position of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

"I am, sir, yours, &c.,

"OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

The unexpected circulation of the "Vicar of Wakefield" enriched the publisher, but not the author. Goldsmith no doubt thought himself entitled to participate in the profits of the repeated editions; and a memorandum, still extant, shows that he drew upon Mr. Francis Newbery, in the month of June, for fifteen guineas, but that the bill was returned dishonoured. He continued, therefore, his usual job-work for the booksellers, writing introductions, prefaces, and head and tail pieces for new works; revising, touching up, and modifying travels and voyages; making compilations of prose and poetry, and "building books," as he sportively 'termed it. These tasks required little labour or talent, but that taste and touch which are the magic of gifted minds. His terms began to be proportioned to his celebrity. If his price was at any time objected to, "Why, sir," he would say, "it may seem large; but then a man may be many years working in obscurity before his taste and reputation are fixed or estimated; and then he is, as in other professions, only paid for his previous labours."

At that time, however, Goldsmith was preparing to try his fortune in quite a different walk of literature. He had become acquainted with Bar

ry, Woodward, Quick, Mr. and Mrs. Yates, and other popular actors, and, being a frequent visiter of the theatres, was at length tempted to write for the stage. He accordingly commenced his com. edy of "the Good-natured Man," and wrought at it during the latter part of the year, whenever his hurried occupation in "book building" would give him leisure. By the spring of 1767 it was ready for representation; but now came the great diffi. culty with a dramatic writer, that of getting his piece acted.

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With Garrick, who had the management of Drury Lane, he was not on cordial terms. Some years previously, in his " Inquiry into Polite Learn. ing," he had indulged in some severe remarks upon the state of the stage in England, which wounded the sensitive feelings of Garrick, with whom, at the time, he was not acquainted. Subsequently, Goldsmith was a candidate for the secretaryship of the Society of Arts, and applied to the manager for his influence. Garrick observed that he could

dly expect his friendly exertions, after his litery attack upon the theatre. Goldsmith replied that he had indulged in no personal reflections, and had only spoken the truth. He retired without farther apology or application; failed to get the ap. pointment, and considered Garrick hostile to him.

Times were now altered with Goldsmith: he had risen to some consequence in the public eye, and, of course, in the eye of Garrick; and, through the influence of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who thought they ought to know and might mutually serve each other, they were once more brought together, and Goldsmith's play was submitted to the manager's

perusal. The conduct of Garrick was evasive, not through any lingerings of past hostility, but from scruples of delicacy. He did not think the piece likely to succeed upon the stage, and avow. ed that opinion to Reynolds and Johnson, but hesitated to say as much to Goldsmith, through fear of wounding his feelings. A farther misunderstanding was the result of this want of decision and frankness; and, after two or three interviews and some correspondence, Goldsmith gave up all thoughts of Drury Lane, and determined to try his fortune at the rival theatre.

In the summer of this year we find Goldsmith lodged in the quarters occasionally occupied by his friend Newbery, in Canonbury House, or Castle, as it is more popularly called. There he inhabited an old brick tower, the only remains of what had been a hunting-lodge of Queen Elizabeth, in whose time it was distant from London, and surrounded by parks and forests. In Goldsmith's time, also, it was still in the country, amid rural scenery, and a favourite nestling-place of authors, publishers, and others of the literary order. The writer of this article visited the old tower some years since, out of regard to the memory of Goldsmith. The apartment was still shown which the poet had inhabited, consisting of a sitting-room and small bedroom, with panneled wainscots and Gothic windows. The quaintness and quietude of the place were still attractive. It was one of the resorts of citizens on their Sunday walks, who would ascend to the top of the tower and amuse themselves with reconnoitring the city through a telescope. Not far from this tower were the gardens of the White

Conduit House, a cockney elysium where Goldsmith used to figure in the humbler days of his fortune, but which he renounced after his rise in the world enabled him to look down with proper contempt upon these plebeian haunts. In the first edition of his Essays he speaks of a stroll in these gardens, but in an edition in after years he altered it to a stroll "in the park."

The comedy of the "Good-natured Man" had been read in manuscript and applauded by Burke, Reynolds, and other men of eminent talents: Johnson pronounced it the best comedy that had been written since the Provoked Husband, and engaged to write the prologue. Colman, the manager of Covent Garden theatre, therefore, gladly undertook to produce it on his stage, where it was represented for the first time on the 29th January, 1768.

Goldsmith was at the theatre, watching the reception of the play and the effect of each individual scene with all the vicissitude of feeling incident to his mercurial nature. Some of the scenes met with great applause, and at such times poor Goldsmith was highly elated; others went off coldly or were condemned, and then his spirits would sink. The fourth act saved the piece; for Shuter, who had the main comic character of Croaker, was so varied and ludicrous in his execution of the scene in which he reads an incendiary letter, that he drew down thunders of applause. On his coming behind the scenes, Goldsmith greeted him with rapture; declaring that he exceeded his own idea of the character, and, by the comic richness of his colouring, made it almost as new to him as to any of the audience. On the whole, however, both the

author and his friends were disappointed at the reception of the piece, and considered it a failure. Poor Goldsmith left the theatre with his towering hopes completely cut down. He endeavoured to

hide his mortification, and even to assume an air of unconcern while among his associates; but, the moment he was alone with Dr. Johnson, he gave way to an almost childlike burst of grief. Johnson rebuked him with harshness for what he termed a silly affectation, saying that "no man should be expected to sympathize with the sorrows of vanity."

When Goldsmith had recovered from the blow, he, with his usual unreserve, made his past distress a subject of amusement to his friends. Dining one day, in company with Dr. Johnson, at the chaplain's table at St. James's Palace, he entertained the company with a particular and comic account of all his feelings on the night of representation, and his despair when his piece was hissed. How he went to the Literary Club; chatted gayly, as if nothing had gone amiss; and, to give a greater idea of his unconcern, sang his favourite song about an old woman tossed in a blanket seventeen times as high as the moon... "All this while, added he, I was suffering horrid tortures, and, had I put a bit in my mouth, I verily believe it would have strangled me on the spot, I was so excessively ill but I made more noise than usual to cover all that; so they never perceived my not eating, nor suspected the anguish of my heart; but, when all were gone except Johnson here, I burst out a-crying, and even swore that I would never write again."

Dr. Johnson sat in amaze at the odd frankness