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£RE 


The  Jessamy  Bride 


tbe  Same  autbor, 


In  crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  6/«. 


I  FORBID  THE  BANNS. 
A  GRAY  EYE  OR  SO. 
ONE  FAIR  DAUGHTER. 
PHYLLIS  OF  PHILISTIA. 
THEY  CALL  IT  LOVE. 
DAIREEN. 


[Ninth  Edition. 

[Ninth  Edition. 

[Fourth  Edition. 

[Fifth  Edition. 

[Second  Edition. 

[Third  Edition. 


XonOon : 
HUTCHINSON  &  CO.,  34,  PATERNOSTER  Row. 


"Look  into  my  eyes,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  and  speak  those  words  to  me." 

[Frontispiece  * 


The  Jessamy  Bride 


BY 

,0-^ 


FrpRANKFORT   MOORE 


AUTHOR   OF 


"l  FORBID  THE  BANNS ",  "A  GRAY  EYE  OR  SO ",  "THEY  CALL  IT  LOVE", 
"PHYLLIS  OF  PHILISTIA",  ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  A.  FORESTIER 


FOURTH  EDITION 


LONDON 

HUTCHINSON    &    CO. 

34  PATERNOSTER  ROW 


PRINTED   AT  NIMEGUEN  (HOLLAND) 
8T   H.    C.  A.   THIEMB   OF  NIMEGUEN  (HOLLAND) 

ANI> 
27   SHOE  LANE,   LONDON,  E.G. 


Lfc 

nf 

B09860 

•f  7.  s- 


THE  JESSAMY  BRIDE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

*SiR,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  awe  have  eaten  an  ex- 
cellent dinner,  we  are  a  company  of  intelligent  men — 
although  I  allow  that  we  should  have  difficulty  in 
proving  that  we  are  so  if  it  became  known  that  we 
sat  down  with  a  Scotchman — and  now  pray  do  not 
mar  the  self-satisfaction  which  intelligent  men  ex- 
perience after  dining,  by  making  assertions  based  on 
ignorance  and  maintained  by  sophistry." 

"Why,  Sir,"  cried  Goldsmith,  u  I  doubt  if  the  self- 
satisfaction  of  even  the  most  intelligent  of  men — 
whom  I  take  to  be  myself — is  interfered  with  by 
any  demonstration  of  an  inferior  intellect  on  the  part 
of  another." 

Edmund  Burke  laughed,  understanding  the  mean- 
ing of  the  twinkle  in  Goldsmith's  eye.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  having  reproduced — with  some  care — that 
twinkle,  turned  the  bell  of  his  ear-trumpet  with  a 
smile  in  the  direction  of  Johnson ;  but  Boswell  and 
Garrick  sat  with  solemn  faces.  The  former  showed 
that  he  was  more  impressed  than  ever  with  the  con- 
viction that  Goldsmith  was  the  most  blatantly  con- 


2  TEbe  Jessams 

ceited  of  mankind,  and  the  latter— as  Burke  perceived 
in  a  moment — was  solemn  in  mimicry  of  RoswelTs 
solemnity.  When  Johnson  had  given  a  roll  or  two 
on  his  chair  and  had  pursed  out  his  lips  in  the  act 
of  speaking,  Boswell  turned  an  eager  face  towards 
him,  putting  his  left  hand  behind  his  ear  so  that  he 
might  not  lose  a  word  that  might  fall  from  his  oracle. 
Upon  Garrick's  face  was  precisely  the  same  expres- 
sion, but  it  was  his  right  hand  that  he  put  behind 
his  ear. 

Goldsmith  and  Burke  laughed  together  at  the 
marvellous  imitation  of  the  Scotchman  by  the  actor, 
and  at  exactly  the  same  instant  the  conscious  and 
unconscious  comedian  on  the  other  side  of  the  table 
turned  their  heads  in  the  direction  first  of  Goldsmith, 
then  of  Burke.  Both  faces  were  identical  as  regards 
expression.  They  wore  the  expression  of  a  man  who 
is  greatly  grieved.  Then,  with  the  exactitude  of  two 
automatic  figures  worked  by  the  same  machinery, 
they  turned  their  heads  again  toward  Johnson. 

"Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "your  endeavour  to  evade 
the  consequences  of  maintaining  a  silly  argument  by 
thrusting  forward  a  question  touching  upon  mankind 
in  general,  suggests  an  assumption  on  your  part 
that  my  intelligence  is  of  an  inferior  order  to  your  own, 
and  that,  Sir,  I  cannot  permit  to  pass  unrebuked." 

u  Nay,  Sir, "  cried  Boswell  eagerly,  "  I  cannot  be- 
lieve that  Dr.  Goldsmith's  intention  was  so  monstrous." 

"And  the  very  fact  of  your  believing  that,  Sir, 
amounts  almost  to  a  positive  proof  that  the  contrary 
is  the  case,"  roared  Johnson. 


Jessams  Bribe.  3 

u  Pray,  Sir,  do  not  condemn  me  on  such  evidence," 
said  Goldsmith. 

"  Men  have  been  hanged  on  less,"  remarked  Burke. 
u  But,  to  return  to  the  original  matter,  I  should  like 
to  know  upon  what  facts " 

"  Ah,  Sir,  to  introduce  facts  into  any  controversy 
on  a  point  of  art  would  indeed  be  a  departure,"  said 
Goldsmith  solemnly.  "  I  cannot  countenance  a  pro- 
ceeding which  threatens  to  strangle  the  imagina- 
tion." 

"  And  you  require  yours  to  be  particularly  healthy 
just  now,  Doctor.  Did  you  not  tell  us  that  you 
were  about  to  write  a  Natural  History?"  said 
Garrick. 

"  Well,  I  remarked  that  I  had  got  paid  for  doing 
so — that's  not  just  the  same  thing,"  laughed  Gold- 
smith. 

"Ah,  the  money  is  in  hand;  the  Natural  History 
is  left  to  the  imagination,"  said  Reynolds.  "  That 
is  the  most  satisfactory  arrangement." 

"Yes,  for  the  author,"  said  Burke.  "Some  time 
ago  it  was  the  book  which  was  in  hand,  and  the 
payment  which  was  left  to  the  imagination." 

"These  sallies  are  all  very  well  in  their  way," 
said  Garrick,  "  but  their  brilliance  tends  to  blind  us 
to  the  real  issue  of  the  question  that  Dr.  Goldsmith 
introduced,  which  I  take  it  was,  Why  should  not 
acting  be  included  among  the  arts?  As  a  matter 
of  course,  the  question  possesses  no  more  than  a 
casual  interest  for  any  of  the  gentlemen  present,  with 
the  exception  of  Mr.  Burke  and  myself.  I  am  an 


4  Ube  Jessams  Bribe. 

actor  and  Mr.  Burke  is  a  statesman — another 
branch  of  the  same  profession — and  therefore 
we  are  vitally  concerned  in  the  settlement  of  the 
question. " 

"  The  matter  never  rose  to  the  dignity  of  being 
a  question,  Sir,"  said  Johnson.  "It  must  be  apparent 
to  the  humblest  intelligence — nay,  even  to  BosweiTs 
— that  acting  is  a  trick,  not  a  profession  — a  diver- 
sion, not  an  art.  I  am  ashamed  of  Dr.  Goldsmith 
for  having  contended  to  the  contrary." 

"It  must  only  have  been  in  sport,  Sir,"  said  Bos- 
well  mildly. 

"  Sir,  Dr.  Goldsmith  may  have  earned  reprobation," 
cried  Johnson,  *  but  he  has  been  guilty  of  nothing 
so  heinous  as  to  deserve  the  punishment  of  having 
you  as  his  advocate." 

"  Oh,  Sir,  surely  Mr.  Boswell  is  the  best  one  in 
the  world  to  pronounce  an  opinion  as  to  what  is 
said  in  sport,  and  what  in  earnest,"  said  Goldsmith. 
"  His  fine  sense  of  humour " 

"Sir,  have  you  seen  the  picture  which  he  got 
painted  of  himself  on  his  return  from  Corsica  ? " 
shouted  Johnson. 

"  Gentlemen,  these  diversions  may  be  well  enough 
for  you,"  said  Garrick,  "  but  in  my  ears  they  sound  as 
the  jests  of  the  crowd  must  in  the  ears  of  a  wretch 
on  his  way  to  Tyburn.  Think,  Sirs,  of  the  position 
occupied  by  Mr.  Burke  and  myself  at  the  present 
moment  Are  we  to  be  branded  as  outcasts  because 
we  happen  to  be  actors?" 

