The Yin and Yang of the Elegant Eighteenth

         The two threads that wrap through the thought of the eighteenth century are enlightenment, as represented by such luminaries as Isaac Newton and John Locke, and Romanticism, represented in the thought of Sir Walter Scott and Oliver Goldsmith.
           Enlightenment thinkers emphasized reason.  They also tended to be egalitarian, though the egalitarianism of a John Locke had definite limits, and never intended towards the empowerment of the uneducated or poor.  The Romanticism of a Sir Walter Scott or a Goldsmith emphasized the importance of heroic people.  Scott and Goldsmith also recognized the nobility as the conservers of the state and its traditions.  
           Enlightenment called for a broadening of political representation.  The common man's voice was now heard as never before, reinforced by the popular culture of Daniel Defoe, which honored the tradesman and shopkeeper.   At the same time, Romanticism curbed the desire to reconstitute society entirely.  Never could England forget her monarchy and nobles.
             Some thinkers represented a synthesis of Enlightenment and Romanticism.  Edmund Burke offered a modified Lockean doctrine.  Burke respected tradition while extolling Parliament's role as voice of the nation.   Thomas Jefferson also took Enlightenment ideas, softening their potentially corrosive potential towards established authority.

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

Good people all, of every sort
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,--
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,--
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,--
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

                                        -Oliver Goldsmith

What Happens In Bath, Stays In Bath

"To a person who does not thus calmly trace things to their source, nothing will appear more strange, than how the healthy could ever consent to follow the sick to those places of spleen, and live with those whose disorders are ever apt to excite a gloom in the spectator.  The truth is, the gaming-table was properly the salutary font to which such numbers flocked.  Gaming will ever be the pleasure of the rich, while men continue to be men;  while they fancy more happiness is being possessed of what they want, than they experience pleasure in the fruition of what they have.  The wealthy only stake those riches which give no real content, for an expectation of riches in which they hope for satisfaction.  By this calculation, they cannot lose happiness, as they begin with none;  and they hope to gain it, by being possessed of something they have not had already. 
        Probably upon this principle, and by the arrival of Queen Anne there, for her health, about the year 1703, the city of Bath became in some measure frequented  by people of distinction.  The company was numerous enough to form a country-dance upon the bowling-green:  they were amused with a fiddle and hautboy, and diverted with the romantic walks round the city.  They usually sauntered in the weather in the grove, between two rows of sycamore-trees.  Several learned physicians, Dr. Jorden and others, had even then praised the salubrity of the wells, and the amusements were put under the direction of a master of the ceremonies.
          His {Richard Nash} first care when made Master of the Ceremonies, or King of Bath, as it is called, was to promote a music subscription of one guinea each, for a band, which was to consist of six performers, who were to receive a guinea a week each for their trouble.  He allowed also two guineas a week for lighting and sweeping the rooms;  for which he accounted to the subscribers by receipt.
         The pump-house was immediately put under the care of an officer, by the name of the pumper;  for which he paid the corporation an annual rent.  A row of new houses was begun on the south side of the gravel-walks, before which a handsome pavement was then made for the company to walk on.  Not less than seventeen or eighteen hundred pounds were raised this year and in the beginning of 1706 by subscription, and laid out in repairing the roads near the city.  The streets began to be better paved, cleaned, and lighted;  the licences of the chairmen were repressed, and by an Act of Parliament procured on this occasion, the invalids, who came to drink or bathe, were exempted from all manner of toil, as often as they should go out of the city for recreation.
         The houses and streets now began to improve, and ornaments were lavished upon them even to profusion.  But in the midst of this splendour, the company still were obliged to assemble in a booth to drink tea and chocolate, or to game.  Mr. Nash undertook to remedy this inconvenience, and by his direction, one Thomas Harrison erected a handsome assembly-house for these purposes.  A better band of music was also procured, and the former subscription of one guinea was raised to two.  Harrison had three guineas a week for the room and candles, and the music two guineas a man.  The money Mr. Nash received and accounted for with the utmost exactness and punctuality.  To this house were also added gardens for people of rank and fashion to walk in;  and the beauty of the suburbs continued to increase, notwithstanding the opposition that was made by the corporation;  who at that time looked upon every useful improvement, particularly without the walls, as dangerous to the inhabitants within.
        His dominion was now extensive and secure, and he determined to support it with the strictest attention.  But in order to proceed in everything like a King, he was resolved to give his subjects a law, and the following Rules were accordingly put up in the pump-room:--
        RULES TO BE OBSERVED AT BATH
       1)That a visit of ceremony at first coming, and another at going away, are all that is expected or desired by ladies of quality and fashion, --except impertinents.
        2)That ladies coming to the ball appoint a time for their footmen coming to wait on them home, to prevent disturbances and inconveniences to themselves and others.
        3)That gentlemen of fashion never appearing in a morning before the ladies in gowns and caps, show breeding and respect.
        4)That no person take it ill that any one goes to another's play or breakfast, and not theirs;  except captious by nature.
        5)That no gentlemen give his ticket for the balls to any but gentlewomen.--N.B. Unless he has none of his acquaintance.
        6)That gentlemen crowding before the ladies at the ball, show ill-manners;  and that none do so for the future, --except such as respect nobody but themselves.
         7)That no gentleman or lady take it ill that another dances before them;--except such as have no pretence to dance at all.
         8)That the elder ladies and children be content with a second bench at the ball, as being past or not come to perfection.
          9)That the younger ladies take notice how many eyes observe them.--N.B.  This does not extend to the Have-at-alls.
         10)That all whisperers of lies and scandal be taken for their authors.
          11)That all repeaters of such lies and scandal be shunned by all company,--except such as have been guilty of the same crime.--N.B.  Several men of no character, old women and young ones of questioned reputation, are great authors of lies in these places, being of the sect of levellers.

