CHAPTER VIII

2, BRICK COURT, TEMPLE, WHERE GOLDSMITH DIED.Rischgitz Collection.]2, BRICK COURT, TEMPLE, WHERE GOLDSMITH DIED.

Rischgitz Collection.]

In his rooms in Brick Court, Temple, Goldsmith used to sit at his window, his eyes lingering lovingly upon the flowers and the foliage in the gardens beneath, and his heart drinking in the sweet peacefulness of the scene. He watched the Thames gliding on silently,serenely faithful to and fulfilling its great imperishable mission. Rivers are the signs and the symbols of immortality. The poet saw the rooks upon the lawns, and made new friends of these black-winged, busy birds, and found angels' voices in the whispers of the rustling leaves sweetly pleading. The flowers smiled up at him, as, gazing gently down, he wreathed with welcomes all passing hearts amid many known and unknown wanderers. There are those that have wondered, in the inscrutable ordering of events, and feeling that strange chances take their unexpected, often fulfilling, and often failing, part in these, what had happened for letters and for humanity had Goldsmith met Chatterton, who may have wearily paced the Temple Gardens, and even have glanced up and seen Goldsmith looking down in all his tenderness. In the literary history of this period the death of Chatterton darkens the most painful page. At the time when this poor boy took his life Goldsmith was not in London, and not even in England. He was in Paris. The idea that had he encountered Chatterton it could hardly have failed to be to the advantage, and possibly the redemption, and the whole rescue of that young spirit, is not a charming conjecture that has only flattery for its foundation. Oliver Goldsmith was one who must perforce befriend the destitute. He could not let any hopeless heart still keep its despair unmarked and not alleviated, if soothing could prove possible. Inthe year 1772, a youth named Macdonald, of Irish lineage, through the sudden death of his elder brother, found himself friendless and alone in London, and wandering, dejected and despairing, in the Temple Gardens. Thus, too, Chatterton might have strayed in an even greater loneliness. The ages of these youths were the same.

"Providence," writes Macdonald, "directed me to the Temple Gardens. I threw myself on a seat, and willing to forget my miseries for a moment, drew out a book. I had not been there long when a gentleman strolling about passed near me, and observing, addressed me: 'Sir, you seem studious. I hope you find this a favourable place.' Conversation ensued. I told him my history. He gave me his address, and desired me to call soon."

Goldsmith received him in the kindest manner. Macdonald became his amanuensis. Goldsmith treated the young man throughout with unfailing tenderness and sympathy and almost fatherly kindness and solicitude.

In 1771 Goldsmith was full of hope for that capital essay in comedy,She Stoops to Conquer. Two years passed before he could obtain its definite acceptance. He found his manager not in Garrick, as one might have anticipated, but again in Colman. The pretty piece appeared at Covent Garden. Tried as Goldsmith had been ereThe Good-natured Manwas produced, the negotiations and delays aboutShe Stoops to Conquerwere not less torturing. Colman kept the manuscript in his hands for months and months without coming to any decision. The playwright's letters to the manager are absolute supplications. Humiliation appears the very discipline of genius. At one time the manuscript was actually recalled by its author and despatched to Garrick. Before it had really come under his consideration, which very likely might have been just as obtuse, Johnson intervened. To send it to Garrick, in his opinion, would be tantamount to an acknowledgment of its refusal by Colman. This had not taken place. The manager wouldneither accept the piece nor produce it. He said he would keep his faith, but whatever that might mean in his mind, he did nothing. Johnson finally and very firmly brought the man to book. When Colman had accepted the piece, through his gloomy forebodings he biassed the actors against the play before they had even seen it, but no sooner had the rehearsals begun in earnest than they warmed to their assigned parts, and in due time admired and revelled in the comedy. Colman, niggard, would risk nothing in the production of the piece, neither in new costumes nor theatrical fittings. He actually held forth disparagingly in his own box-office to those who sent to purchase tickets for the play.