"Undoubtedly    you    at   least   are,    Davy,"    cried 


Bribe.  5 

Johnson.  "And  good  enough  for  you  too,  you 
rascal!" 

"  And,  for  my  part,  I  would  rather  be  an  outcast 
with  David  Garrick  than  become  chaplain  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury, "  said  Goldsmith. 

"Dr.  Goldsmith,  let  me  tell  you  that  it  is  unbe- 
coming in  you,  who  have  relations  in  the  Church, 
to  make  such  an  assertion,"  said  Johnson  sternly. 
*  What,  Sir,  does  friendship  occupy  a  place  before 
religion  in  your  estimation  ?  " 

*  The  Archbishop  could  easily  get  another  chaplain, 
Sir,  but  whither  could  the  stage  look  for  another 
Garrick  ?  "  said  Goldsmith. 

"  Psha !  Sir,  the  puppets  which  we  saw  last  week 
in  Panton  Street  delighted  the  town  more  than  ever 
Mr.  Garrick  did,"  cried  Johnson ;  and  when  he 
perceived  that  Garrick  coloured  at  this  sally  of  his, 
he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  roared  with  laughter. 

Reynolds  took  snuff. 

u  Dr.  Goldsmith  said  he  could  act  as  adroitly  as  the 
best  of  the  puppets — I  heard  him  myself,  "  said  Boswell. 

a  That  was  only  his  vain  boasting  which  you 
have  so  frequently  noted  with  that  acuteness  of 
observation  that  makes  you  the  envy  of  our  circle, " 
said  Burke.  "  You  understand  the  Irish  tempera- 
ment perfectly,  Mr.  Boswell.  But  to  resort  to  the 
original  point  raised  by  Goldsmith;  surely,  Dr. 
Johnson,  you  will  allow  that  an  actor  of  genius  is 
at  least  on  a  level  with  a  musician  of  genius." 

"  Sir,  I  will  allow  that  he  is  on  a  level  with  a 
fiddler  if  that  will  satisfy  you,"  replied  Johnson. 


6  Ube  Jessams 

"  Surely,  Sir,  you  must  allow  that  Mr.  Garrick's 
art  is  superior  to  that  of  Signer  Piozzi  whom  we 
heard  play  at  Dr.  Burney's,"  said  Burke. 

"Yes,  Sir;  David  Garrick  has  the  good  luck  to 
be  an  Englishman,  and  Piozzi  the  ill-luck  to  be  an 
Italian,"  replied  Johnson.  "Sir,  'tis  no  use  affect- 
ing to  maintain  that  you  regard  acting  as  on  a  level 
with  the  arts.  I  will  not  put  an  affront  upon  your 
intelligence  by  supposing  that  you  actually  believe 
what  your  words  would  imply." 

"You  can  take  your  choice,  Mr.  Burke,"  said 
Goldsmith:  "whether  will  you  have  the  affront  put 
upon  your  intelligence  or  your  sincerity  ?  " 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  am  compelled  to  leave  the 
company  for  a  space,  just  as  there  seems  to  be  some 
chance  of  the  argument  becoming  really  interesting 
to  me  personally,"  said  Garrick,  rising;  "but  the 
fact  is  that  I  rashly  made  an  engagement  for  this 
hour.  I  shall  be  gone  for  perhaps  twenty  minutes, 
and  meantime  you  may  be  able  to  come  to  some 
agreement  on  a  matter  which,  I  repeat,  is  one  of 
vital  importance  to  Mr.  Burke  and  myself;  and  so, 
Sirs,  farewell  for  the  present." 

He  gave  one  of  those  bows  of  his,  to  witness 
which  was  a  liberal  education  in  the  days  when 
grace  was  an  art,  and  left  the  room. 

"  If  Mr.  Garrick's  bow  does  not  prove  my  point, 
no  argument  that  I  can  bring  forward  will  produce 
any  impression  upon  you,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"The  dog  is  well  enough,"  said  Johnson;  "but  he 
has  need  to  be  kept  in  his  place,  and  I  believe  that 


there  is  no  one  whose  attempts  to  keep  him  in  his 
place  he  will  tolerate  as  he  does  mine." 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  is  Mr.  Garrick's  place, 
Sir?"  asked  Goldsmith.  "Do  you  believe  that  if 
we  were  all  to  stand  on  one  another's  shoulders,  as 
certain  acrobats  do,  with  Garrick  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  topmost  man,  we  should  succeed  in  keeping 
him  in  his  proper  place?" 

"Sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "your  question  is  as  ri- 
diculous as  anything  you  have  said  to-night,  and  to 
say  so  much,  is,  let  me  tell  you,  to  say  a  good 
deal." 

"What  a  pity  it  is  that  honest  Goldsmith  is  so 
persistent  in  his  attempts  to  shine,"  whispered  Bos- 
well  to  Burke. 

"Tis  a  great  pity,  truly,  that  a  lark  should  try 
to  make  its  voice  heard  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a 
Niagara,"  said  Burke. 

"  Pray,   Sir,  what  is  a  Niagara  ?  "  asked  Boswell. 

"  A  Niagara  ?  "  said  Burke.  "  Better  ask  Dr.  Gold- 
smith ;  he  alluded  to  it  in  his  latest  poem.  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, Mr.  Boswell  wishes  to  know  what  a  Niagara  is." 

"  Sir, "  said  Goldsmith,  who  had  caught  every 
word  of  the  conversation  in  undertone.  "  Sir,  Nia- 
gara is  the  Dr.  Johnson  of  the  New  World." 


CHAPTER  H. 


THE  conversation  took  place  in  the  Crown  and  An- 
chor tavern  in  the  Strand,  where  the  party  had  just 
dined.  Dr.  Johnson  had  been  quite  as  good  com- 
pany as  usual.  There  was  a  general  feeling  that 
he  had  rarely  insulted  Boswell  so  frequently  in  the 
course  of  a  single  evening — but,  then,  Boswell  had 
rarely  so  laid  himself  open  to  insult  as  he  had  upon 
this  evening — and  when  he  had  finished  with  the 
Scotchman,  he  turned  his  attention  to  Garrick,  the 
opportunity  being  afforded  him  by  Oliver  Goldsmith, 
who  had  been  unguarded  enough  to  say  a  word 
or  two  respecting  that  which  he  termed  "  the  art  of 
acting." 

aDr.  Goldsmith,  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Sir,"  cried 
the  great  Dictator.  u  Who  gave  you  the  authority 
to  add  to  the  number  of  the  arts  '  the  art  of  acting'  ? 
We  shall  hear  of  the  art  of  dancing  next,  and 
every  tumbler  who  kicks  up  the  sawdust  will  have 
the  right  to  call  himself  an  artist.  Madame  Vio- 
lante,  who  gave  Peggy  Woffington  her  first  lesson 
on  the  tight-rope,  will  rank  with  Miss  Kauifman, 
the  painter — nay,  every  poodle  that  dances  on  its 
hind  legs  in  public  will  be  an  artist." 


Ube  Jessams  JEktoe*  9 

It  was  in  vain  that  Goldsmith  endeavoured  to 
show  that  the  admission  of  acting  to  the  list  of  arts 
scarcely  entailed  such  consequences  as  Johnson 
asserted  would  be  inevitable,  if  that  admission  were 
once  made;  it  was  in  vain  that  Garrick  asked  if 
the  fact  that  painting  was  included  among  the  arts, 
caused  sign-painters  to  claim  for  themselves  the 
standing  of  artists;  and,  if  not,  why  there  was  any 
reason  to  suppose  that  the  tumblers  to  whom  John- 
son had  alluded  would  advance  their  claims  to  be 
on  a  level  with  the  highest  interpreters  of  the  emo- 
tions of  humanity.  Dr.  Johnson  roared  down  every 
suggestion  that  was  offered  to  him  most  courteously 
by  his  friends. 

Then,  in  the  exuberance  of  his  spirits,  he  insulted 
Boswell  and  told  Burke  he  did  not  know  what  he 
was  talking  about.  In  short,  he  was  thoroughly 
Johnsonian,  and  considered  himself  the  best  of  com- 
pany, and  eminently  capable  of  pronouncing  an 
opinion  as  to  what  were  the  elements  of  a  club- 
able  man. 