         These laws were written by Mr. Nash himself, and by the manner in which they are drawn up, he undoubtedly designed them for wit.  The reader, however, it is feared, will think them dull.  But Nash was not born a writer;  for whatever humour he might have in conversation, he used to call a pen his torpedo:  whenever he grasped it, it benumbed all his faculties.
        But were we to give laws to a nursery, we should make them childish laws;  his statutes, though stupid, were addressed to fine gentlemen and ladies, and were probably recieved with sympathetic approbation.  It is certain they were in general religiously observed by his subjects, and executed by him with impartiality;  neither rank nor fortune shielded the refactory from his resentment.
        The balls, by his directions, were to begin at six, and to end at eleven.  Nor would he suffer them to continue a moment longer, lest invalids might commit irregularities, to counteract the benefit of the waters.  Everything was to be performed in proper order.  Each ball was to open with a minuet, danced by two persons of the highest distinction present.  When the minuet concluded, the lady was to bring the gentleman a new partner.  This ceremony was to be observed by every succeeding couple;  every gentleman being obliged to dance with two ladies till the minuets were over, which generally continued two hours.  At eight the country-dances were to begin;  ladies of quality, according to their rank, standing up first.  About nine o'clock a short interval was allowed for rest, and for the gentlemen to help their partners to tea.  That over, the company were to pursue their amusements till the clock struck eleven.  Then the master of the ceremonies entering the ball-room, ordered the music to desist by lifting up his finger.  The dances discontinued, and some time allowed for becoming cool, the ladies were handed to their chairs."   Life of Richard Nash by Oliver Goldsmith pgs. 519-20 and 521-22.

N.B. means "nota bene," or note well.

The Deserted Village (1770)

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village!  sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please:
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:
These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered;  trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,
And every want to opulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that asked but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn!  parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs--and GOD has given my share--
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return--and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How happy he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There, as I past with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;--
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring:
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew:
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disaster's in his morning face;
Full well the busy whisper circling round
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew:
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge:
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill;
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
But past is all his fame.  The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place:
The white-washed wall, that nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendours!  could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,--
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains.  The wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss.  The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, the park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green:
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies;
While thus the land adorned for pleasure all
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female unadorned and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed:
In Nature's simplest charms at first arrayed,
But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band,
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms--a garden and a grave.
Where then, ah!  where, shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And even the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped--what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow creature's woe.
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign
Here richly deck'd admits the gorgeous train:
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?--Ah, turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn,--thine, the loveliest train,--
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah,no!  To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fleeting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charmed before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields with rank luxurience crowned,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around,
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake,
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey.
And savage men more murderous still than they;
While oft in whils the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven!  what sorrows gloomed that parting day,
That called them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main,
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose,
And kissed her thoughtless babes  with many a tear,
And clasped them close, in sorrow double dear,
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness  of grief.
O luxury!  thou curst by Heaven's decree.
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own.
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldly woe;
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now, the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where you anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
The idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph,neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe.
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain:
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
                                                    Oliver Goldsmith
 

Retaliation (1774)