In the Republic of Letters rumours of wrong run like riot through the realm. Indignant at Goldsmith's sufferings through Colman's insults, and still more from their love of the playwright, his friends determined that if popular support and applause on the first night could make his comedy succeed, then no effort in this direction should be spared upon his behalf. An illustrious and a memorable house greeted the rising curtain. This assemblage of celebrities and the men and women who loved and admired and were resolved to stand by and support Oliver Goldsmith was moving in itself, and one of the greatest possible evidences of the honour and popularity in which the man was held. The people rallied to the rescue of their favourite—the best beloved ofall the authors. This is one of the finest demonstrations of public sympathy and regard the history of literature affords. It was enough for Oliver Goldsmith to have lived for that night, and, if need be, for that alone. The whole affair proved an unequivocal success. Those friends, bent on conquest, applauded everything, and led the streams of welcoming mirth and merriment. The fact that the comedy did not require this protection could not make the personal kindliness less pleasing. Johnson, Burke, Reynolds, Stevens, Fitzherbert, and a rallying host, dined together before proceeding to the theatre. Johnson led them like a commander-in-chief. The hearty meal at the Shakespeare Tavern was one of the most jovial imaginable. The party mustered on the battle-field. It was Goldsmith's Waterloo. That great victory, like the triumph ofShe Stoops to Conquer, was assured ere it was fought. Goldsmith, very nervous at the dinner, did not go at once to the theatre, but strolled away, and rambled alone in St. James's Park. He crept back, or, rather, was persuaded by Stevens to come, and arrived at the opening of the fifth act. Strangely enough, as he entered he caught the only sign of disapproval heard that night.

She Stoops to Conquer, owing much to its capital central motive, is as graceful as it is diverting. Its humour is unfailing. The delightful force of Goldsmith's dialogue lies in entire naturalness. The author of "The Schoolfor Scandal" creates for his comedies an atmosphere of superheated wit and intellectualism, which, whilst inevitably pleasing, is beyond probability. Certain novelists vaunt and revel in the creation of impossibly vivacious wits. Nature has a finer grace; its faithful reflection is purer art. Those true to natural humour and the spontaneous rather than the fabricated repartee represent a small minority. Amongst the novelists Goldsmith and Jane Austen have few to follow them, and with the dramatists Molière and Pinero are almost his solitary associates. Perfectly natural are the arguments, 'mid trips and assaults, between Mr. Burchell and Mrs. Primrose inThe Vicar of Wakefield, and Hastings and Mrs. Hardcastle inShe Stoops to Conquer. This play achieved a revolution in dramatic presentation. It changed the course of comedy, heightened humour, and rang like laughter round the town. It was performed as long as there were nights to spare. In book-form it proved a great success. In this we have the beautiful words of the dedication to Dr. Johnson. The town was disgusted to the depths with Colman. No one will ever pity him for the private contempt and the public derision he brought upon himself through his mean discernment and his want of appreciation of the very best play of the period. The press so teemed with caustic and sarcastic epigrams at his expense that he fled for refuge to Bath during the run of the piece, and at last begged Goldsmith to intercedeand rescue him from the scorn of the critics. After all the worries and vexations, it is not surprising that poor Noll should write: "I am sick of the stage!"

When it was known that the King would visit the theatre to seeShe Stoops to Conquer, he said: "I wish he would;" and then added, carried away by the undercurrent of pressing trials: "Not that it would do me the least good." "Then," said Johnson, "let us hope that it will do him good."

The interval in time was not wide that divided the last triumph from the last day of Goldsmith's life. He was still toiling amid many monetary perplexities, that he had not bettered by accepting payment for works before they were completed. It was now all pouring out and nothing coming in, and there was no hope. He projected aDictionary of Arts and Sciencesupon a comprehensive system, at once practical and ambitious. Failing health had made him sadly dilatory. The booksellers, who had lost confidence in his schemes, did not hold him the man for this encyclopædic labour or suited for long and strenuous strain. Friends ineffectually tried to procure him a pension. He had made many notes and written sundry essays, intended for a treatise in two volumes, to be entitledA Survey of Experimental Philosophy. In the midst of vain strivings he died. The knack of hoping could not do all. The heart was broken and the soul passing. It is a tragedy to remember that his onechance lay now in writing another comedy. In these distressed days Garrick came to his aid, helping him over one stile, at least, by paying liberally, and probably from charity, for the promise of a play. The poet's physical strength was poorer even than his empty purse. In this sad state he pursued his labours, toiling like a slave almost to the last, looking back and recovering nothing, forward and seeing nothing, pressing on with all the poor power he had left, and making no headway. He gave one last extravagant dinner to his old friends, which in his poverty, and for very shame and pity, and a little even in rebuke, they would not take at his expense. Then for a time he sought once again the fresh, sweet country air. He returned to town. The old talent was not yet fled. He wrote that fineRetaliationat this time. It is pathetically possible that the weakening appearance of the poet induced his lively friends to pen epitaphs upon the little man. Many jests have their serious motives, not wholly known to those who perpetrate the jokes. If unconscious of the forces really leading to the episode, little did they dream that its results would live till now, and to all intents for ever. Each wrote an epitaph on Noll, and he in turn an epitaph on all. TheRetaliationshows his power in compressed expression, and his fine discernment of men and character. The little poem lives, a veritable, and, in its way, a wholesale contribution to national biography. It isa candid commentary upon some of the best men of that day. Garrick is treated more elaborately than the rest. He had been the prime offender, and naturally came foremost for the fire of the reply. The poem was never finished. The kind words about Sir Joshua were practically the last the poet penned. Reynolds, to the very end trying to cheer Goldsmith and be with him whenever he could, proved now, as he had ever been, the sweetest of friends—a true and loving, tender man.