He  had  succeeded  in  driving  one  of  his  best  friends 
out  of  the  room,  and  in  reducing  the  others  of  the 
party  to  silence — all  except  Boswell,  who,  as  usual, 
tried  to  start  him  upon  a  discussion  of  some  subtle 
point  of  theology.  Boswell  seems  invariably  to  have 
adopted  this  course  after  he  had  been  thoroughly 
insulted,  and  to  have  been,  as  a  rule,  very  success- 
ful in  its  practice :  it  usually  led  to  his  attaining  to 
the  distinction  of  another  rebuke  for  him  to  gloat 
over. 


io  ZTbe  3essam    Bribe* 


He  now  believed  that  the  exact  moment  had  come 
for  him  to  find  out  what  Dr.  Johnson  thought  on 
the  subject  of  the  Immortality  of  the  SouL 

"Pray,  Sir,"  said  he,  shifting  his  chair  so  as  to 
get  between  Reynolds*  ear-trumpet  and  his  oracle 
— his  jealousy  of  Sir  Joshua's  ear-trumpet  was  as 
great  as  his  jealousy  of  Goldsmith.  "  Pray,  Sir,  is 
there  any  evidence  among  the  ancient  Egyptians 
that  they  believed  that  the  soul  of  man  was  im- 
perishable ?  " 

"Sir,"  said  Johnson,  after  a  huge  roll  or  two, 
"  there  is  evidence  that  the  ancient  Egyptians  were 
in  the  habit  of  introducing  a  memento  mori  at  a 
feast,  lest  the  partakers  of  the  banquet  should  be- 
come too  merry." 

"Well,  Sir?"  said  Boswell  eagerly,  as  Johnson 
made  a  pause. 

"Well,  Sir,  we  have  no  need  to  go  to  the  trou- 
ble of  introducing  such  an  object,  since  Scotchmen 
are  so  plentiful  in  London,  and  so  ready  to  accept 
the  offer  of  a  dinner,"  said  Johnson,  quite  in  his 
pleasantest  manner. 

Boswell  was  more  elated  than  the  others  of  the 
company  at  this  sally.  He  felt  that  he,  and  he  only, 
could  succeed  in  drawing  his  best  from  Johnson. 

"Nay,  Dr.  Johnson,  you  are  too  hard  on  the 
Scotch,"  he  murmured,  but  in  no  deprecatory  tone. 
He  seemed  to  be  under  the  impression  that  every- 
one present  was  envying  him,  and  he  smiled  as  if 
he  felt  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  accept  with 
meekness  the  distinction  of  which  he  was  the  recipient. 


Jessams  ffiribe.  n 

"Come,  Goldy,"  cried  Johnson,  turning  his  back 
upon  Boswell,  "you  must  not  be  silent,  or  I  shall 
think  that  you  feel  aggrieved  because  I  got  the 
better  of  you  in  the  argument." 

"Argument,  Sir?"  said  Goldsmith.  "I  protest 
that  I  was  not  aware  that  any  argument  was  under 
consideration.  You  make  short  work  of  another's 
argument,  Doctor." 

"  Tis  due  to  the  logical  faculty  which  I  have  in 
common  with  Mr.  Boswell,  Sir,"  said  Johnson,  with 
a  twinkle. 

"  The  logical  faculty  of  the  elephant  when  it  lies 
down  on  its  tormentor,  the  wolf,"  muttered  Gold- 
smith, who  had  just  acquired  some  curious  facts  for 
his  Animated  Nature. 

At  that  moment  one  of  the  tavern-waiters  entered 
the  room  with  a  message  to  Goldsmith  that  his 
cousin,  the  Dean,  had  just  arrived  and  was  anxious 
to  obtain  permission  to  join  the  party. 

"  My  cousin,  the  Dean!  What  Dean?  What  does 
the  man  mean  ?  "  said  Goldsmith,  who  appeared  to 
be  both  surprised  and  confused. 

"Why,  Sir,"  said  Boswell,  "you  have  told  us 
more  than  once  that  you  had  a  cousin  who  was  a 
dignitary  of  the  Church." 

"  Have  I  indeed? "  said  Goldsmith.  "  Then  I 
suppose,  if  I  said  so,  this  must  be  the  very  man. 
A  Dean  is  he?" 

"Sir,  it  is  ill-mannered  to  keep  even  a  curate 
waiting  in  the  common-room  of  a  tavern,"  said 
Johnson,  who  was  not  the  man  to  shrink  from  any 


12  Ube  3essam£  Bribe* 

sudden  addition  to  his  audience  of  an  evening.  *  If 
your  relation  were  an  Archbishop,  Sir,  this  company 
would  be  worthy  to  receive  him.  Pray  give  the 
order  to  show  him  into  this  room." 

