on one side or other, you must be wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of wearing a spring-velvet in winter; and if I am not a beau, why then, that explains itself. But let me go on to your two next strange lines:

"And bring with you a wig, that is modish and gay,
To dance with the girls that are makers of hay.'

"The absurdity of making hay at Christmas you yourself seem sensible of: you say your sister will laugh; and so indeed she well may! The Latins have an expression for a contemptuous kind of laughter, 'naso contemnere adunco;' that is, to laugh with a crooked nose. She may laugh at you in the manner of the ancients if she thinks fit. But now I come to the most extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions,—which is, to take your and your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption of the offer raises my indignation beyond the bounds of prose; it inspires me at once with verse and resentment. I take advice! and from whom? You shall hear.

"First, let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set, and the word to be Loo:

All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure,

And ogling the stake which is fix'd in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn

At never once finding a visit from Pam.

I lay down my stake, apparently cool,

While the harpies about me all pocket the pool.

MISCHANCES OF LOO.

I fret in my gizzard, yet, cautious and sly,
I wish all my friends may be bolder than I:
Yet still they sit snug, not a creature will aim
By losing their money to venture at fame.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
"Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold:
All play their own way, and they think me an ass,
'What does Mrs. Bunbury?'.. 'I, Sir? I pass.'
Pray what does Miss Horneck? take courage, come do.'
'Who, I?-let me see, sir, why I must pass too.'
Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the devil,

To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil.
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion,

I venture at all, while my avarice regards

The whole pool as my own. 'Come, give me five cards.'

'Well done!' cry the ladies; 'ah, Doctor, that's good!

The pool's very rich, . . ah! the Doctor is loo'd!'

Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplext,

I ask for advice from the lady that's next :

'Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;

Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twice ?'

'I advise,' cries the lady,

Ah! the Doctor is loo'd!

to try it, I own. . .
Come, Doctor, put down.'

Thus, playing, and playing, I still grow more eager,
And so bold, and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.

Now, ladies, I ask, if law-matters you're skill'd in,

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Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding:

For giving advice that is not worth a straw,

May well be call'd picking of pockets in law;

And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye,

Is, by quinto Elizabeth, Death without Clergy.
What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought!
By the gods, I'll enjoy it, tho' 'tis but in thought!

Both are placed at the bar, with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel, and nosegays before 'em;
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,

But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat,
When uncover'd a buzz of inquiry runs round,

'Pray what are their crimes ?' .. 'They've been pilfering found.'
'But, pray, who have they pilfer'd ?'. . 'A doctor, I hear.'
‘What, yon solemn-faced, odd-looking man that stanḍs near ?'
'The same.'. . What a pity! how does it surprise one,
Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on!'

Then their friends all come round me with cringing and leering,
To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing.

First Sir Charles advances with phrases well-strung,
'Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young.'
'The younger the worse,' I return him again,

'It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain.',
'But then they're so handsome, one's bosom it grieves.'
'What signifies handsome, when people are thieves ?'
'But where is your justice? their cases are hard.'
'What signifies justice? I want the reward.

"There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds; there's the parish of St. Leonard Shoreditch offers forty pounds; there's the parish of Tyburn, from the Hog-inthe-pound to St. Giles's watch-house, offers forty pounds, -I shall have all that if I convict them!'

"But consider their case,

it may yet be your own!

And see how they kneel! Is your heart made of stone?'

This moves: so at last I agree to relent,

For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent.'

"I challenge you all to answer this: I tell you, you

DANCE WITH THE JESSAMY BRIDE.

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cannot. It cuts deep. But now for the rest of the letter and next-but I want room-so I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week.-I don't value you all! O. G."

We regret that we have no record of this Christmas visit to Barton; that the poet had no Boswell to follow at his heels, and take note of all his sayings and doings. We can only picture him in our minds, casting off all care; enacting the lord of misrule; presiding at the Christmas revels; providing all kinds of merriment; keeping the card-table in an uproar, and finally opening the ball on the first day of the year in his spring-velvet suit, with the Jessamy Bride for a partner.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THEATRICAL DELAYS.--NEGOTIATIONS WITH COLMAN.-LETTER TO GARRICK.CROAKING OF THE MANAGER.-NAMING OF THE PLAY.-" SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."-FOOTE'S PRIMITIVE PUPPET-SHOW, "PIETY ON PATTENS.”—

FIRST PERFORMANCE OF THE COMEDY.-AGITATION OF THE AUTHOR.—SUCCESS. COLMAN SQUIBBED OUT OF TOWN.

HE gay life depicted in the two last chapters, while it kept Goldsmith in a state of continual excitement, aggravated the malady which was impairing his constitution; yet his increasing perplexities in money-matters drove him to the dissipation of society as a relief from solitary care. The delays of the theatre added to those perplexities. He had long since finished his new comedy, yet the year 1772 passed away without his being able to get it on the stage. No one, uninitiated in the interior of a theatre, that little world of traps and trickery, can have any idea of the obstacles and perplexities multiplied in the way of the most eminent and successful author by the mismanagement of managers, the jealousies and intrigues of rival authors, and the fantastic and impertinent caprices of actors. A long and baffling negotiation was carried on between Goldsmith and Colman, the manager of Covent Garden;