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean {Barnard} shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our {Edmund} Burke shall be tongue with the garnish of brains;
Our Will {iam Burke} shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick {Richard Burke} with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our {Richard} Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our {David} Garrick's a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree;
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That {John} Ridge is anchovy, and {Sir Joshua} Reynolds is lamb,
That Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine!  let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean {Barnard}, re-united to earth,
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt;
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund {Burke}, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit,
For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient,
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William {Burke}, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits?--alas! he had none:
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard {Burke}, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his!  what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wished to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scouge of imposters, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I feared for your safety, I feared for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our {Dr.} Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture,
{James} Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can;
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine:
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came;
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who peppered the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind:
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Roscuised, and you were bepraised.
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his {Hugh} Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser:
I answer, No, no;  for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest?  Ah no!
Then what was his failing?  come tell it, and burn ye.
He was--could he help it?--a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind.
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering:
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing;
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
Here {Caleb} Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can,
Through he merrily lived, he is now a grave man.
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scattered around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas!  that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set on a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if {H.S.} Woodfall confess'd him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings!  ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-roadings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.
Merry Whitefoord, farewell!  for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour,--I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse,
"Thou best humoured man with the worst humoured Muse."
Oliver Goldsmith

The Augustan Age (from The Bee No. 8)

