attributes its origin to Burke; though he misstates everything else connected with it. Here Cradock remembered to have heard much animated talk, in which Richard Burke made himself very prominent, and seemed the most free and easy of the company. Its members used to dine at each other's houses also, less frequently; and Goldsmith indulged himself now and then in very oddly assorted assemblages at his chambers after dinner, which (in allusion to the fashionable ball-rooms of the day) he called his 'little Cornelys.' More rarely, at meetings which became afterwards more famous, the titled people who jostled against writers and artists at Shelburne House in Berkeley Square, might be seen wondering or smiling at the simple-looking Irishman who had written the Deserted Village. There were Mrs. Vesey's parties, too, more choice and select than Mrs. Montagu's, her friend and imitator; and at both we have traces of Goldsmith: Your wild genius,' as Mrs. Vesey's statelier friend Mrs. Carter calls him. These ladies had got the notion of their blue-stocking routs from the Du Duffands, and L'Espinasses, at the last French peace; but alas! the Montesquieus, Voltaires, and Du Châtelets, the De Launays, Hainaults, De Choiseuls, and Condorcets, were not always forthcoming in Hill Street or Portman Square. In truth they seem to have been dull enough, these much-talked-about réunions; though sometimes enlivened by Mrs. Vesey's forgetfulness of her own name, and at all times sparkling with Mrs. Montagu's diamonds and bows. Mrs. Thrale's were better; and though the lively little lady

made a favourite jest of Goldsmith, he passed happy days with Johnson both in Southwark and Streatham. Still, perhaps, his happiest time was when he had Johnson to himself; when there were no listeners to talk for; when, to his half-childish frolicking absurdities, Johnson lowered all that was predominant or intolerant in his great fine nature; and together they came sporting from Gerrard Street to the Temple, or, when the Club did not meet, had supper by themselves at an adjoining tavern in Soho. This was that once famous Jack's (since Walker's) in Dean Street, kept by a singer of Garrick's company (Jack Roberts), and patronised by Garrick and his friends: which, in all but the life that departed from it when they departed, to this day exists unchanged; quite unvexed by disturbance or improvement; haunted by the ghosts of guests that are gone, but not much visited by guests that live; a venerable relic of the still life of Goldsmith's age, possessed by an owner who is venerable as itself, and whose memory, faithful to the past, now lives altogether with the shades that inhabit there. Of many pleasant 'tête-a-tête suppers' this was the scene; and here Goldsmith would seem boldly to have perpetrated very ancient sallies of wit, to half-grumbling half-laughing accompaniment from Johnson. Sir,' said the sage one night, as they supped off rumps and kidneys, these rumps are pretty little things; but then a man must eat a great many of 'them before he fills his belly.' 'Aye, but how many of 'them' asked Goldsmith innocently, 'would reach to the

Aye, Goldy, 'Not at all, sir,'

Pray then sir,'

'moon?' To the moon!' laughed Johnson. 'I fear that exceeds your calculation.' says Goldsmith, I think I could tell.' says the other, let us hear.' Why,' and here Goldsmith instinctively, no doubt, got as far from Johnson as he could, ' one, if it were long enough.' 'Well sir, I have deserved 'it,' growled the philosopher. 'I should not have pro'voked so foolish an answer by so foolish a question.'

But Goldsmith's mirth is from a heart now ill at ease. Every day's uncertainty as to his comedy is become fraught with serious consequence to him, and Colman still delays his answer. The recollection of former mortifications no doubt sadly recurred, and with it came back the old distrust and bitter self-misgivings. Cooke informs us that he accidentally, at this time, met with an old acquaintance in a chop-house (most probably himself, for he elsewhere complains that Goldsmith's acquisition of more important friends had made their latter intercourse infrequent), and mentioning that he had written a comedy about which the manager seemed to have great doubts, asked him to listen to the plot and give him his candid opinion of it. The Doctor, Cooke proceeds, then began to tell the particulars of his plot, in his strange, uncouth, deranged manner, from which his friend the critic could only make out that the principal part of the business turned upon one gentleman mistaking the house of another for an inn at which the critic shook his head, and said 'he was afraid the audience, under their then sentimental

'impressions, would think it too broad and farcical for 'comedy.' Goldsmith looked very serious at this; paused for some time; and at last, taking the other by the hand, 'piteously' exclaimed, 'I am much obliged to you, my dear 'friend, for the candour of your opinion: but it is all I can do; for alas I find that my genius, if ever I had any, has 'of late totally deserted me.' Alas, poor Goldy! It was the feeling that prompted this, and no other, which also prompted his innocent, vain absurdities. How well this 'post-boy drives,' said Johnson to Boswell, rubbing his hands with joy for the rapid motion. Now if Goldy were 'here, he'd say he could drive better.' Simply because he could not drive at all. Sadly distrusting what he could do, he thought to set the balance straight by bragging of what he could not.

But never so little called for as in the case of his comedy, was the tone of doleful distrust. He had again taken his stand on the sincere broad ground of character and humour, where time has fixed him so firmly. The final critical verdict has passed, which saves any further criticism on this last legacy of laughter he was now to leave us. Many are the sterling comedies that hold possession of the stage, cleverly exacting much calm enjoyment, while they chasten all tendency to intemperate mirth: but the family of the Hardcastles, Young Marlow, and Tony Lumpkin, are not akin to those. Let the manager be chary of introducing them, who desires to keep the enjoyment of his audience within merely reasonable bounds. When Mr. Hardcastle, anxious

to initiate Diggory and his too familiar fellow-servants into the small decorums of social life, warns them against talkativeness, and tells them that if he should happen to say a good thing or tell a good story at table, they are not all of them to burst out laughing as if they formed part of the company, Diggory makes prompt answer, "Then ecod, 'your worship must not tell the story of Ould Grouse in 'the gun room: I can't help laughing at that.. he! he! he!.. for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years. . ha! ha! ha!' and his worship, joining in the laugh, admits the story is a good one, and consents to make it an exception. So must exception be made now and then, in the case of comedies. With muscles but imperceptibly moved, we sit out half Mrs. Inchbald's Collection; but at She Stoops to Conquer, we expand into a roar. The 'Three jolly Pigeons' itself never had greater fun going forward in it; and though genteel critics have objected to the comedy that it contains low characters, just as Mrs. Hardcastle objected to the ale-house, the whole spirit of the objection seems to fade before Tony's sensible remark, when his mother wants him to desert the Pigeons and disappoint the low fellows, As for disappointing them, 'I should not so much mind; but I can't abide to disap'point myself.' But in truth that objection, strongly as it has been urged, is quite untenable. Young Marlow belongs to as genuine 'high' comedy as any thing in Farquhar or Vanbrugh. The idea of the part, with its whimsical bashfulness, its simple mistakes, its awkward dilemmas, is a