OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

HERE are many greater, but few more lovely or beloved names in

grander masterpieces, many more perfect works of art, but few, if any, novels purer, more readable, more graceful, and more gracious, than the "Vicar of Wakefield." To have written such a novel is in itself a claim to inmortality; a right to the possession of a place in the higher ranks of authors, which posterity cannot pretend to disregard. Like "Robinson Crusoe" and the "Pilgrim's Progress," it is one of those books which never grow old, which reads as freshly now as when it was first written, which enchains the attention of modern readers, as it enchained the attention of their forefathers. It is one of those books, too, which is the companion of a man's lifetime. As Scott justly says,-" We read it in youth and in age; we return to it again and again, and bless the memory of an author who contrives so well to reconcile us to human nature." Do you want trustfulness of observation and accuracy of judgment? You will find them in the "Vicar of Wakefield." Are you fond of lively sketches of character and entertaining dialogue? Turn to the pages of the "Vicar." Do you admire the most exquisite purity of nature, the kindliest tolerance for human folly, the noble outcome of a generous and manly heart? You may discover them all in Oliver Goldsmith's fiction. Have you a mind for shrewd exposures of social evils, and delicate touches of a bright imagination? Turn to the "Vicar of Wakefield."

You know what Goethe said of it,-"The delineation of the Vicar's character in his course of life through joys and sorrows, the ever-increasing interest of the story, and the combination of the entirely natural with the strange and the singular, make this novel one of the best which has ever

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GOLDSMITH'S ONE NOVEL.

been written. Besides this, it has the great advantage that it is quite moral, nay, in a pure sense-a Christian-represents the reward of goodwill and perseverance in the right, strengthens an unconditional confidence in God, and attests the final triumph of good over evil; and all this without a trace of cant or pedantry. The author was preserved from both of these by an elevation of mind that shows itself throughout in the form of irony, by which this little work must appear to us as wise as it is amiable. The author, Dr Goldsmith, has, without question, a great insight into the moral world, into its strength and its infirmities; but, at the same time, he can thankfully acknowledge that he is an Englishman, and reckon highly the advantages which his country and his nation afford him. The family, with the delineation of which he occupies himself, stands upon one of the last steps of citizen comfort, and yet comes in contact with the highest; its narrow circle, which becomes still more contracted, touches upon the great world through the natural and civil course of things. This little skiff floats on the agitated waves of English life, and in weal or woe it has to expect injury or help from the vast fleet which sails around it."

Such is the eulogium pronounced upon the "Vicar of Wakefield” by the great German writer. But one marked characteristic of the work must not be overlooked, namely, that in its mingled pathos and humour, tenderness and wit, we wholly lose sight of the monstrous improbabilities of the plot. We cannot stay to criticise it,—we read it with too breathless an interest; and when once read, its influence over us is so powerful that we refuse to examine its defects. We take it as it is,—with all its faults of construction,—and cherish it as a book which makes its reader wiser, and purer, and better.

It is needless for us to dwell upon the chequered career of its author. Mr Forster has narrated it with peculiar force and vigour in his wellknown Biography, and it has also furnished a subject for Washington Irving's easy pen. Moreover, in Boswell's immortal work "Goldie" figures conspicuously, and everybody is familiar with him as with an old friend, is acquainted with his follies and his foibles, his imprudent generosity, his capacity for blundering, his harmless self-assertion, no less than with his relish for humour, his deep tenderness of heart, his large and liberal sympathies, his wide experience of life, his fund of wisdom and benevolence.

THE AUTHOR'S CHARACTER.

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We know him in all the lights and shadows of his troubled life. Now we see him "staggering under a load of debt and labour, tracked by bailiffs and reproachful creditors, running from a hundred poor dependants, whose appealing looks were perhaps the hardest of all pains for him to bear, devising fevered plans for the morrow, new histories, new comedies, all sorts of new literary schemes, flying from all these into seclusion, and out of seclusion into pleasure." And again we see him holding his own in the social combat against the formidable Johnson, penning those wise and witty papers which bear the general title of "The Citizen of the World," meditating over the natural pathos and simple beauty of "The Deserted Village," or crowned with applause as the successful dramatist, whose exuberant comedy, "She Stoops to Conquer," still keeps the stage. "Think of him," says Thackeray, "reckless, thriftless, vain if you like ; but merciful, gentle, generous, full of love and pity. He passes out of our life, and goes to render his account beyond it. Think of the poor pensioners weeping at his grave; think of the noble spirits that admired and deplored him; think of the righteous few that wrote his epitaph, and of the wonderful and unanimous response of affection with which the world has paid back the love he gave it. His humour delighting us still: his song fresh and beautiful as when first he charmed with it: his words in all our mouths his very weaknesses beloved and familiar: his benevolent spirit seems still to smile upon us to do gentle kindnesses: to succour with sweet charity to soothe, caress, and forgive: to plead with the fortunate for the unhappy and the poor."

