OLIVER GOLDSMITH S LIFE AND TIMES. [BOOK n.

1758. " no^ : f°r *° Behold her in distress without a capacity of relieving her
~ " from it, would add too much to my splenetic habit. Your last letter
a was much too short, it should have answered some queries I had made
" in my former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward until you
u have filled all your paper; it requires no thought, at least from the
" ease with which my own sentiments rise when they are addressed to
" you. For, believe me, my head has no share in all I write ; my heart
" dictates the whole. Pray, give my love to Bob Bryanton, and
"intreat him, from me, not to drink. My dear sir, give me some
" account about poor Jenny.* Yet her husband loves her ; if so, she
" cannot be unhappy.

" I know not whether I should tell you—yet why should I conceal
" those trifles, or indeed anything from you ?—There is a book of
" mine will be published in a few days, the life of a very extraordinary
" man—no less than the great Voltaire. You know already by the
" title, that it is no more than a catch-penny. However I spent
" but four weeks on the whole performance, for which I received
" twenty pounds. "When published, I shall take some method of
" conveying it to you, unless you may think it dear of the postage,
" which may amount to four or five shillings. However, I fear
" you will not find an equivalence of amusement. Your last letter,
" I repeat it, was too short: you should have given me your opinion of
" the design of the heroicomical poem which I sent you: you re-
" member I intended to introduce the hero of the poem, as lying in
" a paltry alehouse. You may take the following specimen of the
" manner, which I flatter myself is quite original. The room, in which
" he lies, may be described somewhat this way :—

The window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That feebly shew'd the state in which he lay.
The sandy floor, that grits beneath the tread :
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ;
The game of goose was there espos'd to view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons fram'd with listing, found a place,
And Prussia's monarch shew'd his lamp-black face.
The mom was cold; he views with keen desire,
A rusty grate unconscious of a fire.
An unpaid reck'ning on the freeze was scor'd,
And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board.

* His younger sister, who had married unprosperously.o excess, I