light which moves our mirth and our pity, while at the same time it reminds us of something better in the man. It was a remark of Goethe's, that there was no fault or foible of human nature which he could not feel compassion for, through his own experience, (that perhaps was his meaning, though not his language,) and in this great and generous writer the sign of immortality is legible in the dignity and compassion with which he handles his inferior persons, both in drama and in story.

We believe we are justified therefore in ascribing the traits of immortality to the admirable writers whom we have grouped together above, observing with what an exquisite art they rescue human nature from its meanest weaknesses, and teach us to love and even to respect the person whom they seem at the instant to be describing in colors of ridicule.

There is nothing remarkable in the early life of Goldsmith, beyond the incidents which often follow the career of a good natured and thoughtless man of humor and talent.

The anecdotes of his early life are familiar to every reader. In college he committed no great faults; his errors were those of thoughtlessness. His situation at the University was severely trying to his pride. His father, a poor country clergyman, of Pallasmore, in the county of Longford, in Ireland, was obliged to enter him as a sizer, or poor scholar, to be taught and boarded gratuitously, and paying but a very small sum for his room. It is expected, in return for these advantages, which, in general, prove to be the most serious disadvantages which the student can encounter, that while he sustains the dignity of scholarship, and the manners of a gentleman, that he will perform the duties of a menial -a situation to be filled successfully and honorably by no character under the rank of a hero or a saint; in neither of which we are at liberty to place poor Goldsmith.

"He was obliged," says Mr. Irving, his biographer, "to sweep part of the courts in the morning, to carry up dishes from the kitchen to the fellows' table, and to wait in the hall, until that body had dined. His very dress marked the inferiority of the poor student to his happier class

mates.

"We can conceive nothing more odious

or ill-judged, than these distinctions which attached the idea of degradation to poverty, and placed the indigent youth of merit below the worthless minion of fortune.

"It was with the utmost repugnance that Godsmith entered college in this capacity. His shy and sensitive nature was affected by the inferior station he was to hold among his gay and opulent fellow students, and he became, at times, moody and despondent. A recollection of these early misfortunes induced him in after years, most strongly to dissuade his brother Henry, the clergyman, from sending his son to college on the like footing. he has ambition,' wrote Goldsmith, strong passions, and an exquisite sensibility of contempt, do not send him there unless you have no other trade for him except your own.""

If

The system of menial scholarship, derived from the ancient monastic institutions, and perpetuated in the British Universities, was early introduced into this country. The scholar, named in our institutions, a charity student, or sometimes, though improperly, a beneficiary-a benefit being a very different thing from a charity studentship, in more senses than one-is sometimes required to perform the menial service of the college, to ring bells, to make fires, to sweep out recitation rooms, and in various ways to make himself useful to the tutor. He is too frequently looked upon by the less considerate portion of the faculty, in virtue of his position, as a dependent, as one whose duty it is to be a spy upon the conduct of his fellow students, and, if questioned, an informer against them. He is usually a dull, but a diligent scholar, and endeavors to make up in industry and application what he lacks in respectability and credit. He is consequently odious, in a variety of senses, to his more liberal and fortunate fellows. His destiny is usually the church; and it is sometimes expected of him, if he does not become a clergyman, or a missionary, that he will refund the money that has been advanced for his education. He must be "hopefully pious," which by most creeds, is a condition, in which the power of God and the Holy Spirit alone can place him; and as an open testimony and proof of this secret relationship with his Creator, he is expected to give a punctual attendance upon all the services of the church.

times affects one in his writings, as though the author appeared in a dress of style too gay and social for the subject.

After his rejection by the Bishop, he took passage for America, and as might be expected, after he had paid his passage, the ship sailed without him.

Then follows the chapter of his travels; a passage of his life from which he collected much of the humorous and moral experience which is transmitted to us in his works. After two years spent in roving about the continent, subsisting often upon charity, or, to dignify it by a better title, upon the hospitality of such as were ready to befriend the homeless wanderer, he landed at Dover, in 1756, without money, without friends, and without the prospect of a business.

