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My dear Sir, these things give me real uneasiness, and I could wish to redress them; but at present there is hardly a kingdom in Europe in which I am not a debtor. I have already discharged my most threatening and pressing demands, for we must be just before we can be grateful. For the rest, I need not say (you know I am) your affectionate kinsman,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Temple Exchange Coffeehouse, near Temple Bar (Where you may direct an answer). December 27, 1757.

LETTER VII.

TO EDWARD MILLS, ESQ., NEAR ROSCOMMON, IRELAND.1

DEAR SIR,

You have quitted, I find, that plan of life which you once intended to pursue, and given up ambition for domestic tranquillity. Were I to consult your satisfaction alone in this change, I have the utmost reason to congratulate your choice; but when I consider my own, I cannot avoid feeling some regret, that one of my few friends has declined a pursuit in which he had every reason to expect success. The truth is, like the rest of the world, I am self-interested in my concern; and do not so much consider the happiness you have acquired, as the honour I have probably lost in the change. I have often let my fancy loose when you were the subject, and have imagined you gracing the bench, or thundering at the bar; while I have taken no small pride to myself, and whispered all that I could come near, that this was my cousin. Instead

1 First published in the Percy memoir, but misdated there 1759, instead of 1758, as is shown by the mention of the "Essay" (the Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning'), which was published early in 1759. Mills besides being a cousin was also a school-fellow of Goldsmith. It seems he never answered this letter (vide Letter XII. to Henry Goldsmith, p. 447), though after the poet's death he boasted of his connection with him (Forster, 1854, vol. i., p. 144).—ED.

of this, it seems, you are contented to be merely a happy man; to be esteemed only by your acquaintance to cultivate your paternal acres-to take unmolested a nap under one of your own hawthorns, or in Mrs. Mills's bed-chamber, which, even a poet must confess, is rather the most comfortable place of the two.

But however your resolutions may be altered with respect to your situation in life, I persuade myself they are unalterable with regard to your friends in it. I cannot think the world has taken such entire possession of that heart (once so susceptible of friendship), as not to have left a corner there for a friend or two; but I flatter myself that even I have my place among the number. This I have a claim to from the similitude of our dispositions; or, setting that aside, I can demand it as my right by the most equitable law in nature, I mean that of retaliation; for, indeed, you have more than your share in mine. I am a man of few professions, and yet this very instant I cannot avoid the painful apprehension, that my present professions (which speak not half my feelings) should be considered only as a pretext to cover a request, as I have a request to make. No, my dear Ned, I know you are too generous to think so; and you know me too proud to stoop to mercenary insincerity. I have a request, it is true, to make; but, as I know to whom I am a petitioner, I make it without diffidence or confusion. It is in short this: I am going to publish a book in London, entitled An Essay on the Present State of Taste and Literature in Europe. Every work published here the printers in Ireland republish there, without giving the author the least consideration for his copy. I would in this respect disappoint their avarice, and have all the additional advantages that may result from the sale of my performance there to myself. The book is now printing in London, and I have requested Dr. Radcliff, Mr. Lawder, Mr. Bryanton, my brother Mr. Henry Goldsmith, and brother-in-law Mr. Hodson, to circulate my proposals among their acquaintance. The same request I now make to you, and have accordingly given directions to Mr. Bradley, bookseller in Dame Street, Dublin, to send you a hundred proposals. Whatever subscriptions, pursuant to those proposals, you may receive,

when collected, may be transmitted to Mr. Bradley, who will give a receipt for the money, and be accountable for the books. I shall not, by a paltry apology, excuse myself for putting you to this trouble. Were I not convinced that you found more pleasure in doing good-natured things, than uneasiness at being employed in them, I should not have singled you out on this occasion. It is probable you would comply with such a request, if it tended to the encouragement of any man of learning whatsoever; what then may not he expect who has claims of family and friendship to enforce his ?

I am, dear Sir, your sincere friend and
humble servant,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

London, Temple Exchange Coffeehouse,1

Temple Bar, August 7, 1758.

LETTER VIII.

TO ROBERT BRYANTON, ESQ., AT BALLYMAHON, IRELAND."

