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nature itself; in short, I have thought myself into a settled melancholy, and an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence this romantic turn that all our family are possessed with? Whence this love for every place and every country but that in which we reside for every occupation but our own? this desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dissipate? I perceive, my dear Sir, that I am, at intervals, for indulging this splenetic manner, and following my own taste, regardless of yours. The reasons you have given me for breeding up your son a scholar, are judicious and convincing: I should, however, be glad to know for what particular profession he is designed. If he be assiduous, and divested of strong passions (for passions in youth always lead to pleasure), he may do very well in your college; for it must be owned, that the industrious poor have good encouragement there, perhaps better than in any other in Europe. But if he has ambition, strong passions, and an exquisite sensibility of contempt, do not send him there, unless you have no other trade for him but your own. It is impossible to conceive how much may be done by a proper education at home. A boy for instance, who understands perfectly well, Latin, French, arithmetic, and the principles of the civil law, and can write a fine hand, has an education that may qualify him for any undertaking; and these parts of learning should be carefully inculcated, let him be designed for whatever calling he will. Above all things, let him never touch a romance or novel these paint beauty in colours more charming than nature, and describe happiness that man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive, are those pictures of consummate bliss! They teach the youthful mind to sigh after beauty and happiness which never existed; to despise the little good which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting more than she ever gave; and in general, take the word of a man who has seen the world, and has studied human nature more by experience than precept, take my word for

it, I say, that books teach us very little of the world. The greatest merit in a state of poverty would only serve to make the possessor ridiculous may distress, but cannot relieve him. Frugality, and even avarice, in the lower orders of mankind, are true ambition. These afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to preferment. Teach then, my dear Sir, to your son, thrift and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I had learned from books to be disinterested and generous, before I was taught from experience the necessity of being prudent. I had contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, while I was exposing myself to the approaches of insidious cunning; and often by being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of justice and placed myself in the very situation of the wretch who thanked me for my bounty. When I am in the remotest part of the world, tell him this, and perhaps he may improve from my example. But I find myself again falling into my gloomy habits of thinking. My mother, I am informed, is almost blind. Even though I had the utmost inclination to return home, under such circumstances I could not; for to behold her in distress without a capacity for relieving her from it, would add too much to my splenetic habit. Your last letter was much too short: it should have answered some queries I had made in my former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward until you have filled all your paper. It requires no thought; at least from the ease with which my own sentiments rise when they are addressed to you. For, believe me, my head has no share in all I write my heart dictates the whole. Pray, give my love to Bob Bryanton, and entreat him from me not to drink. My dear sir, give me some account about poor Jenny [his younger sister, who had married unprosperously]. Yet her husband loves her: if so, she cannot be unhappy. I know not whether I should tell you; yet why should I conceal these trifles, or indeed anything from you? There is a

book of mine will be published in a few days: the Life of a very
extraordinary man: no less than the great Voltaire. You know
already by the title that it is no more than a catch-penny. How-
ever, I spent but four weeks on the whole performance, for which
I received twenty pounds. When published, I shall take some
method of conveying it to you: unless you may think it dear of the
postage, which may amount to four or five shillings. However, I
fear
you
will not find an equivalent of amusement. Your last letter,
I repeat it, was too short: you should have given me your opinion of
the design of the heroi-comical poem which I sent you. You re-
member I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a
paltry ale-house. You may take the following specimen of the
manner, which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in
which he lies may be described somewhat in this way:

The window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That feebly showed the state in which he lay ;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The game of goose was there expos'd to view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold; he views with keen desire

A rusty grate unconscious of a fire;

An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored,

And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney-board.

And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his appearance, in order to dun him for the reckoning:

Not with that face, so servile and so gay,
That welcomes every stranger that can pay;
With sulky eye he smok'd the patient man,
Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began

All this is taken, you see, from Nature. It is a good remark of

Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with whom they do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies as instances of my regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeable species of composition than prose; and could a man live by it, it were not unpleasant employment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave no space, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you know very well already. I mean that I am your most affectionate friend and brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH."

There is a practical condition of mind in this letter, notwithstanding its self-reproachful pictures, and protestations of sorrowful disgust. It is very clear, were it only by the ale-house hero's example, that not all the miseries which surround him will again daunt his perseverance, or tempt him to begin life anew. If the bowl is now to be broken, it will be broken at the fountain. Could a man live by it, it were not unpleasant employment to be a poet but as he has made up his mind to live, and on the world's beggarly terms, he will take what practicable work he can get, and be content with its fare till pleasant employment comes. When the Man in Black describes the change of good humour with which he went to his precarious meals; how he forbore rants of spleen at his situation, ceased to call down heaven and the stars to behold him dining on a half-pennyworth of radishes, taught his very companions to believe that he liked salad better than mutton, laughed when he was not in pain, took the world as it went, and read his Tacitus for want of more books and company; it figures some such change

as this which I notice here. Whatever the work may be, the resolution to stick to Nature is a good and hopeful one, and will admit of wise application, and many original results.

The poem seems to have gone no further: but its cheerful hero reappeared, after some months, in a Club of Authors; protested that the alehouse had been his own bed-chamber often; reintroduced the description with six new lines;

Where the Red Lion flaring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,

The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug..

flattered himself that his work should not be of the order of your common epic poems, which come from the press like paper kites in summer; swore that people were sick of your Turnuses and Didos, and wanted an heroical description of Nature; offered, for proof of sound, and sense, and truth, and nature, in the trifling compass of ten syllables, the last of two added lines;

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,

A cap by night, a stocking all the day!

and having quoted them, was so much elated and selfdelighted, that he was quite unable to proceed.

Thus could Goldsmith already turn aside the sharpest edge of poverty; thus wisely consent to be Scroggen till he could be Goldsmith; in the paltry, slovenly pothouse of Drury-lane, give promise of the neat village alehouse

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