Before passing to his literary life, it should be mentioned, however, that his associates, during the years of his absence, were not always mean or insignificant. During a brief sojourn in Paris, he made the acquaintance of Voltaire: "As a companion," says he, 66 no man ever exceeded Voltaire, 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, at Paris, when the subject happened to turn upon English taste and learning. Fontenelle, (then nearly a hundred years old,) who was 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 they were surprised at the silence which Voltaire had preserved, all the former part of the night, particularly as the

conversation happened to turn upon his favorite 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 national 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."

It has been usual to stigmatize Voltaire as the enemy and reviler of every thing truly grand and noble; however unfortunate he was in his religious sentiments, it is still necessary to defend him against the charge of insensibility to the sublime and beautiful.

"After his landing in England we find Goldsmith," says his biographer, "launched on the great metropolis, or rather drifting about its streets, at night, in the gloomy month of February, with but a few half-pence in his pocket."

His next appearance is that of an usher to a school, a situation in which he suffered extreme annoyance. Then follows a connection with a periodical review. In this situation 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; he and his employer, however, very soon quarrelled; and 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 periodical conducted by Mr. John Newbury, a good natured gentleman famous for his children's books; of him Goldsmith says that he was not only the friend of children but the friend of all mankind.

Besides his literary job-work, Goldsmith now also attempted medical practice without success. His experience with booksellers drew from him, in various parts of his works, several severe strictures upon that class of dealers. In his enquiry into the state of polite literature, he says, "The author, unpatronized 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 the writing, and for the other to write as much as possible; accordingly, tedious compilations and periodical magazines are the result of their joint endeavors: In these circumstances, the author bids adieu to fame; writes for bread; and for that imagination is seldom called in; he sits down to address the muse with the most phlegmatic apathy, and, as we are told of the Russian, courts his mistress by falling asleep in her lap."

Of the author, Goldsmith adds that he is a child of the public in all respects. "His simplicity exposes him to all the insiduous approaches of cunning; his sensibility to the slightest invasions of contempt. Though possessed of fortitude to stand unmoved the expected burst of an earthquake, yet of feelings so exquisitely poignant, as to agonize under the slightest disappointment. Broken rest, tasteless meals, and causeless anxieties, shorten life, and render it unfit for active employments; prolonged vigils and intense application, still farther contract his span, and make his time glide insensibly away."

The story of the author's wrongs and misery, in our day, does not much differ from that of his predecessors. If years of unrequited labor have worn out his constitution and his hopes, his is not always the gratification of thinking that others shall reap the benefit after him. Perhaps, as frequently happens, his manuscripts lie upon the shelf for want of a publisher; the labor of twenty years may be thrown away in a moment; or perhaps, through some stiffness or pedantry of manners, contracted through the severity of toil, and the workings of anxiety upon an over-tasked frame, he fails to make friends, and to inspire confidence; perhaps as a periodical writer, instead of leading, he must follow the public taste; every action of his lifefor the actions of an author are his writings, must belie his conscience: if, by throwing himself out boldly upon the world, he acquires notoriety, he is at once surrounded by false friends and subtle enemies, who seek, in every way, to make their advantage out of his inexperience and credulity.

To ask for the patronage of the great, which poor Goldsmith scorned as much as he pretended to admire it, has become in our day, a point of ridicule against an author. He cannot venture to look for patronage to those substitutes for the great, in these democratic times, namely, the rich; who for the most part have neither leisure nor inclination to extend attentions to the struggling tribe of authors. They have their revenge. The society which despises them they labor to destroy; and wish to substitute for it, a society of their own imagination. Authors and editors, poor as they are, are pulling monarchs from their thrones, and, by a steady and well-directed fire of ridicule, have torn away the prestige of aristocracy. The day is coming fast, when the literary and the political character, will become coincident, as they were in the old time.

The most interesting passage of Goldsmith's life began with his acquaintance with Dr. Johnson, and through him, with Burke, Garrick, and Reynolds.

Mr. Irving, with his usual good nature, has rescued Goldsmith from the appearance of an ignominious dependence upon Dr. Johnson, and has given him altogether a much more dignified social position than any other of his biographers have done.

