daughter shall frame them with the parings of my black waistcoat. Each maxim is to be inscribed on a sheet of clean paper, and written with my best pen: of which the following may serve as a specimen :-Look sharp: Mind the main chance : Money is money now: If you have a thousand pounds, you can put your hands by your sides, and say you are worth a thousand pounds every day of the year: Take a farthing from one hundred, and it will be a hundred no longer."

Poor Goldsmith, he never looked sharp, or minded the main chance; but so long as he could stave off the evil day by contrivance or shift, he managed to get on pleasantly enough. If he borrowed from a friend, it was always with the full intention of honourably returning the loan. Even when in the utmost need himself, he could never muster up courage to say "No!" and thus he became an easy prey to all who had wit or woe enough to work upon his feelings. One day he would appear in a gay suit and a clean shirt, the life of every company into which he went; and the next he would deplore his sad fate, sitting "in a garret, writing for bread, and expecting to be dunned for a milk score!"

On the 21st of December, 1758, Goldsmith went up for examination to Surgeons' Hall, and was plucked! It is useless now to enter into any argument for or against the justice of his sentence on the part of the examiners; that Goldsmith had sufficiently prepared himself by study and observation for the not very severe ordeal awaiting him, is evident by the pains he took in making a good appearance on the occasion. Having no decent apparel, he went to his old employer Griffiths, who, in consideration of receiving a couple of articles for his "Review," agreed to become security to Goldsmith's tailor for a suit of clothes. The articles were written, the clothes sent home by the tailor, and Goldsmith's appearance made at Surgeons' Hall, with what result we have already shown.

On the fourth day after his unsuccessful examination, while he was brooding over his misfortune, and keeping up his Christmas by a fireless hearth, he received a visit from his landlady, who, with tears in her eyes, requested his assistance in rescuing her husband from jail, whither he had just been taken for a trifling debt. Well, here was a case of greater hardship than his own; he had no money to pay his arrears of rent, but his sympathies were excited. What should he do? Ah! there were Griffiths's books, and the unfortunate suit of clothes: he had no use for the latter now; as for the books, why he should be enabled to redeem them in time; and so the books and clothes were both sent to the pawnbroker, and with the money thus raised, the woman's husband was relieved from durance, and his own debt paid. The circumstance was soon whispered about; and coming to the ears of Griffiths, he demanded the return of the books and the money for the clothes in very peremptory terms. Poor Goldsmith had only to confess the truth, and beg the bookseller to spare him till his book with Mr. Dodsley should be published; when, he says, in a deprecating, humble sort of way, "You may perhaps see the bright side of a mind, when my professions shall not appear the dictates of necessity but choice. I have been for some years struggling with a wretched being-with all that contempt and indigence bring with it -with all those passions which make contempt unsupportable."

We can well imagine what must have been the feelings of Goldsmith as he penned these words to the resentful Griffiths, from his miserable lodgings in Green Arbour-court: we can almost realise the wretched man sitting down at his poor table, and feeling, while the pen was in his hand, how vain was the attempt to vindicate himself from the charge of those "meannesses which poverty unavoidably brings with it," while he had for a correspondent such a man as Griffiths the bookseller. It appears, however, that the affair was amicably settled soon afterwards. The publisher, nevertheless, seems to have always borne a lingering dislike to the author, for he never failed to undervalue the literary talents of Goldsmith in the pages of the "Monthly Review," whenever an opportunity offered itself. Literary jobs and author-craft had as yet been of sorry assistance to Oliver Goldsmith; and few of his productions previous to 1759 are now certainly known. That year, how

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ever, witnessed the publication of the long-expected "Inquiry into the Polite Literature of Europe," by the profits of which he had fondly hoped to have defrayed his expenses to India. But though the work had not that result, it had another of far more importance to Goldsmith's future career-for it at once raised him in the scale of acknowledgable men. Though his name did not appear on the title-page, and though both it and its author were roundly abused in the pages of the Monthly Review," the success of the work was undeniable. The principal literary tool of Griffiths at this time was one Kenrick, a man of whom Dr. Johnson observed, that he was "one of the many who make themselves public without making themselves known." This Kenrick, who was the writer of the abusive articles on Goldsmith, was originally a mechanic, and he appears, though possessed of considerable literary attainments, never to have risen above the littlenesses, dislikes, jealousies, and paltry spites engendered in the workshop. He is described by a contemporary as

"All furious and replete

With brandy, malice, pertness, and conceit."

From this period Goldsmith's reputation may be said to have become daily widened. We soon find him joined with Dr. Smollett in launching the "British Magazine;" contributing to the "Public Ledger" those admirable “Chinese Letters," which were afterwards collected and published as the "Citizen of the World;" and, more than all, emerging from the darkness of drudgery of Green Arbour-court, into the more polite and classic regions of Fleet-street. He occupied apartments in what is now No. 15, Wine-office-court.

