Not to appear negligent of the rising fame of his old preceptor, says the teller of the story, "my father replied that he had not "yet procured it; he was just furnishing his house, but had fixed "upon the spot the print was to occupy as soon as he was ready to "receive it." "Sam," returned Goldsmith with some emotion, "if your picture had been published, I should not have waited an "hour without having it."

But let me not anticipate those better times. He was still the Peckham usher, and humble sitter at Doctor Milner's board, when it chanced that Griffiths the bookseller, who had started the Monthly Review eight years before, dined there one April day. Doctor Milner was one of his contributors; there was opposition in the field; Archibald Hamilton the bookseller, with the powerful aid of Smollett, had set afloat the Critical Review,—the talk of the table turned upon this, and some remarks by the usher attracted the attention of Griffiths. He took him aside : "Could he furnish a "few

specimens of criticism?" The offer was accepted, and afterwards the specimens ; and before the close of April, 1757, Goldsmith was bound by Griffiths in an agreement for one year. He was to leave Doctor Milner's, to board and lodge with the bookseller, to have a small regular salary, and to devote himself to the Monthly Review. One sees something like the transaction in the pleasant talk of George Primrose.

Come, I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think 'of commencing author, like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of men 'of genius starving at the trade; at present I'll show you forty very dull 'fellows about town that live by it in opulence. All honest, jog-trot men, 'who go on smoothly and dully, and write history and politics, and are 'praised men, sir, who, had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives 'have only mended shoes, but never made them.' Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal; and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub-street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before me.

The difference of fact and fiction here will be, that glory had nothing to do with the matter. Griffiths and glory were not to be thought of together. The sorrowful road seemed the last that was left to him; and he entered it.

On this track, then, taken by few successfully, taken happily by few, though not on that account the less, in every age, the choice of men of genius,—we see Goldsmith, in his twenty-ninth year, without liberty of choice, in sheer and bare necessity, calling after calling having slipped from him, launched for the first time. The prospect of unusual gloom might have the ardour of a more damped cheerful adventurer.

Fielding had died in shattered hope and fortune, at what should have been his prime of life, three years before; within the next two years, poor and mad, Collins was fated to descend to his early grave; Smollett was toughly fighting for his every-day's existence; and Johnson, within some half dozen months, had been tenant of a spunging-house. No man throve that was connected with letters, unless he were also connected with their trade and merchandise, and, like Richardson, could print as well as write books. "Had 66 some of those," cried Smollett, in his bitterness, "who were pleased "to call themselves my friends, been at any pains to deserve the "character, and told me ingenuously what I had to expect in the "capacity of an author, when I first professed myself of that "venerable fraternity, I should in all probability have spared myself "the incredible labour and chagrin I have since undergone." "I "don't think," said Burke, in one of his first London letters to his Irish friends, written seven years before this date, "there is as "much respect paid to a man of letters on this side the water as "you imagine. I don't find that Genius, the

'rathe primrose, which forsaken dies,'

"is patronised by any of the nobility. . . writers of the first talents are left to the capricious patronage of the public. After all, a man will make more by the figures of arithmetic than the figures "of rhetoric, unless he can get into the trade wind, and then he "may sail secure over Pactolean sands."

It was, in truth, one of those times of transition which press hardly on all whose lot is cast in them. The patron was gone, and the public had not come; the seller of books had as yet exclusive command over the destiny of those who wrote them, and he was difficult of access, without certain prospect of the trade wind, hard to move. "The shepherd in Virgil," wrote Johnson to Lord Chesterfield, "grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a "native of the rocks." Nor had adverse circumstances been without their effect upon the literary character itself. Covered with the blanket of Boyse, and sheltered by the night-cellar of Savage, it had forfeited less honour and self-respect than as the paid client of the ministries of Walpole and Henry Pelham. As long as its political services were acknowledged by offices in the state; as long as the coarse wit of Prior could be paid by an embassy, or the delicate humour of Addison win its way to a secretaryship; while Steele and Congreve, Swift and Gay, sat at ministers' tables, and were not without weight in cabinet councils ; its slavery might not have been less real than in later years, yet all externally went well with it. Though even flat apostacy, as in Parnell's case, might in those days lift literature in rank, while

unpurchaseable independence, as in that of De Foe, depressed it into contempt and ruin; though, for the mere hope of gain to be got from it, such nobodies as Mr. Hughes were worth propitiating by dignified public employments; still, it was esteemed by the crowd, because not wholly shut out from the rank and consideration which worldly means could give to it. "The middle ranks,” said Goldsmith truly, in speaking of that period, "generally imitate "the great, and applauded from fashion if not from feeling." But when another state of things succeeded; when politicians had too much shrewdness to despise the helps of the pen, and too little intellect to honour its claims or influence; when it was thought that to strike at its dignity, was to command its more complete subservience ; when corruption in its grosser forms had become chief director of political intrigue, and it was less the statesman's office to wheedle a vote than the minister's business to give hard cash in return for it,-literature, or the craft so called, was thrust from the house of commons into its lobbies and waiting-rooms, and ordered to exchange the dignity of the council-table for the comforts of the great man's kitchen.