The conversation of Dr. Johnson," says Dr. Percy, "is strong and clear, and may be compared to an antique statue, where every vein and muscle is distinct and clear." "Such," says Mr. Irving,

was the colloquial giant with which Goldsmith's celebrity, and his habits of intimacy, brought him into continual comparison; conversation, grave, discursive, and disputatious, such as Johnson excelled and delighted in, was to him a severe task; and he never was good at a task of any kind," (a remark, by the by, which it is hardly fair to make of a man who accomplished so many wearisome literary jobs as were finished, and elegantly finished too, by Goldsmith). "He had not, like Johnson a vast fund of acquired facts to draw upon; nor a retentive memory to furnish them forth when wanted. He could not, like the great lexicographer, mould his ideas, and balance his period while talking. He had a flow of ideas, but it was apt to be hurried and confused; and, as he said of himself, he had contracted a hesitating and

disagreeable manner of speaking. He used to say that he always argued best when he argued alone; that is to say, he could master a subject in his study with his pen in his hand; but when he came into company he grew confused, and was unable to talk about it. Johnson made a remark concerning him to somewhat of the same purport: no man," said he, "is more foolish than Goldsmith when he has not a pen in his hand, or more wise when he has." A remark, under favor, more foolish than any recorded of Goldsmith himself; that is to say, if it be admitted a folly to sacrifice the entire merit and substance of a remark to an antithetical point; nor is there, to speak with exactness, any remark recorded of Goldsmith in his conversations to which, however simple, the charge of folly can be applied. If the innocent confidence with which he betrayed the secret movements of his heart, is to be called folly, then indeed Goldsmith was a fool; but it is necessary to be careful, before applying this term to any man, to know what is meant by folly and a fool; for it is easy to suffer such remarks to pass as seem to imply wisdom in ourselves, when they really imply malignity and conceit. Dr. Johnson had the reputation of wisdom in conversation; and yet it may be said of him, in his own manner, that his ambition of shining, carried him in advance of truth; and that he was never less wise than when he made his wisest remarks. Aiming to predominate, he domineered; aiming to convince, he frightened his auditors; and instead of opening the book of knowledge to their understandings, he hurled it at their heads.

"Yet with all this conscious deficiency," says Mr. Irving, "Goldsmith was continually getting involved in colloquial contests with Johnson, and other prime talkers of the literary circle. He felt that he had become a notoriety; that he had entered the lists, and was expected to make fight; so, with that heedlessness which characterized him in every thing else, he dashed on at a venture; trusting to chance in this, as in other things, and hoping occasionally to make a lucky hit. Johnson perceived his hap-hazard temerity, but gave him no credit for the real diffidence which lay at bottom. The misfortune of Goldsmith in conversation,' said he, is this; he goes

VOL. IV. NO. V. NEW SERIES.

on, without knowing how he is to get off. His genius is great, but his knowledge is small; as they say of a generous man, it is a pity he is not rich, we may say of Goldsmith, it is a pity he is not knowing. He would not keep his knowledge to himself;' and on another occasion he observes, Goldsmith, rather than not talk, will talk of what he knows himself to be ignorant, which can only end in exposing him; if in company with two founders, he would fall a talking on the method of making cannon; though both of them would soon see that he did not know what metal a cannon is made of;' and again: 'Goldsmith should not be forever attempting to shine in conversation; he has not temper for it, he is so much mortified when he fails. Sir, a game of jokes is composed partly of skill, partly of chance; a man may be beat, at times, by one who has not the tenth part of his wit. Now Goldsmith, putting himself against another, is like a man laying a hundred to one, who cannot spare the hundred; it is not worth a man's while; a man should not lay a hundred to one, unless he can easily spare it, though he has a hundred chances for him; he can get but a guinea, and he may lose a hundred. Goldsmith is in this state; when he contends, if he gets the better, it is a very little addition to a man of his literary reputation; if he does not get the better, he is miserably vexed." "

These remarks of Dr. Johnson, upon his conversational antagonist and friend, if they have any meaning at all, apply as thoroughly to himself as to Dr. Goldsmith, with the single exception of the difference of their knowledge. If conversation in jest is composed partly of skill and partly of chance, then the Doctor was himself liable to fail in it; and it was with him as with Goldsmith; that when he did not get the better he was miserably vexed, and what was worse, he usually fell to abusing his antagonist; and when he did get the better, it was but a small addition to his reputation; so that Goldsmith might have said of Dr. Johnson, that he ought not forever to have been attempting to shine in conversation; that he had not the temper for it, but when he failed, fell into a passion with his antagonist.

As for his remark that Goldsmith, rather than not talk, would expose his ignorance, 33