Home at the Temple, and in the dear London he loved, Goldsmith grew ill very rapidly, and in his illness fell into a deep sleep. He slept to wake; he stooped to conquer. This, instead of being the sleep of restoring strength, was that in which disease takes its last, firm grasp. One struggle with the feeble frame, and the wrestle for life was over for ever. His biographers write of this sleep, that was watched with so much anxiety by his physicians: "It was hoped that a favourable crisis had arrived." It had. It marked the advent of the last reprieve, that release that can never be recalled. The clouds have passed away for ever, and in the sunshine came the solace of all cares, the finality of pain, and the soothing and the solution of all sorrow. Heaven had sent its last call and its greatest message to the heart. In all, only forty-seven years had been given, and all that may have been ill in the time is forgotten and forgiven, and the fairest part of all that was well and high and true iswith us even now, and the radiance must last for long, cheering many hearts, brightening souls that are failing, and blessing homes that are and will be. The night of passing death has led on to the day of unpassing life.

On April 4, 1774, the spirit of Oliver Goldsmith conquered that which men call death. Burke burst into tears at the news of the passing of the man and the friend he cherished and revered. Reynolds laid his work aside and rose, shaken in his great sorrow, and trembling with the sense of an untold loss. Looking back upon the fading figure, so dear to so many, and a light for years to come, shining still in many homes and many hearts and many lands, Johnson, in his sacred solemnity, said: "Poor Goldsmith! He was a very great man."

The body of Oliver Goldsmith was buried in the quiet Temple churchyard. There is a tablet to his memory in the church itself, but no one now knows exactly where the mortal remnant was laid, for no memorial marked that last resting-place. The epitaph on Goldsmith in Westminster Abbey runs: "He left no spheres of writing untouched or unadorned by his pen. Noble, pure, and delicate, his memory will last as long as society retains affection, friendship is not devoid of honour, and reading wants not her admirers." Intimately we are guided most of all by those whom most we love. The eyes may close, but not the life. There is the knowledge of loving powerwielded on the heart by those whom men call dead. There is a soul in men rising beyond visible activities; its story is not told in the recognised deeds of a career and their outward record. Beyond the acknowledged actions and admitted attainments, there stays the prevailing essence. The glory of Christianity is seen in its illuminating stars, living everlastingly. Through grace and gentleness, Goldsmith was one in that long train in which shine Sister Dora and St. Francis of Assisi.

Oliver Goldsmith was the most pure and suasive spirit of his age. To this day his gentle touch and soothing spell, by that magnetic power that flows through purity of sympathy, still sway the heart. His charming radiance and pure, divine delight move and master those who admire and honour this all-loving soul and most graceful writer. In reading his works, there is for all, and there must ever be, that sense of compassion and that absolving perception which must have moved the finer feelings of those who lived in his own time, and actually knew the man himself. Not less does his purifying power, with its elevating inspiration, survive. It is a silent and unseen, but still a lofty, a lasting, and an impressive influence. Lovers of Goldsmith feel friendship and affection for the moving and immortal spirit of the man. His works need no learned commentary. The common heart is their sufficing commentary.

Successful in every sphere, it is as an essayist that, amongst the immortals, Goldsmith sways signal and supreme distinction. As a poet, not less than as a playwright, he triumphed in his own, and inspired and influenced the coming age. As a biographer, he readily gained contemporary celebrity, both through the sympathetic understanding of his heart and the delightful facility of his literary style. In his own time, he occupied, through the high and undoubted merits of his works, an eminent position amongst the historians. The appealing force of his power in this field has lasted practically until the present day. That his histories have been superseded is due far more to changes in attitude and criticism and the revolutionary results of modern research than to intrinsic failures in the works themselves. They still stand monuments in pure English and models in patriotic perception, the due balance between the general and the particular, and also in vividness, compression, and an unfailing clearness, both in sound views,and also in their unfailing explicit expression. Whilst it has appeared the unhappy destiny of this author to have been at times too lightly regarded, high praise has almost always been accorded to his labours.

