they will dispose of it to the best advantage. To them I entirely leave it; whether they or you may think the whole necessary to fit you out, or whether our poor sister Johnson may not want the half, I leave entirely to their and your discretion. The kindness of that good couple to our shattered family demands our sincerest gratitude; and, though they have almost forgotten me, yet, if good things at last arrive, I hope one day to return and increase their good-humour by adding to my own.

I have sent my cousin Jenny a miniature picture of myself, as I believe it is the most acceptable present I can offer. I have ordered it to be left for her at George Faulkner's, folded in a letter.

The face you well know is ugly enough, but it is finely painted. I will shortly also send my friends over the Shannon some mezzɔtint prints of myself, and some more of my friends here, such as Burke, Johnson, Reynolds, and Colman. I believe I have written a hundred letters to different friends in your country, and never received an answer to any of them. I do not know how to account for this, or why they are unwilling to keep up for me those regards which I must ever retain for them.

If, then, you have a mind to oblige me, you will write often, whether I answer you or not. Let me particularly have the news of our family and old acquaintances. For instance, you may begin by telling me about the family where you reside, how they spend their time, and whether they ever make mention of me. Tell me about my mother, my brother Hodson and his son, my brother Harry's son and daughter, my sister Johnson, the family of Ballyoughter, what is become of them, where they live, and how they do. You talked of being my only brother. I don't understand you. Where is Charles? A sheet of paper occasionally filled with the news of this kind would make me very happy, and would keep you nearer my mind. As it is, my dear brother, believe me to be

Yours, most affectionately,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

CLXXX.

Goldsmith had been lodging at a little farm-house in Edgeware when he wrote this letter, and the comedy so modestly referred to was no other than the immortal 'She Stoops to Conquer.' In March 1773 it was at last brought out at Covent Garden, and with amazing success. The difficulties that it met with from the timidity of Colman, the jealousy of Cumberland, and the unworldliness of the author himself, are now matter of history, and the comedy itself universally recognised as the best English play of that century.

Oliver Goldsmith to Bennet Langton.

The Temple: September 7, 1772.

My dear Sir,—Since I had the pleasure of seeing you last, I have been almost wholly in the country, at a farmer's house, quite alone, trying to write a comedy. It is now finished; but when or how it will be acted, or whether it will be acted at all, are questions I cannot resolve. I am therefore so much employed upon that, that I am under the necessity of putting off my intended visit to Lincolnshire for this season. Reynolds is just returned from Paris, and finds himself now in the case of a truant that must make up for his idle time by diligence. We have therefore agreed to postpone our journey till next summer, when we hope to have the honor of waiting upon Lady Rothes and you, and staying double the time of our late intended visit. We often meet, and never without remembering you. I see Mr. Beauclerc very often both in town and country. He is now going directly forward to become a second Boyle: deep in chemistry and physics. Johnson has been down on a visit to a country parson, Doctor Taylor; and is returned to his old haunts at Mrs. Thrale's. Burke is a farmer, en attendant a better place; but visiting about too. Every soul is visiting about and merry but myself. And that is hard too, as I have been trying these three months to do something to make people laugh. There have I been strolling about the hedges, studying jests with a most tragical countenance. The Natural History is about half finished, and I will shortly finish the rest. God knows I am tired of this kind of finishing, which is but bungling work; and that not so much my fault as

the fault of my scurvy circumstances. They begin to talk in town of the Opposition's gaining ground; the cry of liberty is still as loud as ever. I have published, or Davies has published for me, an 'Abridgment of the History of England,' for which I have been a good deal abused in the newspapers, for betraying the liberties of the people. God knows I had no thought for or against liberty in my head; my whole aim being to make up a book of a decent size, that, as Squire Richard says, would do no harm to nobody. However, they set me down as an arrant Tory, and consequently an honest man. When you come to look at any part of it, you'll say that I am a sore Whig. God bless you, and with my most respectful compliments to her Ladyship, I remain, dear Sir, your most affectionate humble servant.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

CLXXXI.

Dr. Markham was Head Master at Westminster School at the time this letter was written. He was appointed to the See of Chester in 1771, and was translated to the Archbishopric of York five years afterwards. Edmund Burke was in his thirtieth year, and about to enter the nursery of his political career as private secretary to Mr. Gerard Hamilton, Assistant Secretary for Ireland under the Lieutenancy of Lord Halifax. In this capacity Burke found better ground to stand upon 'in his native city than Madrid could have afforded him.