       "The history of the rise of language and learning is calculated to gratify curiosity rather than to satisfy the understanding.  An account of that period only when language and learning arrived at its highest perfection is the most conducive to real improvement, since it at once raises emulation and directs it to the proper objects.  The age of Leo X. in Italy is confessed to be the Augustan age with them:  the French writers seem agreed to give the same appellation to that of Louis XIV.:  but the English are yet undetermined with respect to themselves.
     Some have looked upon the writers in the times of Queen Elizabeth as the true standard for future imitation;  others have descended to the reign of James I.;  and others still lower, to that of Charles II.  Were I to be permitted to offer an opinion upon this subject, I should readily give my vote for the reign of Queen Anne, or some years before that period.  It was then that taste was united to genius;  and as before our writers charmed with their strength of thinking, so then they pleased with strength and grace united.  In that period of British glory, though no writer attracts our attention singly, yet, like stars lost in each other's brightness, they have cast such a lustre upon the age in which they lived that their minutest transactions will be attended to by posterity with a greater eagerness than the most important occurences of even empires which have been transacted in greater obscurity.
       At that period there seemed to be a just balance between patronage and the press.  Before it, men were little esteemed whose only merit was genius;  and since, men who can prudently be content to catch the public, are certain of living without dependence.  But the writers of the period of which I am speaking, were sufficiently esteemed by the great, and not rewarded enough by booksellers to set them above dependence.  Fame, consequently, then was the truest road to happiness;  a sedulous attention to the mechanical business of the day makes the present never-failing resource.
       The age of Charles II., which our countrymen term the age of wit and immorality, produced some writers that at once served to improve our language and corrupt our hearts.  The king himself had a large share of knowledge and some wit;  and his courtiers were generally men who had been brought up in the school of affliction and experience.  For this reason, when the sunshine of their fortune returned, they gave too great a loose to pleasure, and language was by them cultivated only as a mode of elegance.  Hence it became more enervated, and was dashed with quaintness, which gave the public writings of those times a very illiberal air.
       L'Estrange, who was by no means as bad a writer as some have represented him, was sunk in party faction;  and having generally the worst side of the argument, often had recourse to scolding, pertness, and, consequently, a vulgarity that discovers itself even in his more liberal compositions.  He was the first writer who regularly enlisted himself under the banner of a party for pay, and fought for it, through right and wrong, for upwards of forty literary campaigns.  The intrepidity gained him the esteem of Cromwell himself;  and the papers he wrote even just before the Revolution, almost with the rope about his neck, have his usual characters of impudence and perseverence.  That he was a standard writer cannot be disowned, because a great many very eminent authors formed their style by his.  But his standard was far from being a just one;  though, when party considerations are set aside, he certainly was possessed of elegance, ease, and perspicuity.
       Dryden, though a great and undisputed genius, had the same cast as L'Estrange.  Even his plays discover him to be a party man, and the same principle infects his style in subjects of the lightest nature;  but the English tongue, as it stands at present, is greatly his debtor.  He first gave it regular harmony, and discovered its latent powers.  It was his pen that formed the Congreves, the Priors, and the Addisons, who succeeded him;  and had it not been for Dryden, we never should have known a Pope, at least in the meridian lustre he now displays.  But Dryden's excellences as a writer were not confined to poetry alone.  There is in his prose writings an ease and elegance that have never yet been so well united in works of taste or criticism. 
       The English language owes very little to Otway, though, next to Shakespeare, the greatest genius England ever produced in tragedy.  His excellences lay in painting directly from nature, in catching every emotion just as it rises from the soul, and in all the powers of the moving and pathetic.  He appears to have had no learning, no critical knowledge, and to have lived in great distress.  When he died (which he did in an obscure house near the Minories) he had about him the copy of a tragedy, which, it seems, he had sold for a trifle to Bentley the bookseller.  I have seen an advertisement at the end of one of L'Estrange's political papers, offering a reward to any one who should bring it to his shop.  What an invaluable treasure was there irretrievably lost by the ignorance and neglect of the age he lived in. 
       Lee had a great command of language and vast force of expression, both which the best of our succeeding dramatic poets thought proper to take for their models.  Rowe, in particular, seems to have caught that manner, though in all other respects inferior.  The other poets of that reign contributed but little towards improving the English tongue, and it is not certain whether they did not injure rather than improve it.  Immorality has its cant as well as party, and many shocking expressions now crept into the language, and became the transient fashion of the day.  The upper galleries, by the prevalence of party spirit, were courted with great assiduity, and a horse-laugh following ribaldry was the highest instance of applause, the chastity as well as energy of diction being overlooked or neglected.
       Virtuous sentiment was recovered, but energy of style never was.  This, though disregarded in plays and party writings, still prevailed amongst men of character and business.  The despatches of Sir Richard Fanshaw, Sir William Godolphin, Lord Arlington, and many other ministers of state, are all of them, with respect to diction, manly, bold, and nervous.  Sir William Temple, though a man of no learning, had great knowledge and experience.  He wrote always like a man of sense and a gentleman;  and his style is the model by which the best prose writers in the reign of Queen Anne formed theirs.  The beauties of Mr. Locke's style, though not so much celebrated, are as striking as that of his understanding.  He never says more nor less than he ought, and never makes use of a word that he could have changed for a better.  The same observation holds good of Dr. Samuel Clarke. 
       Mr. Locke was a philosopher;  his antagonist, Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worchester, was a man of learning;  and therefore the contest between them was unequal.  The clearness of Mr. Locke's head renders his language perspicuous, the learning of Stillingfleet's clouds his.  This is an instance of the superiority of good sense over learning, towards the improvement of every language.
       There is nothing peculiar to the language of Archbishop Tillotson, but his manner of writing is inimitable;  for one who reads him wonders why he himself did not think and speak it in that very manner.  The turn of his periods is agreeable though artless, and everything he says seems to flow spontaneously from inward conviction.  Barrow, though greatly his superior in learning, falls short of him in other respects.