Sir Walter Scott writes: "The wreath of Goldsmith is unsullied; he wrote to exalt virtue and expose vice; and he accomplished his task in a manner that raises him to the highest rank among British authors. We close his volumes with a sigh that such an author should have written so little from the stores of his own genius, and that he should have been so prematurely removed from the sphere of literature which he adorned." Johnson writes: "The Life of Dr. Parnell is a task which I should very willingly decline, since it has been lately written by Goldsmith—a man of such variety of powers, and such felicity of performance, that he always seemed to do best that which he was doing. What such an author has told, who would wish to tell again?" The same generous soul exclaimed: "Is there a man, sir, now, who can pen an essay with such ease and elegance as Goldsmith?" All can see how true this is when they compare Goldsmith's style with that of his contemporaries—that hostile essay, for example, published from Richardson's firm, in which, time after time, sneers must cease and praise prevail, despite the intention to decry. If reluctant laudation is most sincere, then Boswell himself said of Goldsmith that there was nothing that he touched that he did notadorn. Goldsmith adorned, but not with mere polish or veneer. He threw a curious felicity on things, and made them fair. The very beauty of his touch allures us to take his work too lightly. If his essays had been in his own time translated into pompous terms, he could have passed for a sage. As convention makes religion something of which little children grow afraid, so older minds think beauty must be frivolous, and that moral worth must live in rapt association with outward ugliness. A most graceful literary style may be as true and earnest and inspiring as a very pretty woman. It teaches as it smiles. On everything Goldsmith ever cast a fairer and more hallowed light. The very inmost essence of his genius was purity in its compassionate perfection. It must, indeed, have been difficult under the conditions of distress amidst which almost throughout his whole life he wrote, for him to preserve an ease of style, and with the ease a dignity. Yet through all, not even once he faltered. He never failed. Following Fielding's happy epigram—if it ought not to be rather called most unhappy—in these days the lot of a literary man who was a hackney writer was hardly better, nay, scarce as good, as the lot of a hackney coachman. Yet even in those writings which must have been rushed off most rapidly, and amidst the fires of scorching distress, Goldsmith maintained his grace of style, and did not forget the reverence due to writing and the honour of literature. Without anytrace or taint of self-consciousness or self-conceit, he held the pen a sacred trust. As a critic Goldsmith had a high ideal, and more than this. And, what is finer, an entirely new conception. No poet could read his criticism of Gray and not feel inspired. No one could peruse the article and not feel that henceforth poetry was something more to him and to all life than it had ever been before. Criticism is itself among the evolving sciences. Depreciation was rife. Goldsmith touched a new chord in inspiring and chastening appreciation, a spirit which even now, more and more, in life and letters, men must realize. Unlike Brougham, Goldsmith could chide without unkindness, and prove severe without proving cruel. He threw such a light of love on merit that could and did soften and condone the deserved censure of the strictures that not envy, but mercy, made him utter. Criticism in its true sense was hardly known. In enlarging the message of poetry, the motive of the drama and the functions of fiction, Goldsmith fulfilled the responsibilities of higher criticism, and that power of inspiration and heightening of expression and perceptivity which are its first duty and its highest honour. Whilst in the elevation of criticism and the higher interpretation of poetry much is due to the inspiring guidance of Gray, a great deal, and more than is commonly admitted, is due to Goldsmith. If he did not force, he influenced the splendid expansion of spiritual perception. It is as a writer of essays that onGoldsmith falls the light of pure pre-eminence. Some hold Charles Lamb supreme amongst the essayists, and others Goldsmith, The last men who would ever have fought for the vanity of recognised supremacy would have been these two gentle rival claimants for the crown. There is a peculiar felicity in much of the writing of Laurence Sterne. His demerits preclude him from a sacred place. It is strange how rare grace is in every sphere of art. In that of gracious writing, Oliver Goldsmith, Charles Lamb, and Nathaniel Hawthorne are alone in pure and isolated splendour. We speak of grace, and not here of power of mind or informative force. How greatly Froude and Emerson would be enhanced gifted with graciousness. Goldsmith, even in his own day, was acknowledged the best of the essay writers. This is the realm in which he was, and is to this day, king. From his love of poetry and happiness in his art, and that shining in the power of deft and delightful expression, there is another sphere in which it would be expected that his power would prevail, but in which he had either no actual talent or very little. However we may admireThe Haunch of Venisonand other stray pieces, Goldsmith was really not a writer of what is now called "Society verse." In that delightful sphere Austin Dobson has no rival. In the higher realms of poetry there are many who will regret that necessity forced Goldsmith to turn almost exclusively to prose. Poetry loves genius, and starves it;whilst prose, hating, feeds and clothes its child. Clearly genius, so much at ease in the essay, would prosper in the poem. No one can imagine when men will live and not love Gray's "Elegy"; and if this be so, then for as long, at least, there will be a place within the heart for Goldsmith'sDeserted Village. OfThe Traveller, Dr. Johnson said: "There has not been so fine a poem since Pope's time." This may seem poor praise. It was not so at that time; Pope reigned supreme, and was esteemed by Johnson at home, and Voltaire abroad, as pre-eminent. Worshipping admirers held Pope and Dryden very gods. Dryden and Pope have passed away more easily than Gray and Goldsmith will. In Dryden, Pope, and Johnson himself we have mere imitators of Latinity. They have no style or fashion that can be wholly held their own, and without Virgil, Juvenal, Horace, and Ovid they could not have spoken. Goldsmith strikes a purer strain, and one peculiarly his own and ours. He is as English as Wordsworth. This makes the comparison with Pope and Dryden now most imperfect. Admitting so much, it almost follows of necessity that Goldsmith was the first poet of the rich and enriching school that still sways the common heart, that gave us Tennyson, Keats, Shelley, and an unrivalled host in the history of poetic inspiration and expression. It must, of course, be recognised that Goldsmith was not the first to herald the purely homely and an entirely indigenous note,since Gray was with him, and far earlier, Philip Sydney had poured forth his fair and felicitous melodies. Beyond, above, and greater far than these, Milton, attuning his hallowed and harmonious strains, through the classic chords of Rome, had so faithfully fulfilled their inspiration with moving majesty, that rising and transcendently surpassing all his models, he was, and is, in very deed unique, original, unsupported, and supreme.The Deserted Villagewas given to the world, but one cannot say how long it lay hidden in the yearning heart of that genius who gave it light and life. It substantiated the fame of Goldsmith for ever and unalterably. In the last year of his life, Gray welcomed the piece, and was most moved and grateful as he greeted it. It is as much a part of our life as his own "Elegy," and though each poem is distinct and could only have been bestowed by the one heart of the poet, who blessed himself and blessed the lives of men in writing it, still there is a sweet similitude.