Dr. Markham to the Duchess of Queensbury.

Westminster: September 25, 1759.

Madam,—I must entreat your Grace's pardon for the trouble I am giving you. It is in behalf of a very deserving person, with whom I have long had a close friendship. My acquaintance with your Grace's sentiments and feelings persuades me, that I shall not want advocates when I have told you my story.

The consulship at Madrid has been vacant these eight months. Lord Bristol is writing pressing letters to have a consul appointed. I am informed that the office lies so much out of the road of common applications, that it has not yet been asked for; that it has been offered to some, who have declined it; and that Mr. Pitt is actually at a loss for a proper person to appoint to it. This has encouraged my friend to think of it. It so happens, that those who might serve him are mostly out of town. He expects, indeed,

recommendations from some he has writ to.

The warm part that myself of the honour

I take in all his interests obliges me to avail I have of being known to your Grace, and to beg as much of your assistance with Mr. Pitt, as you think you can give me with propriety. It is time I should say who my friend is. His name is Edmund Burke. As a literary man he may possibly be not quite unknown to you. He is the author of a piece which imposed on the world as Lord Bolingbroke's, called, 'The Advantages of Natural Society,' and of a very ingenious book published last year, called, 'A Treatise on the Sublime and the Beautiful.'

I must farther say of him, that his chief application has been to the knowledge of public business, and our commercial interests; that he seems to have a most extensive knowledge, with extraordinary talents for business, and to want nothing but ground to stand upon to do his country very important services. Mr. Wood, the under-secretary, has some knowledge of him, and will, I am persuaded, do ample justice to his abilities and character. As for myself, as far as my testimony may serve him, I shall freely venture it on all occasions; as I value him not only for his learning and talents, but as being, in all points of character, a most amiable and most respectable man.

I hope your Grace will forgive my taking up so much of your time. I am really so earnest in this gentleman's behalf, that if I can be instrumental in helping him I shall think it one of the most fortunate events of my life. I beg leave to trouble you with my compliments to the Duke; and amn, with a fresh remembrance of your many kindnesses,

Your Grace's most obliged and most faithful servant,
W. MARKHAM.

CLXXXII.

Edmund Burke began his public career in 1759 as private secretary to William Gerard Hamilton (known as single-speech Hamilton, the Assistant Secretary for Ireland). In return for no little influence exerted in securing a pension of £300 per annum for Burke, Hamilton had the audacity to expect the protégé would gratefully abandon his life to him. It was not likely that Burke would accept villein service under a feudal superior; he threw up his annuity and broke with his patron for ever.

Edmund Burke to the Right Hon. William Gerard

Hamilton.

February, 1765.

Dear Sir,-Your letter, which I received about four o'clock yesterday, seemed not to have been written with an intention of being answered. However, on considering the matter this morning, I thought it respectful to you, and, in a manner, necessary to myself, to say something to those heavy charges which you have made against me in our last conversations; and which, with a polite acrimony in the expression, you have thought proper to repeat in your letter.

I should, indeed, be extremely unhappy, if I felt any consciousness at all of that unkindness, of which you have so lively a sense. In the six years during which I have had the honour of being connected with you, I do not know that I have given you one just occasion of complaint; and if all things have not succeeded every way to your wishes, I may appeal to your own equity and candour whether the failure was owing to any thing wrong in my advice, or inattention in my conduct; I can honestly affirm, and your heart will not contradict me, that in all cases I preferred your interest to my own. I made you, and not myself, the first object in every deliberation. I studied your advancement, your fortune, and your reputation in every thing, with zeal and earnestness; and some times with an anxiety, which has made many of my hours miserable. Nobody could be more ready than I was to acknowledge the obligations I had to you; and if I thought, as in some instances I did, and do still think, I had cause of dissatisfaction, I never expressed it to others, or made yourself uneasy about them. I acted in every respect, with a fidelity which, I trust, cannot be impeached. If there be any part of my conduct in life, upon which I can look with entire satisfaction, it is my behaviour with regard to you.

So far as to the past: with regard to the present, what is that unkindness and misbehaviour of which you complain? My heart is full of friendship to you; and is there a single point which the best and most intelligent men have fixed, as a proof of friendship and gratitude, in which I have been deficient, or in which I threaten a failure? What you blame is only this, that I