As his fame increased, booksellers became more anxious to secure his services, and litterateurs were not too proud to introduce him to their clubs and coteries. After the publication of the "Citizen of the World," he began to receive company in his new lodgings, and to play the host in a style which was peculiarly his own-at once lively, courteous, simple, and awkward. About this time he was introduced to Johnson, who was established as the greatest critic and most powerful writer of the day. Among other celebrities with whom Goldsmith made acquaintance after the advent of the "Chinese Letters'' and the "Inquiry," were Garrick, then in the zenith of his fame, Bickerstaff, Murphy, James Boswell, Sir Richard Steel, Hogarth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and a whole host of such second-rate literary hangers-on as contributed to the numerous periodical publications of the day. His reputation was growing daily, if it grew but slowly. He still continued to write for the booksellers in a hand-to-mouth kind of way; and about this time brought out that admirable epitome of Hume, Smollett, and Rapin, which is known to every schoolboy as "Goldsmith's Abridgment of the History of England"—a work which has gone through almost innumerable editions, and still continues extremely popular. Goldsmith's acquaintance with Johnson was daily ripening into friendship; nor does such a friendship appear at all incongruous, considering the elements of which it was composed. Johnson, profound, learned, pompous, but withal kind-hearted, and Goldsmith, impulsive, generous, and fond of being noticed by great men en-although entirely deficient of those graces of conversation and manner which, in the society of the wealthy, is considered indispensable-the mutual regard of these two men is easily reconcilable with our traditional notions of their several characters. The one was fond of patronising, and the other had no objection to be patronised, provided the patron was one who could command his esteem or engage his affections. Quite different in kind and degree was the friendship of Goldsmith for Johnson to that professed by James Boswell. In all Boswell's notices of Johnson, we seem to recognise a sneaking, dog-like fidelity, which is far from pleasing, notwithstanding the fact, that to Boswell's incessant observation of his patron, we are indebted for much of our knowledge of the "great cham" and his literary associates. "Who is that Scotch cur continually at Johnson's heels" inquired some one of Goldsmith. "He is not a cur, but a burr," replied Oliver; "Tom Davies flung him at the

doctor in sport, and he has the faculty of sticking." Johnson, who was pleased with any recognition of his learning and importance, appears in Boswell's "Life" to have frequently snubbed poor Goldsmith, even before company; but perhaps, no man knew better than Johnson the kind heart, genuine simplicity, and overflowing generosity which lay beneath all Goldsmith's apparent vanity and awkward attempts at distinction. Nor was the lexicographer's good opinion undeserved or unreturned: when royal pensions were bestowed on Dr. Johnson and Dr. Shebbeare, some would-be witty fellow observed, that the king had pensioned the she-bear and the he-bear. "Well!" said Goldsmith, "the doctor has certainly a roughness of manner, but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear about him, but his skin." Johnson was indeed one of Goldsmith's best friends, and from his greater strength of character, and larger amount of worldly prudence, was well fitted to be his adviser. Though in private he might rebuke Goldsmith's follies, in his absence he warmly defended him against the scoffs and scorn which the worldly are ever prone to heap upon the unfortunate. The incident which Mr. Gilbert has so ably illustrated, is one of the most remarkable in the poet's life, as it brought to light the work on which much of the poet's fame now rests. "I received one morning," says Johnson, 66 a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion; I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork in the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill."

This novel was the "Vicar of Wakefield," a work which seems to bid defiance to all the changes of taste and fashion, and to possess claims to admiration independent of age or country, language or manners. It has been translated into nearly every language of modern Europe, and though it portrays a state of society peculiarly English, its charming simplicity, its truth to nature, its exquisite touches of humour and pathos, and the enlarged sympathy it displays, have made it a no less welcome guest in Italian saloons or Russian hotels, than in the peaceful retirement of an English household. To live in men's memories and move their feelings, independent of, and unaffected by, their caprices, is the great triumph of the artist and author; and in this sense Goldsmith has been more successful than any other English novelist; and his written style, as it appears in the "Vicar of Wakefield,” is a model of grace, ease, and purity. The work, however, remained for two years in the hands of Francis Newberry, the publisher; but when at last it made an appearance, it was hailed with acclamations. Its sale speedily enriched the publisher, but brought no substantial benefit to the author. While his praises were on every tongue, he was still struggling with poverty, and a bill drawn upon the bookseller for fifteen guineas was returned dishonoured!