GOLDSMITH.Rischgitz Collection.]GOLDSMITH.(From an engraving of the statue at Trinity College, Dublin.)

Rischgitz Collection.]

The highest praise that one could give Gray and Goldsmith is to hold their genius and their influence kindred. There is, however, a glistening and Chaucerian brightness and vitality in Goldsmith not discernible in Gray. Their kindredness is thus that of the vernal unto the autumnal light. InThe Deserted Village, from its whole reflective vein, at a glance we must perceive that long these loved and loving thoughts had lingered in the mind and theheart of the poet. Sparks from Heaven fell upon the tinder of the yearnings of the lowly heart. At last the glow was seen, and grew a light distinct. There is a moulding, moving music of the mind. Swiftly, in time, line after line found its place within the common heart and life. Again, as in earlier days, we see the spiritual spell, and with the force, the form and understanding, fathoming stretch and reach and power and grasp of genius.

The sublimity of the spirit of Shakespeare and the aloofness of the mind of Milton divide their influence, through an infinite universality, from the current of evolving expression. Goldsmith was one in the great succession of the dynasty of poetry that must outlast the nation and the race. In the line of this successive sovereignty the name of Chaucer is first inscribed, and that of the towering Browning is now seen the last upon the glorious list of the kings of poetry. If Gray's "Elegy" came close to the outward beauty and the inmost heart of nature, the same must be said of Goldsmith'sDeserted Village. From the heart and life of nature, poetry has now passed to the heart and life of man. That first natural interpretation that gained its meridian glory through Wordsworth, and its bright, vivid, yet evening radiance in the sweet spirit of the dulcet Tennyson, knew its dawn through the love-lit lines of Gray and Goldsmith.

