and Master Billy Galoon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would soon be a match.

"Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery: his clothes flew piece by piece to the pawnbrokers'; and he seemed at length equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still he thought himself secure from starving; the numberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered; he was, therefore, now resolved to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one; and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted."

Poor Jack also tries to retrieve his fortunes by marriage, but finds that a penniless wooer has but small chance with the fair.

In the "Citizen of the World" are to be found some of the best essays of Goldsmith. It was a happy idea that of pourtraying our national peculiarities and customs in the light in which they might strike a foreigner; and the series contain, moreover, besides the inimitable "Man in Black," a portrait which would in itself be enough to make it immortal-the fussy, pleasant, consequential, little Beau Tibbs. Was there ever such a perseveringly happy man? He speaks of his own miserable poverty as if it were wealth, affects to prefer a bit of ox cheek and some "brisk beer" to ortolans and claret, and gives himself the airs of a lord while Mrs. Tibbs is laboriously seeing his second shirt through the washing tub. After all, there may be more true philosophy in the cheerfulness of little Tibbs than in the querulous grumbling of greater men on

whom the keen wind of adversity blows and who shout vociferous complaints as they shiver in the keen blast. Beau Tibbs' hilarious cheerfulness is, after all, but an exaggerated phase of the equanimity of the "Man in Black."

It was a day in the poet's life to be marked with a white stone when he made the acquaintance of Johnson. The "great cham of literature," great cham of literature," as Smollett called him, understood and appreciated Goldsmith better than did the shallow witlings who laughed at the poet's eccentricities and awkwardness, but had not the sense to discover his genius. And who, better than Goldsmith, could value and respect the great qualities that lay hidden under Johnson's brusque manners and overbearing roughness? Their

acquaintance soon ripened into friendship-a friendship that was a joy and solace to Goldsmith until the day of his death. Just at this time Johnson, after many years' hard and unproductive toil had been rewarded with a well-earned pension. Thus lifted above the struggling crowd of his literary brethren, he filled a sort of dictatorial throne among them. In Goldsmith he took quite a peculiar interest, and quickly became what Washington Irving, in his "Life of Goldsmith," happily designates a kind of " growling supervisor of the poet's affairs."

Such a supervision was but too urgently needed. Increased means had not improved the poet's habits, or taught him self-denial. The pay for his literary labour was almost invariably drawn and spent before the task was completed, and already poor Goldsmith was becoming involved in that net of embarrassment from which he never extricated himself; and thus the following scene was one day enacted, which shall be

told in Johnson's own words, as reported by the indefatigable Boswell :-"I received one morning," said Johnson, "a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begged that 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 got a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into 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 that 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."

The book thus sold for sixty pounds was the "Vicar of Wakefield," a work never surpassed for wonderful vitality of character and for beauty of colouring. The old vicar, loveable in his very weakness, and indulgent as a Christian priest should be towards the weaknesses of others-the downright honest buxom wife, whose maternal vanity at times tempts her so sorely to disobedience against the behests of her lord and master-Olivia the coquette, and Sophia the prude-Moses the honest and simple-and Burchell with his grand monosyllabic commentary of "Fudge," these will live so long as English Literature lasts, and be remembered with delight when the pretentious effusions of the Richardson school have vanished into the limbo of obscurity. But the outcry that has since been raised against the bookseller who only gave sixty pounds for the manuscript appears somewhat unjust. Francis Newbery gave the sum demanded by Johnson, evidently without reading the book, and on Johnson's recommendation alone. That he had no great hopes of profit from his bargain is proved by the length of time he allowed it to lie unpublished in his desk. It was not Newbery's fault that the manuscript was sent out at a pinch, to be sold for what it would bring, before it had even been read to a few discerning friends who might have given a deliberate opinion on its merits. Johnson spoke sensibly enough when he replied to the indignant protest,-" A sufficient price, too, when it was sold; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been elevated, as it afterwards was, by his 'Traveller;' and the bookseller had faint hopes of profit by his bargain. After the Traveller,' to be sure, it was accidentally worth more money."

The "Traveller" was now completed, and was published very shortly after the bailiff episode. It took the circle who surrounded Goldsmith completely by surprise; some of the members of the Literary Club even affected to doubt that he could have written it, and declared that the most striking passages were the work of Johnson. But Johnson himself laughed at all this, and openly and honestly proclaimed his belief in the great merits of the poem, and declared that since the death of Pope nothing equal to it had been written. The touches which describe the various shades. of character in the different nations are exquisite, and can only be the result of personal observation aided by mature thought.