The order did not of necessity make the man of genius a servant or a parasite its sentence upon him simply was, that he must descend in the social scale, and peradventure starve. But though it could not disgrace or degrade him, it called a class of writers into existence whose degradation reacted upon him; who flung a stigma on his pursuits, and made the name of man-of-letters the synonyme for dishonest hireling. Of the fifty thousand pounds which the Secret Committee found to have been expended by Walpole's ministry on daily scribblers for their daily bread, not a sixpence was received, either then or when the Pelhams afterwards followed the example, by a writer whose name is now enviably known. All went to the Guthries, the Amhersts, the Arnalls, the Ralphs, and the Oldmixons; and while a Mr. Cook was pensioned, a Harry Fielding solicited Walpole in vain. What the man of genius received, unless the man of rank had wisdom to adorn it by befriending him, was nothing but the shame of being confounded, as one who lived by using the pen, with those who lived by its prostitution and abuse.

It was in vain he strove to escape this imputation: it increased, and it clove to him. To become author was to be treated as adventurer: a man had only to write, to be classed with what Johnson calls the lowest of all human beings, the scribbler for party. One of Fielding's remarks, under cover of a grave sneer, conveys a bitter sense of this injustice. "An author, in a country "where there is no public provision for men of genius, is not "obliged to be a more disinterested patriot than any other. Why

"is he, whose livelihood is in his pen, a greater monster in using "it to serve himself, than he who uses his tongue for the same "purpose?" Nor was the injustice the work of the vulgar or unthinking; it was strongest in the greatest of living statesmen. If any one had told William Pitt that a new man of merit, called Goldsmith, was about to try the profession of literature, he would have turned aside in scorn. It had been sufficient to throw doubt upon the career of Edmund Burke, that, in this very year, he opened it with the writing of a book. It was Horace Walpole's vast surprise, four years later, that so sensible a man as "young "Mr. Burke should not have worn off his authorism yet. "thinks there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one. "He will know better one of these days."

He

Such was the worldly account of literature, when, as I have said, deserted by the patron, and not yet supported by the public, it was committed to the mercies of the bookseller. They were few and rare. It was the mission of Johnson to extend them, and to replace the writer's craft, in even its worldliest view, on a dignified and honourable basis; but Johnson's work was just begun. He was himself, as yet, one of the meaner workers for hire; and though already author of the Dictionary, was too glad in this very year to have Robert Dodsley's guinea for writing paragraphs in the London Chronicle. "Had you, sir, been an author of the "lower class, one of those who are paid by the sheet," remonstrated worthy printer Bowyer with an author who could pay, who did not need to be paid, and who would not be trifled with by the man of types. Of the lower class, unlike that dignitary Mr. John Jackson, still was Samuel Johnson; he was but a Grub-street man, paid by the sheet, when Goldsmith entered Grub-street, periodical writer and reviewer.

Periodicals were the fashion of the day. They were the means of those rapid returns, of that perpetual interchange of bargain and sale, so fondly cared for by the present arbiters of literature; and were now, universally, the favourite channel of literary speculation. Scarcely a week passed in which a new magazine or paper did not start into life, to perish or survive as might be. Even Fielding had turned from his Jonathan Wild the Great, to his Jacobite's Journal and True Patriot; and, from his Tom Jones and Amelia, sought refuge in his Covent Garden Journal. We have the names of fifty-five papers of the date of a few years before this, regularly published every week. A more important literary venture, in the nature of a review, and with a title expressive of the fate of letters, the Grub Street Journal, had been brought to a close in 1737. Six years earlier than that, for a longer life, Cave issued the first number of the Gentleman's Magazine. Griffiths, aided by Ralph,

Kippis, Langhorne, Grainger, and others, followed with the earliest regular Review which can be said to have succeeded, and in 1749 began, on whig principles, that publication of the Monthly which lasted till our own day. Seven years later, the tories opposed it with the Critical, which, with slight alteration of title, existed to a very recent date, more strongly tainted with high-church advocacy and quasi-popish principles than when the first number, sent forth under the editorship of Smollett in March 1756, was on those very grounds assailed. In the May of that year of Goldsmith's life to which I have now arrived, another Review, the Universal, began a short existence of three years, its principal contributor being Samuel Johnson, at this time wholly devoted to it.

Such were a few of the examples that, if the least liberty of choice had been his, might have raised or depressed the sanguine heart of Oliver Goldsmith, when, under the watchful eye of Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths, now providers of his bed and board, he sat down in the bookseller's parlour in Paternoster-row somewhat sarcastically faced with the sign of The Dunciad, to begin his engagement on the Monthly Review.