The Deserted Villageappeared soon after the production ofThe Good-natured Manin themoving and marvellous procession of Oliver Goldsmith's great and successive achievements. The poem was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was as rejoiced and grateful as only a true friend could be. The artist could admire the piece profoundly, but still not more sincerely than Edmund Burke, the statesman and the orator. As Tennyson had a lilt and Byron a sentiment, swiftly and easily appealing, consciously or unconsciously caught, and sincerely felt or insincerely imitated, so Goldsmith possessed a teaching charm and a guiding grace that can be traced in many later poets and amongst the works of greatest minds, in the poetry of Robert Burns. Poets, like priests, teach the hearts and lives of men, the means and power of their expression. One may cull from Goldsmith his own sublime simile:

"And, as a bird, each fond endearment triesTo tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way."

To think of Oliver Goldsmith is to feel him near—a friend, and the brightest of friends. This is the spell that still he sways. His words are semblant to moving memories. His genius purifies the clouds of life, and cheers and inspires the heavy-laden heart. One cannot tell what was, and is, the hidden charm that gave and gives for ever this appealing influence. It may be touching simplicity. It may have been his sacrifice and deep devotion, or that kindly affectionateness which is itself sublime. It might be that pretty gift, the joyousness of innocence. It is radiant to remember Goldsmith's love of life, and its pleasures and adventures. He loved the town. He loved the country. He loved the rich. He loved the poor, the crude, the cultured, the pious, and the base. He was a philanthropist. It kept him poor. He was, in all his struggles, ever a patron of literature. No striving aspirant pleaded for his munificence in vain. If his old friends in Ireland came to London, he housed, fed, and clothed them. No beggar in the streetcould pass without recognition. It was all one to this pure benevolence whether the gift was rendered in gold or copper. The beggar who sought a penny could, no doubt, find room for a guinea, if need be, just as easily in some poor pocket hidden in his deserved rags and tatters. Goldsmith taught that great lesson that, after all, the undeserving most deserve compassion. So completely is Goldsmith bound up in his works, that as you fondly press the cherished volume of all that he gave that was best, the heart of the man beats with yours, and in an immortal friendship his life and hope and spirit are your own. His many and most varied intimacies reveal a genius for companionability, whilst his higher and deeper unions show equally his force in friendship, that great grace which few attain.

Everyone became swiftly fond of him and he as fond of everyone. Unlike Socrates and Dr. Johnson, Goldsmith loved the fields and the countryside. He roamed and rambled everywhere. Hardly a county seemed to him quite unknown, from Surrey to Yorkshire. He wandered West: Bath lives hallowed through his visits to the place. With the bright and beautiful Misses Horneck and their widowed mother he went again to France, doubtless often laughingly recalling his earlier travels and their troubles, telling much and hiding more, with the very poverty of the past now proving the rich treasures of the present. All hardships were melted to deep delights in merry reminiscence,Oliver Goldsmith, loving the Horneck girls much as Horace Walpole cherished in his heart the beautiful Misses Berry, had nicknames for these daughters of his gentle hostess, the elder being Little Comedy, and the younger the Jessamy Bride. If ever Goldsmith loved anyone, he loved the Jessamy Bride. The sweet girl was bewitching, gentle, and innocent, bright, and very young, and that chivalrous and tender soul that honoured her with his devotion a prematurely bent and aged man of more than forty summers. Her wifely affections were early destined for another heart. From the beginning, come what may, she could never be Oliver Goldsmith's wife. The Jessamy Bride was a pure and lovely spirit. No poet was ever moved in reverence for a fairer personification of a pure ideal.

It was a most stately, graceful, gracious, and fascinating very old lady whom, when years, and many years, had come and gone, Hazlitt met and greeted. Still she remembered and still she revered the loved and moving heart of Oliver Goldsmith. It is his greatness, and it is his glory that his soul could and did appeal to the sublime spirit of pure womanhood. Of none could greater, or more than this be said. Man need not crave for more, or aspire on earth to purer heights. It was beautiful to know, and to be the friend of, and it was divine to be remembered by, the Jessamy Bride. These two made merry when they met. Laughing eyes danced. All was pure, spontaneous revelry.These two were the source and centre of mirth and cheerfulness. Partly he amused, and partly enticed reverence and respect. The outward laughter moved, but depth of life and love drew heart to heart. This sunshine was most fair. As it was, Goldsmith knew the last loneliness of things, and lived a single life and died in solitude. In Oliver Goldsmith, Washington Irving says: "Eminent ability was allied with spotless virtue." He sympathetically suggests how home, wife, and children would have softened those ills that came from solitude and enriched what was at once an abundant, and yet still, in some respects, an impoverished nature.

