called an author, and all know that an author is a thing only to be laughed at. His person, not his jest, becomes the mirth of the company. At his approach the most fat, unthinking face brightens into malicious meaning. Even aldermen laugh, and avenge on him the ridicule which was lavished on their forefathers." * * *"The poet's poverty is a standing topic of contempt. His writing for bread is an unpardonable offence. Perhaps, of all mankind, an author in these times is used most hardly. We keep him poor, and yet revile his poverty. We reproach him for living by his wit, and yet allow him no other means to live. His taking refuge in garrets and cellars has of late been violently objected to him, and that by men who, I have hope, are more apt to pity than insult his distress. Is poverty a careless fault? No doubt he knows how to prefer a bottle of champagne to the nectar of the neighbouring alehouse, or a venison |