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Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallas, near Ballymahon, in the county of Longford in Ireland, on the 10th of November 1728. He entered Trinity College, Dublin, as a sizar, on the 11th of June 1745, took his degree of B.A. in 1749, and soon afterwards applied to be admitted into holy orders, but was refused. After some years wasted in desultory occupations, we find him at Edinburgh, in 1754, as a medical student. There he remained two years, and then betook himself to Leyden, to attend lectures on anatomy and chemistry. He does not seem to have profited by them, for he failed to obtain a degree, and quitted Leyden "with a guinea in his pocket, one shirt on his back, and a flute in his hand." He literally played his way through Italy, Switzerland, and France, studying all classes of mankind with observant eye, and seeing both sides of the picture. In

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SKETCH OF GOLDSMITH'S LIFE.

February 1756, he arrived in London. Here began that literary life which to the very last was a life of struggle. At first he wrote for the reviews. Next he produced a memoir of Voltaire, and in April 1759, his first work of importance, an "Essay on the Polite Literature of Europe." Shortly afterwards, he edited "The Bee," and then contributed those charming letters to "The Public Ledger" which we have already mentioned under the title of "The Citizen of the World."

By this time he had formed the acquaintance of Johnson, Percy, Reynolds, Hogarth, Garrick, Beauclerk, Burke, and began to be recognised as a power in the literary world.

In 1763 appeared his "History of England;" in 1764, the work which established his fame, the delightful poem of "The Traveller," for which, however, he received but twenty guineas. Sixty pounds was the sum paid to him for his immortal "Vicar of Wakefield," which made its appearance on the 27th of March 1766. In six months it passed through three editions.

His first dramatic composition, "The Good-Natured Man," was produced at Covent Garden in January 1768; his second, last, and best, "She Stoops to Conquer," March 15th, 1773. In the interval he had published a "History of Rome," a "History of the Earth and Animated Nature," and, in May 1770, "The Deserted Village,"--one of the very finest descriptive poems in our language, which can only be re-perused with ever-increasing admiration.

His concluding labours were bestowed on an admirable piece of satirical portraiture, the poem of "Retaliation" (1733). The taper was already flickering in the socket when he poured out his subtle wit and keen appreciation of character in its easy and polished lines; and, in the following year, a painful complaint, which had long afflicted him, but which was undoubtedly heightened, and, perhaps, rendered fatal, by mental distress, carried him away, at the early age of 46, on the 4th of April 1774.

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THE ADVENTURES OF A STROLLING PLAYER.*

AM fond of amusement, in whatever company it is to be found; and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever pleasing to me. I went, some days ago, to take a walk in St James's Park about the hour in which company leave it to go to dinner. There were but few in the walks, and those who stayed seemed, by their looks, rather more willing to forget that they had an appetite than gain one. I sat down on one of the benches, at the other end of which was seated a man in very shabby clothes.

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We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as usual upon such occasions; and at last ventured upon conversation. "I beg pardon, sir," cried I, "but I think I have seen you before; your face is familiar to me." 'Yes, sir," replied he, “I have a good familiar face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known in every town in England as the dromedary or live crocodile. You must understand, sir, that I have been these sixteen years Merry Andrew to a puppet show: last Bartholomew Fair my master and I quarrelled, beat each other, and parted; he to sell his puppets to the pincushion-makers in Rosemary Lane, and I to starve in St James's Park."

"I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance should labour under any difficulties." "Oh, sir," returned he, "my appearance is very much at your service; but though I cannot boast of eating much, yet there are few that are merrier; if I had twenty thousand a year I should be very merry; and, thank the fates, though not worth a groat, I am very merry still. If I have threepence in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three halfpence; and if I have no money, I never scorn to be treated by any that are kind enough to pay my reckoning. What think you, sir, of a steak and a tankard? You shall treat me now, and I will treat you again, when I find you in the park in love with eating, and without money to pay for a dinner."

As I never refuse a small expense for the sake of a merry companion, we instantly adjourned to a neighbouring ale-house, and in a few moments

* From "Miscellaneous Essays" (first collected by Reed, and published about 1795), Essay vi.

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