MEMOIRS OF A PROTESTANT—A Translation(1758).ENQUIRY INTO THE STATE OF POLITE LEARNING (1759).THE BEE (1759).THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD (1762).THE LIFE OF RICHARD NASH (1762).A HISTORY OF ENGLAND IN A SERIES OF LETTERS (1764).THE TRAVELLER—A Poem(1765).COLLECTED ESSAYS (1765).EDWIN AND ANGELINA—A Poem(1765).THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD (1766).MEMOIRS OF VOLTAIRE (1760).HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY—Translation(1766).BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH POESY—Edited(1767).THE GOOD-NATURED MAN—Produced at Covent Garden Theatre1768.ROMAN HISTORY (1769).THE DESERTED VILLAGE (1770).LIFE OF THOMAS PARNELL (1770).LIFE OF LORD BOLINGBROKE (1770).HISTORY OF ENGLAND (1771).PROLOGUE TO CRADOCK'S "ZOBEIDE" (1771).SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER—Produced1773.RETALIATION (1774).THE GRECIAN HISTORY (1774).THE HISTORY OF EARTH AND ANIMATED NATURE (1774).SURVEY OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY (1776).THE CAPTIVITY—An Oratorio(1836).TRANSLATION OF "PLUTARCH'S LIVES."

"The Life of Oliver Goldsmith," by John Forster. Publishers—Hutchinson and Co., Paternoster Row."The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith," with biographical introduction, by Professor Masson. Globe Edition. London: Macmillan and Co., Ltd."Oliver Goldsmith," a Biography, by Washington Irving. The Cameo Classics. London: The Library Press, 9, Duke Street, Charing Cross."Lives of the Novelists," by Sir Walter Scott, with introduction by Austin Dobson. Henry Froude, Oxford University Press, London, New York, and Toronto."The Life of Oliver Goldsmith," by William Black. English Men of Letters Series. Macmillan."The Early Haunts of Oliver Goldsmith," by J. J. Kelly, D.D. Dublin: Sealy and M. H. Gill.Boswell's "Life of Johnson.""Library of Literary Criticism" (Vol. III., 1730-1784). Edited by Charles Willis Moulton.Lord Macaulay's "Essay."Johnson's Criticism of "The Traveller."Thackeray's "Humourists of the Eighteenth Century." Smith, Elder, and Co.Prior's "Life of Oliver Goldsmith." Published in 1837.

"The Life of Oliver Goldsmith," by John Forster. Publishers—Hutchinson and Co., Paternoster Row.

"The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith," with biographical introduction, by Professor Masson. Globe Edition. London: Macmillan and Co., Ltd.

"Oliver Goldsmith," a Biography, by Washington Irving. The Cameo Classics. London: The Library Press, 9, Duke Street, Charing Cross.

"Lives of the Novelists," by Sir Walter Scott, with introduction by Austin Dobson. Henry Froude, Oxford University Press, London, New York, and Toronto.

"The Life of Oliver Goldsmith," by William Black. English Men of Letters Series. Macmillan.

"The Early Haunts of Oliver Goldsmith," by J. J. Kelly, D.D. Dublin: Sealy and M. H. Gill.

Boswell's "Life of Johnson."

"Library of Literary Criticism" (Vol. III., 1730-1784). Edited by Charles Willis Moulton.

Lord Macaulay's "Essay."

Johnson's Criticism of "The Traveller."

Thackeray's "Humourists of the Eighteenth Century." Smith, Elder, and Co.

Prior's "Life of Oliver Goldsmith." Published in 1837.

Biographies of Burke, Garrick, Sheridan, and Sir Joshua Reynolds.Essay on "The Vicar of Wakefield," by Sir Henry Irving.Various Memoirs, notably those of Miss Reynolds, Sir John Hawkins, Cumberland, Davies, the actor and bookseller, Colman, and many others.

Biographies of Burke, Garrick, Sheridan, and Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Essay on "The Vicar of Wakefield," by Sir Henry Irving.

Various Memoirs, notably those of Miss Reynolds, Sir John Hawkins, Cumberland, Davies, the actor and bookseller, Colman, and many others.

The series will consist of stories which delighted the young readers of the last generation and have still retained their old-world fascination. The volumes will be well printed on good paper, illustrated in colour, and daintily bound.