The publication of the " Vicar of Wakefield" was probably delayed, in order to give greater prominence to Goldsmith's "Traveller," which had appeared some time previously. The publication of this exquisite poem had quite altered its author's social position; and, while it charmed the town, astonished his associates by the deep knowledge of human nature, and the great-hearted sympathy for mankind, which its stanzas betrayed. From being a mere bookseller's hack and scribbler to magazines, Goldsmith rose to be a poet-"the best poet of his age," as Johnson emphatically declared. The "Traveller" was published by the elder Newberry, in 1764,

and in less than six months had passed through three editions. It was the first work to which Dr. Goldsmith had affixed his name; and though, in the preface, he professes to be indifferent to its reception, there is no doubt that he looked forward to its success with the public with the keenest anxiety. That it should go forth with all the honours, Johnson noticed it handsomely in the "Critical Review," and even gave its author the benefit of his experience in the conduct and final correction of various parts of the poem. Its success was immediate and decided, and Goldsmith was everywhere received with flattery and praises. Like other of Goldsmith's works, it is, as it were, autobiographical, and describes the writer's adventures at home and abroad, his love of country, and his aspirations after fame. The beauty of the poem itself redeems it from many of its speculative features. We can all understand and appreciate the fervid love of home, and the association of youth tempering the wild impulses of a homeless manhood-the rural sports-the village school-the preacher's "modest mansion"-the hospitable inn with its "nut-brown draughts" and absolute politics, these are things which go at once to the heart, because they are common to the lives and memories of most men. And we can understand how, after a life of ceaseless struggle and much keen agony,-of starvation in those streets "where Otway and Butler had starved before”— after the dunning of creditors, too remorseless perhaps-and the tyranny of booksellers—and the bitter fruits of his own extremest follies,-the poet should look back with fond regret to the scenes of his comparatively untroubled boyhood-and dream of returning to Lissoy from the wilderness world.

"In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose;

I still had hopes-for pride attends us still-
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,-
Around my flie an evening group to draw,

And tell of all I felt and all I saw :

And as a hare, when hounds and horse pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes-my long vexations past-
Here to return and die at home at last."

Goldsmith's "book building" days, however, were never over till the grave received his troubled body. Always in debt, and always in hope; never out of spirits when in company of wits and "jolly dogs," and never refusing to help a friend or fellow-countryman; constant to his own simple nature, and yet invariably laying himself open to the charge of extravagance, vanity, and want of worldly wisdom; fitted to enjoy domestic life, and yet a homeless man in the world; acting, all his life long, from the impulses of the moment, and caring nothing for the morrow,-Goldsmith lived on, the admiration of the public, who knew him only by his writings, the favourite of the literary circle which had Johnson for its centre, and which knew enough of the man to excuse his follies, and the dupe of all who had a tale of distress ready-made for his willing ear, or rascality enough to profit by his kindliness of disposition, and thoughtless generosity.

The performance and publication of the comedy of "The Goodnatured Man," brought Goldsmith the, to him, amazing sum of £500. From Wine Office-court to the Temple, and from a plain suit to one of "Tyrian bloom," in which to entertain his numerous friends, and give parties to Reynolds, Johnson, and a host of others, were the immediate results. "His life in London," says Washington Irving, "had hitherto been a struggle with sordid cares and sad humiliations. You scarcely can conceive,' wrote he some time previously to his brother, 'how much eight years of disappointment, anguish, and study, have worn me down.' Several more years had since been added to the term during which he had trod the lowly walks of life. He had been a tutor, an apothecary's drudge, a petty physician of the suburbs, a booksellers' hack, drudging for daily bread. Each separate walk had been beset by its peculiar thorns and humiliations. It is wonderful how his heart re

He

tained its gentlenes and kindness through all these trials; how his mind rose above the 'meannesses of poverty,' to which, as he says, he was compelled to submit; but it would be still more wonderful, had his manners acquired a tone corresponding to the innate grace and refinement of his intellect. was near forty years of age when he published 'The Traveller,' and was lifted by it into celebrity. As is beautifully said of him by Foster, one of the most correct of his biographers, he has fought his way to consideration and esteem; but he bears upon him the scars of his twelve years' conflict; of the mean sorrows through which he has passed; and of the cheap indulgences he has sought relief and help from. There is nothing plastic in his nature now. His manners and habits are completely formed; and in them any further success can make little favourable change, whatever it may effect for his mind or genius.'"

Had we space, we might tell how the success of his first comedy made Goldsmith still more careless and extravagant; how he was still obliged, in order to keep up the appearance he had lately assumed, to draw long and heavy drafts on his future labours; how the hack authorship on which he had engaged, produced the Histories of Rome and Greece, which, though mere compilations, bear unmistakable evidences of his charming style, and which still continue as popular as ever; how, retreating to Canonbury Tower, Islington, he wrote the "Deserted Village"-that exquisite poem !and compiled his "Animated Nature," which, as Johnson says, is as interesting as a Persian tale; how the Royal Academy, but then newly arrived at maturity, presents him with the honorary title of Professor of History; how he goes into polite society, and meets with the beautiful Miss Horneck, the " Jessamy Bride;" how, when his mother died, he gave his portion of her wealth to his family, though he sorely wanted it himself; how broken health and failing spirits gave sad warning of the end; how the lamp burns bright again, and another comedy-" She Stoops to Conquer" – dazzles the town; how he preferred independence to party writing and political hire, scorning assistance which was to purchase principle; how the end, so long in coming, came at last, hastened by anxiety, privation, debt, and difficulties of all

sorts.