       The time seems to be at hand when justice will be done to Mr. Cowley's prose as well as poetical writings;  and though his friend Dr. Sprat, Bishop of Rochester, in his diction falls far short of the abilities for which he has been celebrated, yet there is sometimes a happy flow in his periods, something that looks like eloquence.  The style of his successor, Atterbury, has been much commended by his friends, which always happens when a man distinguishes himself in party;  but there is in it nothing extraordinary.  Even the speech which he made for himself at the bar of the House of Lords, before he was sent into exile, is void of eloquence, though it has been cried up by his friends to such a degree that his enemies have suffered it to pass uncensured.
       The philosophic manner of Lord Shaftesbury's writing is nearer to that of Cicero than any English author has yet arrived at;  but perhaps had Cicero written in English, his composition would have greatly exceeded that of our countryman.  The diction of the latter is beautiful, but such beauty as upon nearer inspection carries with it evident symptoms of affectation.  This has been attended with very disagreeable consequences.  Nothing is so easy to copy as affectation,, and his Lordship's rank and fame have procured him more imitators in Britain than any other writer I know;  all faithfully preserving his blemishes, but unhappily not one of his beauties.
       Mr. Trenchard and Dr. Davenant were political writers of great abilities in diction, and their pamphlets are now standards in that way of writing.  They were followed by Dean Swift, who, though in other respects far their superior, never could arise to that manliness and clearness of diction in political writing for which they were so justly famous.
        They were all of them exceeded by the late Lord Bolingbroke {Henry St. John}, whose strength lay in that province;  for as a philosopher and a critic he was ill qualified, being destitute of virtue for the one, and of learning for the other.  His writings against Sir Robert Walpole are incomparably the best part of his works.  The personal and perpetual antipathy he had for that family, to whose places he thought his own abilities had a right, gave a glow to his style, and an edge to his manner, that never yet have been equalled in political writing.  His misfortunes and disappointments gave his mind a turn which his friends mistook for philosophy, and at one time of his life he had the art to impose the same belief upon some of his enemies.  His idea of a patriot king, which I reckon (as indeed it was) amongst his writings against Sir Robert Walpole, is a masterpiece of diction.  Even in his other works his style is excellent;  but where a man either does not or will not understand the subject he writes on, there must always be a deficiency.  In politics, he was generally master of what he undertook;  in morals, never.
       Mr. Addison, for a happy and natural style, will be always an honour to British literature.  His diction, indeed, wants strength;  but it is equal to all the subjects he undertakes to handle, as he never (at least in his finished works) attempts anything either in the argumentative or demonstrative way.
        Though Sir Richard Steele's reputation as a public writer was owing to his connexions with Mr. Addison, yet after their intimacy was formed, Steele sank in his merit as an author.  This was not owing so much to the evident superiority on the part of Addison, as to the unnatural efforts which Steele made to equal or eclipse him.  This emulation destroyed that genuine flow of diction which is discoverable in all his former compositions. 
       Whilst their writings engaged attention and the favour of the public, reiterated but unsuccessful endeavours were made towards forming a grammar of the English language.  The authors of those efforts went upon wrong principles.  Instead of endeavouring to retrench the absurdities of our language, and bringing it to a certain criterion, their grammars were no other than a collection of rules attempting to naturalize those absurdities, and bring them under a regular system.
        Somewhat effectual, however, might have been done towards fixing the standard of the English language, had it not been for the spirit of party.  For both Whigs and Tories being ambitious to stand at the head of so great a design, the Queen's death happened before any plan of an academy could be resolved on.
        Meanwhile, the necessity of such an institution became every day more apparent.  The periodical and political writers, who then swarmed, adopted the very worst manner of L'Estrange, till not only all decency, but all propriety, of language was lost in the nation.  Leslie, a pert writer, with some wit and learning, insulted the government every week with the grossest abuse.  His style and manner, both of which were illiberal, were imitated by Ridpath, Defoe, Dunton, and others of the opposite party:  and Toland pleaded the cause of atheism and immorality in much the same strain:  his subject seemed to debase his diction, and he ever failed most in one, when he grew most licentious in the other.
       Towards the end of Queen Anne's reign some of the greatest men in England devoted their time to party, and then a much better manner obtained in political writing.  Mr. Walpole, Mr. Addison, Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Steele, and many members of both houses of Parliament, drew their pens for the Whigs;  but they seem to have been overmatched, though not in argument, yet in writing, by Bolingbroke, Prior, Swift, Arbuthnot, and the other friends of the opposite party.  They who oppose a ministry have always a better field for ridicule and reproof than they who defend it.
       Since that period our writers have either been encouraged above their merits or below them.  Some who were possessed of the meanest abilities acquired the highest preferments, while others who seemed born to reflect a lustre upon their age perished by want or neglect.  More, Savage, and Amherst were possessed of great abilities, yet they were suffered to feel all the miseries that usually attend the ingenious and imprudent--that attend men of strong passions, and no phlegmatic reserve in their command.
       At present, were a man to attempt to improve his fortune or increase his friendship by poetry, he would soon feel the anxiety of disappointment.  The press lies open, and is a benefactor to every sort of literature but that alone.
       I am at a loss whether to ascribe this falling off of the public to a vicious taste in the poet or in them.  Perhaps both are to be reprehended.  The poet, either drily didactive, gives us rules which might appear abstruse even in a system of ethics, or, triflingly volatile, writes upon the most unworthy subjects;  content, if he can give music instead of sense;  content, if he can paint to the imagination without any desires or endeavours to affect:  the public, therefore, with justice, discard such empty sound, which has nothing but a jingle, or, what is worse, the unmusical flow of blank verse, to recommend it.  The late method, also, into which our newspapers have fallen, of giving an epitome of every new publication, must greatly damp the writer's genius.  He finds himself, in this case, at the mercy of men who have neither abilities nor learning to distinguish his merit.  He finds his own composition mixed with the sordid trash of every daily scribbler.  There is a sufficient specimen given of his work to abate curiosity, and yet so mutilated as to render him contemptible.  His first, and perhaps his second, work by these means sink, among the crudities of the age, into oblivion.  Fame, he finds, begins to turn her back:  he therefore flies to profit, which invites him, and he enrols himself in the lists of dulness and of avarice for life. 
       Yet there are still among us men of the greatest abilities, and who, in some parts of learning, have surpassed their predecessors.  Justice and friendship might here impel me to speak of names which will shine out to all posterity, but prudence restrains me from what I should otherwise eagerly embrace.  Envy might rise against every honoured name I should mention, since scarcely one of them has not those who are his ememies, or those who despise him &c."
                                           Oliver Goldsmith