And now our poet resolved to try his powers in a new field-to write a comedy, the remuneration for which should pay off the debts that were fast accumulating round him. But here fresh vexation and new care awaited him. Garrick, the great actor and prosperous manager, to whom he offered the play, took upon himself the office of critic and emendator, authoritatively suggested the entire omission of Lofty, one of the best characters, and, to use an expressive vulgarism, seemed inclined to "burke" the comedy altogether. Goldsmith, smarting under the actor's patronizing criticism, became angry, refused to alter or amend the play, and finally took the manuscript out of Garrick's hands, and transferred it to the rival management of Colman at Covent Garden. But Colman, though he accepted the piece, had little or

no hope that it would be a success; and he contrived to impart his own doubts and misgivings to the whole company. The fact was, that, at this period, sentimental comedy, showing men and women as they appear in the pages of novelists of a certain school, but not as they walk and talk in real life, was in the ascendant; and Hugh Kelly-a man with some ingenuity, but without a spark of genius-was the great representative of this school of writing. Now Goldsmith held that a comedy should be comic-that it should, above all things, amuse the spectators by humourous dialogue and startling action; and, in his dramatic creed, the enunciation

of moral platitudes had no place. In fact, the lines Goldsmith afterwards wrote concerning Cumberland, Kelly's successor in the Sentimental School of Comedy, might well have been applied to Kelly himself:

"A flattering painter, who made it his care,

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are
His gallànts are all faultless, his women divine;

And Comedy wonders at being so fine!

Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out,
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout."

Now this Hugh Kelly had just produced a stupid comedy, insipid and full of mawkish sentimentality, and entitled "False Delicacy." It was acted at Drury Lane, while Goldsmith's "Good-Natured Man" was in rehearsal, and proved a complete success. This triumph of Kelly's further damaged the hopes of Colman and his actors. Goldsmith had made his hero, not an impossible monster of virtue, but an easy-going, kindly gentleman, who shows that excessive good-nature is, after all, only a kind of weakness. The fun was broad and hearty, and the characters were drawn in a style that differed from Kelly's as widely as a picture by Hogarth would differ from a pastoral piece by Watteau. At last the comedy was performed ; and though it brought nearly five hundred pounds to the distressed poet, it was at first not successful. The taste of the town had been too much spoiled by the sentimentalisms of Kelly and his school, to appreciate at once the strong, hearty fare now offered; and especially was public opinion divided on the subject of the introduction of two bailiffs, who were then considered "low," and whose appearance is now acknowledged to be one of the best "points" in the whole play. Goldsmith declared he would write for the theatre no more: but fortunately he did not keep to his determination. Once again, in 1772, he wrote a comedy-one of the very best of our English plays-"She Stoops to Conquer," which was performed at Covent Garden, for the first time, on the 15th of March, 1773. Again was Goldsmith harassed by the misgivings of Colman, though sentimental comedy was no longer in the ascendant. It had never recovered the blow inflicted by a burlesque of Foote's, entitled "The Virtuous Housemaid; or Piety in Pattens," in which the mawkish platitudes of the sentimental school were turned into pitiless ridicule. But the laughter and cheers of a crowded house completely took Colman and the croakers by surprise; and so utter was their astonishment, that the town made sport of the doubters whose prognostications had proved so false. Colman was obliged to run away to Bath, from the shower of lampoons that hailed down upon him. One of the best of these bade him take comfort from the idea that though Goldsmith's present play succeeded, his next might fail; and advised Colman to bring about that desirable consummation, if all other methods failed, by writing the best play he could himself, and printing it in Goldsmith's name. "She Stoops to Conquer" has kept the stage for nearly a century, and bids fair long to retain its place. It was a triumph for our poet, but it was his last.

For now money troubles and embarrassments thickened more and more around him. His fame, indeed, was established; but his habits of procrastination and unthrift were but too well known. The "Deserted Village" had silenced those even who carped at the "Traveller;" his charming "Animated Nature" had brought him profit and reputation as a scientific writer; but his dilatoriness and want of method spoiled all. Early in 1774 he was attacked by an illness to which he was subject, and as a remedy for which he obstinately insisted on dosing himself with "James's Powders." He grew rapidly worse, and to the question asked by his medical man: "Is your mind at ease?" replied with a mournful "No, it is not." For some days he fluctuated between life and death; but at last, on the morning of the 4th of April, strong convulsions came on, under which he expired.

His death was mourned by a circle of friends comprising some of the most illustrious names in the land. A public funeral was proposed for him, but negatived in consideration of his embarrassed circumstances. For, alas! in spite of the success of his later years, he owed nearly two thousand pounds. "Was ever poet so trusted before!" exclaimed sturdy old Johnson. "But," added the same honest friend, pronouncing a verdict which a century has since endorsed, "let not his failings be remembered-he was a very great man!"