But for a detailed relation of all these, we must refer the reader to Foster's Life of Goldsmith; or, better still, to Washington Irving's admirable Biography.

On the 25th of March, 1774, Goldsmith was to be present at his club, but in the afternoon he felt so unwell that he was obliged to retire to bed. He had skilful medical attention and faithful nursing, but all was in vain. He sank rapidly; the anxieties and fears which had made his life a constant succession of miscrics, with here and there a bright spot, like those happy days when he basked in the smile of the "Jessamy Bride," did not in his last hour desert him. His physician remarked to him that his pulse was beating inore rapidly than his state of health, bad as it was, seemed to warrant.

"Is

your mind at ease?" he then inquired. "No, it is not," was the sad and momentous answer. There was a world of meaning in this last utterance of a great heart broken down by misfortune. It is full of warning and instruction. Before the eyes of him who had already earned a reputation, which shall last as long as the tongue in which his thoughts are enshrined, and on whose head the praises of the wisest and greatest of an age fertile in genius had been poured, a host of wasted efforts, wasted talents, misapplied energies, and lost opportunities rose in black array, and shut out from the view all gleams of a happy future, and all those endearing reminiscenses upon which the memory in the last hour loves to dwell. And thus he died, on April 4th, 1774. The worst that can be said of him is, that he was wanting in discretion, perseverance, and decision, and that he was more generous than just. Against those weaknesses we may set off a thousand virtues, if, when rising from a perusal of his works, we are worldly enough to look upon the author's memory with any other feeling than one of sympathising and grateful regret. His sorrows and disappointments in this world amply atoned for the follies which caused them, and the refined and graceful sensibility, the unfeigned love of truth and virtue, that delicate appreciation of the wants and feelings of others, and that longing desire for calm and shelter in the society of those he loved and those who loved him, which he has so beautifully embodied in one of the most exquisite productions of his pen, are claims for the respect and admiration of posterity, which time can never wear out.

He died in debt, and was interred in the burial-ground of the Temple church; and soon afterwards the members of the Literary Club raised a subscription for a monument to his memory. The bust executed by Nollekens, has been gazed at by thousands in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. Beneath it, on a white marble tablet, is a Latin epitaph, furnished by Johnson, of which the following is a translation:

OF

OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

A Poet, Naturalist, and Historian, Who left scarcely any style of writing

untouched,

And touched nothing that he did not adorn; Of all the passions,

Whether smiles were to be moved or tears,
A powerful yet gentle master;

In genius, sublime, vivid, versatile,
In style, elevated, clear, elegant-
The love of companions,
The fidelity of friends,

And the veneration of readers,
Have by this monument honoured the memory.
He was born in Ireland,

At a place called Pallas,

[In the parish] of Forney, [and county] of Longford On the 29th Nov, 1731; Educated at [the University of Dublin; And died in London, 4th April, 1774.

THE poet now-a-days writes with a steel pen on cream-laid post paper. He no longer invokes his "grey goose-quill," but contents himself with a "magnum-bonum," wherewith to indite a "sonnet to his mistress's eyebrow." Within the last thirty years or so a most astonishing revolution has taken place in the manufacture of pens. When the writer - and perhaps many of his readers --went to school, all the caligraphy was produced by means of the quill, and the making and mending of a pen in a clean and graceful manner used to be considered quite a great feat. Even at a time not so remote as the period we speak of, quill pens-after due preparation in the drying kiln - were cut and fashioned with a knife to prepare them for sale. The professional pencutter- and there were many in the trade then, for in the Bank of England, and all other commercial establishments, the quill was used long after the introduction of steel pens-was in the habit of

making, in a single day, about two-thirds of a long thousand pens; and a long thousand, be it known to all who are unacquainted with the art and mystery of stationery, consists of twelve hundred articles. At one house in Shoe-lane, London, there were annually manufactured about six millions of pens for the use of the commercial public. At the time of which we speak, it was calculated that not more than one in ten of all the quills that were made into pens were ever mended. The trade in "office pens" became so large as to induce manufacturers to produce them in thousands; and to this day there are sold in London "office pens," with which a word has never been written, and which are turned out by the gross by a pen-making machine, tied up in scores, and their ends just dipped in the ink, to deceive unwary hunters after "cheapness."

Well do we remember the gay flourishings with which our