DEAR SIR,

I have heard it remark'd, I believe by yourself, that they who are drunk or out of their wits, fancy every body else in the same condition: mine is a friendship that neither distance nor time can efface, which is probably the reason that, for the soul of me, I can't avoid thinking yours of the same complexion; and yet I have many reasons for being of a contrary opinion, else why in so long an absence was I never made a partner in your concerns? To hear of your successes would have given me the utmost pleasure; and a communication of your very disappointments would divide the uneasiness I too frequently feel for my own.

1 For locality, see note to 'Public Rejoicings' essay in vol. iv.--Ed. 2 From Prior's collection. He printed from the original in the possession of Dr. Handcock. The bracketed words, Prior points out, indicate where passages missing, owing to the worn condition of the original, have been speculatively supplied.-ED.

Indeed, my dear Bob, you don't conceive how unkindly you have treated one whose circumstances afford him few prospects of pleasure, except those reflected from the happiness of his friends. However, since you have not let me hear from you, I have in some measure disappointed your neglect by frequently thinking of you. Every day do I remember the calm anecdotes of your life, from the fire-side to the easy chair; recall the various adventures that first cemented our friendship,-the school, the college, or the tavern; preside in fancy over your cards; am displeased at your bad play when the rubber goes against you, though not with all that agony of soul as when I once was your partner.

Is it not strange that two of such like affections should be so much separated and so differently employed as we are ? You seem placed at the centre of fortune's wheel, and let it revolve never so fast, seem insensible of the motion. I seem to have been tied to the circumference, and [turned] disagreeably round like an wh in a whirligig. [I sate] down with an intention to chide, and yet methinks [I have forgot] my resentment already. The truth is, I am a [simpleton with] regard to you; I may attempt to bluster, [but like] Anacreon, my heart is respondent only to softer affections. And yet, now I think on't again, I will be angry. God's curse, Sir! who am I? Eh! what am I? Do you know whom you have offended? A man whose character may one of these days be mentioned with profound respect in a German comment or Dutch dictionary; whose name you will probably hear ushered in by a Doctissimus Doctissimorum, or heelpieced with a long Latin termination. Think how Goldsmithius, or Gubblegurchius, or some such sound, as rough as a nutmeg-grater, will become me. Think of that! God's curse, Sir! who am I? I must own my ill-natured contemporaries have not hitherto paid me those honours I have had such just reason to expect. I have not yet seen my face reflected in all the lively display of red and white paints on any sign-posts in the suburbs. Your handkerchief weavers seem as yet unacquainted with my merits or physiognomy, and the very snuff-box makers appear to have forgot their respect. Tell them all from me, they are

a set of Gothic, barbarous, ignorant scoundrels. There will come a day, no doubt it will-I beg you may live a couple of hundred years longer only to see the day—when the Scaligers and Daciers will vindicate my character, give learned editions of my labours, and bless the times with copious comments on the text. You shall see how they will fish up the heavy scoundrels who disregard me now, or will then offer to cavil at my productions. How will they bewail the times that suffered so much genius to lie neglected. If ever my works find their way to Tartary or China, I know the consequence. Suppose one of your Chinese Owanowitzers instructing one of your Tartarian Chianobacchi-you see I use Chinese names to show my own erudition, as I shall soon make our Chinese talk like an Englishman to show his. This may be the subject of the lecture:

1

"Oliver Goldsmith flourished in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He lived to be an hundred and three years old, [and in that] age may justly be styled the sun of [literature] and the Confucius of Europe. [Many of his earlier writings, to the regret of the] learned world, were anonymous, and have probably been lost, because united with those of others. The first avowed piece the world has of his is entitled an Essay on the Present State of Taste and Literature in Europe,'-a work well worth its weight in diamonds. In this he profoundly explains what learning is, and what learning is not. In this he proves that blockheads are not men of wit, and yet that men of wit are actually blockheads."

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But as I choose neither to tire my Chinese Philosopher, nor you, nor myself, I must discontinue the oration in order to give you a good pause for admiration; and I find myself most violently disposed to admire too. Let me, then, stop my fancy to take a view of my future self; and as the boys say, light down to see myself on horseback. Well, now I am down, where the d-1 is I? Oh, Gods! Gods! here in a garret writing for bread, and expecting to be dunned for a milk-score! However, dear Bob, whether in

1 For parallel passages see the essay headed "Miscellaneous," in the 'Bee,' No. IV., vol. ii.-ED.

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