COUSIN PHILLIS.ByMrs. Gaskell. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse. With an Introduction byThomas Seccombe.SIX TO SIXTEEN.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse.A FLAT-IRON FOR A FARTHING.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse.JAN OF THE WINDMILL.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse.MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated by M. V. Wheelhouse.[In the press.THE BROWNIES.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byAlice B. Woodward.[In the press.

COUSIN PHILLIS.ByMrs. Gaskell. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse. With an Introduction byThomas Seccombe.

SIX TO SIXTEEN.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse.

A FLAT-IRON FOR A FARTHING.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse.

JAN OF THE WINDMILL.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byM. V. Wheelhouse.

MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated by M. V. Wheelhouse.

[In the press.

THE BROWNIES.ByMrs. Ewing. Illustrated byAlice B. Woodward.

[In the press.

With 16 Colour-plates, many black-and-white drawings, and special cover and end-papers byAlice B. Woodward.

The Story of Peter Pan retold byDaniel O'Connor. With 28 Colour-plates byAlice B. Woodward, and specially designed binding and end-papers. Third Edition.

An Idyll for Children, by Christoph von Schmid. With 6 Colour-plates and many black-and-white illustrations byM. V. Wheelhouse, and special title-page, binding, and end-papers.

A Story for Children. ByCarroll Watson Rankin, author of "Dandelion Cottage." Illustrated byF. C. Shinn.

ByVernon L. Kellogg. With numerous illustrations.

"It may justly be claimed for the charming Endymion Series that it is the best illustrated edition of the British poets that has yet appeared."—Studio.

POEMS BY LORD TENNYSON. Illustrated and Decorated byEleanor Fortescue-Brickdale.POEMS BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Illustrated and Decorated byR. Anning Bell. With Introduction byProfessor Walter Raleigh.POEMS BY JOHN KEATS. Illustrated and Decorated byR. Anning Bell. With Introduction byProfessor Walter Raleigh.POEMS BY ROBERT BROWNING. Illustrated and Decorated byByam Shaw. With Introduction byDr. R. Garnett.ENGLISH LYRICS FROM SPENSER TO MILTON. Illustrated and Decorated byR. Anning Bell. Selected with Introduction byJohn Dennis.THE POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Illustrated and Decorated byW. Heath Robinson. With an Introduction byH. Noel Williams.

POEMS BY LORD TENNYSON. Illustrated and Decorated byEleanor Fortescue-Brickdale.

POEMS BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Illustrated and Decorated byR. Anning Bell. With Introduction byProfessor Walter Raleigh.

POEMS BY JOHN KEATS. Illustrated and Decorated byR. Anning Bell. With Introduction byProfessor Walter Raleigh.

POEMS BY ROBERT BROWNING. Illustrated and Decorated byByam Shaw. With Introduction byDr. R. Garnett.

ENGLISH LYRICS FROM SPENSER TO MILTON. Illustrated and Decorated byR. Anning Bell. Selected with Introduction byJohn Dennis.

THE POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Illustrated and Decorated byW. Heath Robinson. With an Introduction byH. Noel Williams.

THE ODES OF KEATS.KEATS' ISABELLA AND THE EVE OF ST. AGNES.MILTON'S LYCIDAS, L'ALLEGRO, &c.RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM.

"Charmingly illustrated ... a delightful series of French Classics in French."—Spectator.

GEORGE SAND: LES MAÎTRES SONNEURS. Préfaced'Émile Faguet, de l'Académie Française. Illustrations deM. V. Wheelhouse.GEORGE SAND: LA MARE AU DIABLE. Notice Analytique deC. A. Sainte-Beuve. Illustrations deGertrude Leese.GEORGE SAND: FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI. Illustrations deGertrude Leese.BALZAC: LES CHOUANS. Préface deGustave Lanson. Illustrations deJ. Blake Greene.

GEORGE SAND: LES MAÎTRES SONNEURS. Préfaced'Émile Faguet, de l'Académie Française. Illustrations deM. V. Wheelhouse.

GEORGE SAND: LA MARE AU DIABLE. Notice Analytique deC. A. Sainte-Beuve. Illustrations deGertrude Leese.

GEORGE SAND: FRANÇOIS LE CHAMPI. Illustrations deGertrude Leese.

BALZAC: LES CHOUANS. Préface deGustave Lanson. Illustrations deJ. Blake Greene.

THE SONNETS OF JOHN KEATS.THE SONNETS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. BY MRS. BROWNING.BROWNING'S RABBI BEN EZRA.DANTE'S VITA NUOVA, OR NEW LIFE. Newly translated byFrances de Meÿ.SONNETS BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

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