was followed by a long continental ramble, which is understood to be described in the Philosophic Vagabond. Arriving in England, in 1756, penniless, and his uncle being dead, he joined a company of strolling players; he wandered up to London and became usher in a school at Peckham (Goldsmith's Walk still exists), and then physician to the poor. Starvation again. Everything but one had now been tried, and had failed. As very good Christians, in the last extremity of a dilemma, think they had "better tell the truth at once," so Goldsmith had no resource but literature, with which he might more safely have commenced. He almost thought himself a literary man when he was correcting the press for Richardson, the novelist and bookseller; that little-read and much-decried man, whose Clarissa, read by about ten of every generation, never fails to draw tears. But the proof-sheets of Clarissa had long vanished from Salisbury Court; and at home, at Parson's Green, Fulham, the author's friends could assemble of an evening without fear of being read away early; for Richardson was a very great reader-of his own performances. Then came to Goldsmith the real thing,-original composition. The proprietor of the Monthly Review engaged him; and he took up his abode with "illiterate Griffiths," as his friends very naturally loved to call him. But five months ended the engagement; for the insolence of the publisher, and the privations (starvation ?) inflicted by the wife, could no longer be borne.

The Inquiry into the present State of Polite Learning in Europe was next written, especially to provide funds for an outfit to the Coromandel coast as physician. The book was successful enough, published by subscription; but the appointment somehow fell to the ground. Every attempt at escape from literature failed signally; and, after a course of Critical Reviews and Literary Magazines, &c., Goldsmith, who must be held to

have drifted into ink, fairly gave up the struggle, and planted his pen from choice. He had endured two years of Grub Street drudgery, and was now thirty-one years of age. Rather late, certainly, for a man to begin to know himself; but I cannot fancy Goldsmith very unhappy in that. His irresolution, his leisure, had been of infinite service to him. He, by some means— not very pleasant means certainly-had had an education; by some means he had travelled. Wherever he went he could always make friends, although, a little later, he says "he has friendships only with the dead." Friends are much, in Shelley's opinion, who laments that he can only count three. Starvation is an ugly thing, doubtless, but it has so many degrees. In Goldsmith's case the fatal eighth day was never reached-possibly never the second; and if happiness may be reckoned by comparison (I am not sure that it may), Goldsmith was better off than many men whose names, nearly as well known, will crowd to the mind. The same year, 1759, Burns was to be born, and up to his twentieth year was never once to have as much as he could eat at a time, and his health was to suffer, and his shoulders to sink. A few years later, the "marvellous boy," now a child, was to buy his loaves very stale. And the sorrows of others were as great, though not so celebrated. Many of these men were poets in their boyhood, and as such their agonies belong to letters; but the miseries of Oliver Goldsmith can scarcely be fairly charged to literature-which has quite enough to answer for without that.

When Goldsmith, in 1759, fairly planted his foot on literature, it was just emerging from its servile condition; but vagabondage was strong upon it. It was essentially the age of essays and reviews. Everything was ephemeral. Very few books were written. The number of periodical publications was perhaps * Chatterton.

not less than at present, which must be acknowledged very large,' when we consider how few people comparatively read in those days, the difference of population, and the difficulties of transmission. Literature meant London then. But, on the other hand, we must not forget that the system of cheap republication was then unknown. In all these various channels Goldsmith found opportunity for more hard work and little pay than he cared for. Many compositions of his may be traced by the enthusiast, or discovered by the antiquary; but the general reader will probably be content with the works usually known. Out of the crowd of magazines, like a strong man, appeared Goldsmith's Bee, on Saturday, October 6th, 1759. It is advertised as consisting of a variety of essays on the amusements, follies, and vices in fashion, particularly the most recent topics of conversation, remarks on theatrical exhibitions, memoirs of modern literature," &c. &c. Readers of The Bee will see that something like the promises of the prospectus were carried out ; and whether carried out or not, all agree in admiration. But the public would not spend threepences; and The Bee could not exist without the sweets of sale. So The Bee died, and is immortal; and the public saved up their threepences, to cut epitaphs on their tombstones with.

Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey, was perhaps not the very happiest of London residences, but it is pleasing to think that Oliver made the best friends that could be found; that Percy and Smollett were of his set, and that almost immediately he was to take first rank in Johnson's club. Doubtless he had many pleasant days about that time. He was beginning to get a pleasant reputation too; for the Citizen of the World, which appeared in the Daily Ledger, was an extended flight, and brought its author into good notice. Then he removed to Wine Office Court, and on the 31st May, 1761, Doctor Goldsmith

gave a supper, to which Percy brought the great Johnson himself. What a memorable evening that was, more than a century ago! Memorable was the occasion when Johnson arrayed himself in neatness, if not in splendour, because Goldsmith was in the habit of apologising for his own slovenliness by quoting the example of "rough old Samuel."

But Samuel was scarcely prepared for the result; from that evening-it might be only the result of success, or it might be an insane spirit of imitation,—from that evening Goldsmith dressed with more than "studied neatness." His bloomcoloured coats, in the books of Mr. William Filby, have become historical. No man has been more laughed at for magnificence of raiment; but in all probability the poor fellow had a painful consciousness of personal defects; of an awkward figure and an ugly face. And he did but try to render himself a little more presentable to the young beauties whom he sometimes took out for an airing, and now and then to a dinner-when perhaps he found he could not pay the reckoning. They were very harmless vanities, and generally carried their punishment with them. He tore his legs to pieces trying to jump better than the fantoccini; and fell into the basin of a fountain, because he was sure he could leap over it. And a punishment deeper than the fountain was, that he got laughed at for these mishaps, and thus lost much of the admiration he might otherwise have commanded as a man of letters. However, once the friend of Johnson, much of his misery was over. There was the constant club, the social geniality, which was his pet enjoyment; and so far as mere cash was concerned, he got on well enough. He could now remove to Garden Court, Temple; and passed the time pleasantly enough until the appearance of The Traveller, in 1764, when he was immediately acknowledged as one of the first men of his time. This reputation was added to by the

Vicar of Wakefield; the history of which work is somewhat amusing. At "a period of temporary distress," Johnson had prevailed on a bookseller to buy it for 60/.; but the "timberheaded," enticed in a rash moment, thought it a rash speculation to print. He preserved it two years as little better than waste paper, until the success of The Traveller made him speculative. After that things went on well. There was The Good-natured Man, which produced 500l., and induced Goldsmith to take rooms in Brick Court, No. 2, where in luxurious style he entertained constant parties of friends, to the great annoyance of Blackstone, who was diligently composing his Commentaries over a bottle of port on the floor beneath. These were expensive habits, and pleasant ones too, for a man whom people will consider a mere miserable mendicant. To the present writer it seems that Goldsmith did actually enjoy life, for many years, at all events, far more acutely than do most men. Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol, were all his, in their turn; but it does not appear that, in the midst of many pleasant amenities, they affected him very deeply. There is the letter about the books deposited with a friend, and that is melancholy enough; but after that there was merely every-day misery, and, on the other hand, there was holiday pleasure. As for money matters, and upon that the Goldsmith cry must be held to turn, he can scarcely be called unfortunate. For many years his labours were very successful; and his improvidence alone caused the miseries, such as they were, that oppressed him. The three histories, Rome, England, and Greece (the latter appearing after his death), were all so much hard work well repaid by the labourer's hire. The comedy She Stoops to Conquer, and The Deserted Village, besides being sources of pecuniary profit, fulfilled the higher aim of literary labour,-literary renown. And yet, despite the biographies, the greater part of which are