Poor But Proud

     "Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance;  but he's gone.  Jack was bred in a compting-house, and his father dying just as he was out of his time, left him a handsome fortune, and many friends to advise with.  The restraint in which he had been brought up had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as habitual prudence, and from such considerations he had every day repeated offers of friendship.  Those who had money were ready to offer him their assistance that way;  and they who had daughters frequently, in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry.  Jack, however, was in good circumstances;  he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore modestly declined their proposals.
       Some errors in the management of his affairs and several losses in trade soon brought Jack to a different way of thinking;  and he at last thought it his best way to let his friends know, that their offers were at length acceptable.  His first address was, therefore, to a scrivener who had formerly made him frequent offers of money and friendship at a time when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been refused.
       Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without any ceremony;  and, as a man confident of not being refused, requested the use of an hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had an occasion for money.  'And pray, Mr. Spindle,' replied the scrivener, 'do you want all this money?'  'Want it, sir,' says the other;  'if I did not want it, I should not have asked it.'  'I am sorry for that, ' says the friend;  'for those who want money when they come to borrow, will want money when they should come to pay.  To say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-a-days.  I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my part;  and he that has got a little is a fool if he does not keep what he has got.'
       Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer was resolved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best friend he had in the world.  The gentleman whom he now addressed received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship.  'Let me see, --you want an hundred guineas;  and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer?'  'If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be contented.'  'Fifty to spare!  I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me.'  'Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other friend.'  'And pray,' replied the friend, 'would it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend?  then one note will serve for all, you know?  Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no ceremony with me at any time;  you know I'm your friend, when you choose a bit of dinner or so.  You, Tom, see the gentleman down.  You won't forget to dine with us now and then?  Your very humble servant.'
       Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, he was at last resolved to find that assistance from love which he could not have from friendship.  Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, and she had already made all the advances that her sex's modesty would permit.  He made his proposal, therefore, with confidence, but soon perceived 'No bankrupt ever found the fair one kind.'  Miss Jenny and Master Billy Galoon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would soon be a match.
       Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery;  his clothes flew piece by piece to the pawnbrokers;  and he seemed at length equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity.  But still he thought himself secure from starving;  the numberless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered:  he was, therefore, now resolved to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one;  and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being openly affronted.  The last place I saw poor Jack was at the Reverend Dr. Gosling's.  He had, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he came in just as the cloth was laying.  He took a chair without being desired, and talked for some time without being attended to.  He assured the company, that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk to the White Conduit House, where he had been that morning.  He looked at the tablecloth, and praised the figure of the damask;  talked of a feast where he had been the day before, but that the venison was overdone.  All this, however, procured the poor creature no invitation, and he was not yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being asked;  wherefore, finding the gentleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he thought proper at last to retire, and mend his appetite by a walk in the Park.
       You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags or lace--whether in Kent Street or at the Mall--whether at Smyrna or St. Giles's,--might I advise you as a friend, never seem in want of the favour which you solicit.  Apply to every passion but pity for redress.  You may find relief from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but seldom from compassion.  The very eloquence of a poor man is disgusting;  and that mouth which is opened, even for flattery, is seldom expected to close without a petition.
       If, then, you would ward off the gripe of poverty, pretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with ceremony.  Hear not my advice, but that of Ofellus.  If you be caught dining upon a halfpenny porringer of pease soup and potatoes, praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast.  You may observe that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed pease broth for the gravel;  hint that you are not one of those who are always making a god of your belly.  If you are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to remark that stuffs are very much worn at Paris.  If there be some irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or darning, say that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were ever very fond of dress.  Or if you be a philosopher, hint that Plato and Seneca are the tailors you choose to employ;  assure the company, that men ought to be content with a bare covering, since what is now so much the pride of some, was formerly our shame. . . .In short, however caught, do not give up, but ascribe to the frugality of your dispostion what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your circumstances, and appear rather to be a miser than a beggar.  To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain method never to rise.  Pride in the great is hateful, in the wise it is ridiculous;  beggarly pride is the only sort of vanity I can excuse."  The Bee No.III by Oliver Goldsmith