CHAPTER XIII. The Conclusion. It is this difference of pursuit which marks the morals and characters of mankind; which lays the line between the enlightened philosopher and the EVERY subject acquires an adventitious import- half-taught citizen; between the civil citizen and ance to him who considers it with application. He illiterate peasant; between the law-obeying peasant finds it more closely connected with human happi- and the wandering savage of Africa, an animal less ness than the rest of mankind are apt to allow; he mischievous indeed than the tiger, because endued sees consequences resulting from it which do not with fewer powers of doing mischief. The man, strike others with equal conviction; and still pursuing the nation, must therefore be good, whose chiefest speculation beyond the bounds of reason, too fre- luxuries consist in the refinement of reason; and quently becomes ridiculously earnest in trifles or reason can never be universally cultivated, unless absurdity. guided by taste, which may be considered as the It will perhaps be incurring this imputation, to link between science and common sense, the medideduce a universal degeneracy of manners from so um through which learning should ever be seen by slight an origin as the depravation of taste; to as-society. sert that, as a nation grows dull, it sinks into de- Taste will therefore often be a proper standard, bauchery. Yet such probably may be the conse- when others fail, to judge of a nation's improvequence of literary decay; or, not to stretch the ment or degeneracy in morals. We have often no thought beyond what it will bear, vice and stupidity permanent characteristics, by which to compare are always mutually productive of each other. the virtues or the vices of our ancestors with our Life, at the greatest and best, has been compared own. A generation may rise and pass away withto a froward child, that must be humoured and out leaving any traces of what it really was; and played with till it falls asleep, and then all the care all complaints of our deterioration may be only is over. Our few years are laboured away in va- topics of declamation or the cavillings of disappointrying its pleasures; new amusements are pursued ment: but in taste we have standing evidence; we with studious attention; the most childish vanities can with precision compare the literary performanare dignified with titles of importance; and the ces of our fathers with our own, and from their exproudest boast of the most aspiring philosopher is cellence or defects determine the moral, as well as no more, than that he provides his little play-fellows the literary, merits of either. the greatest pastime with the greatest innocence. If, then, there ever comes a time when taste is Thus the mind, ever wandering after amuse- so far depraved among us that critics shall load ment, when abridged of happiness on one part, every work of genius with unnecessary comment, endeavours to find it on another; when intellectual and quarter their empty performances with the pleasures are disagreeable, those of sense will take substantial merits of an author, both for subsistence the lead. The man who in this age is enamoured and applause; if there comes a time when censure of the tranquil joys of study and retirement, may shall speak in storms, but praise be whispered in in the next, should learning be fashionable no long- the breeze, while real excellence often finds shiper, feel an ambition of being foremost at a horse-wreck in either; if there be a time when the Muse course; or, if such could be the absurdity of the shall seldom be heard, except in plaintive elegy, as times, of being himself a jockey. Reason and ap- if she wept her own decline, while lazy compilations petite are therefore masters of our revels in turn; supply the place of original thinking; should there and as we incline to the one, or pursue the other, ever be such a time, may succeeding critics, both we rival angels, or imitate the brutes. In the pur- for the honour of our morals, as well as our learnsuit of intellectual pleasure lies every virtue; of ing, say, that such a period bears no resemblance sensual, every vice. to the present age! POEMS. A PROLOGUE, Or Flavia been content to stop Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Ro-O had her eyes forgot to blaze! WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION; A TALE. SECLUDED from domestic strife Such pleasures, unallay'd with care, Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze! Need we expose to vulgar sight The honey-moon like lightning flew, Skill'd in no other arts was she, 'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, But when at home, at board or bed, In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; Of powdered coxcombs at her levee; *This translation was first printed in one of our author's And twenty other near relations: earliest works. "The Present State of Learning in Europe," Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 12mo. 1759; but was omitted in the second edition, which ap- A sigh in suffocating smoke; peared in 1774. This and the following pocm were published by Dr. Gold-While all their hours were past between emith in his volume of Essays, which appeared in 1765. Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus as her faults each day were known, Or thins her lip, or points her nose: How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, That dire disease, whose ruthless power The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Poor madam now condemn'd to hack A NEW SIMILE IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. LONG had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind: The modern scribbling kind, who write, In wit, and sense, and nature's spite: Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious, Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, With wit that's flighty, learning light; In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air: And here my simile unites, For in the modern poet's flights, Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Though ne'er so much awake before, Now to apply, begin we then ;- And here my simile almost tript, DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; The morn was cold, he views with keen desire With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimneyboard; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, THE HERMIT. A BALLAD. The following letter, addressed to the Printer of he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these • The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol. L book 2. No. 18. things as trifles at best) told me with his usual goodhumour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition 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, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Note. On the subject of the preceding letter, the reader is desired to consult "The Life of Dr. Goldsmith," under the year 1765. THE HERMIT; A BALLAD "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, To where yon taper cheers the vale "For here forlorn and lost I tread, "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, To lure thee to thy doom. "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share My blessing and repose. "No flocks that range the valley free, "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but, little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure No stores beneath its humble thatch To take their evening rest, The lingering hours beguiled. But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest; "From better habitations spurn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, Surprised he sees new beauties rise, "And ah! forgive a stranger rude, Whom love has taught to stray; "My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine He had but only me. "To win me from his tender arms, Who praised me for imparted charms, "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. "In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; "And when, beside me in the dale, "The blossom opening to the day, To emulate his mind. "The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me! Their constancy was mine. "For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain: "Till quite dejected with my scorn, And sought a solitude forlorn, |