Goldsmith  seemed  lost  in  thought  He  gave  a 
start  when  Johnson  had  spoken,  and  in  no  very  cer- 
tain tone  told  the  waiter  to  lead  the  clergyman  up 
to  the  room.  Oliver's  face  undoubtedly  wore  an 
expression  of  greater  curiosity  than  that  of  any  of 
his  friends,  before  the  waiter  returned,  followed  by 
an  elderly  '  and  somewhat  undersized  clergyman 
wearing  a  full-bottomed  wig  and  the  bands  and 
apron  of  a  dignitary  of  the  Church.  He  walked 
stiffly,  with  an  erect  carriage  that  gave  a  certain 
dignity  to  his  short  figure.  His  face  was  white,  but 
his  eyebrows  were  extremely  bushy.  He  had  a  slight 
squint  in  one  eye. 

The  bow  which  he  gave  on  entering  the  room 
was  profuse  but  awkward.  It  contrasted  with  the 
farewell  salute  of  Garrick  on  leaving  the  table  twenty 
minutes  before.  Everyone  present,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Oliver,  perceived  in  a  moment  a  family  re- 
semblance in  the  clergyman's  bow  to  that  with  which 
Goldsmith  was  accustomed  to  receive  his  friends. 
A  little  jerk  which  the  visitor  gave  in  raising  his 
head  was  laughably  like  a  motion  made  by  Gold- 
smith, supplemental  to  his  usual  bow. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  visitor,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  "I  entreat  of  you  to  be  seated/  His  voice 
and  accent  more  than  suggested  Goldsmith's,  although 
he  had  only  a  suspicion  of  an  Irish  brogue.  If 


TTbe  Sessamg  Bribe*  13 

Oliver  had  made  an  attempt  to  disown  his  relation- 
ship, no  one  in  the  room  would  have  regarded  him 
as  sincere.  "Nay,  gentlemen,  I  insist,**  continued 
the  stranger;  "you  embarrass  me  with  your  cour- 
tesy. " 

"Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "you  will  not  find  that  any 
company  over  which  I  have  the  honour  to  preside 
is  found  lacking  in  its  duty  to  the  Church." 

BI  am  the  humblest  of  its  ministers,  Sir,"  said 
the  stranger,  with  a  deprecatory  bow.  Then  he 
glanced  round  the  room,  and  with  an  exclamation 
of  pleasure  went  towards  Goldsmith.  u  Ah !  I  do 
not  need  to  ask  which  of  this  distinguished  company 
is  my  cousin  Nolly — I  beg  your  pardon,  Oliver — ah, 
old  times — old  times ! "  He  had  caught  Goldsmith's 
hands  in  both  his  own  and  was  looking  into  his 
face  with  a  pathetic  air.  Goldsmith  seemed  a  little 
embarrassed.  His  smile  was  but  the  shadow  of  a 
smile.  The  rest  of  the  party  averted  their  heads, 
for  in  the  long  silence  that  followed  the  exclamation 
of  the  visitor,  there  was  an  element  of  pathos. 

Curiously  enough  a  sudden  laugh  came  from  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  causing  all  faces  to  be  turned  in 
his  direction.  An  aspect  of  stern  rebuke  was  now 
worn  by  Dr.  Johnson.  The  painter  hastened  to 
apologise. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir,"  he  said  gravely,  "but — 
Sir,  I  am  a  painter — my  name  is  Reynolds — and— 
well,  Sir,  the  family  resemblance  between  you  and 
our  dear  friend  Dr.  Goldsmith — a  resemblance  that 
perhaps   only  a  painter's  eye  could  detect — seemed 


14  Ube  Sessams  Bribe* 

to  me  so  extraordinary  as  you  stood  together, 
that " 

"Not  another  word,  Sir,  I  entreat  of  you,"  cried 
the  visitor.  "  My  cousin  Oliver  and  I  have  not  met 
for — how  many  years  is  it,  Nolly  ?  Not  eleven — no, 
it  cannot  be  eleven — and  yet " 

"Ah,  Sir,"  said  Oliver,  "time  is  fugitive — very 
fugitive." 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  hear  that  you  have  acquired 
this  knowledge,  which  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients 
has  crystallised  in  a  phrase,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  But  you  must  present  me  to  your  friends,  Noll — 
Oliver,  I  mean.  You,  Sir" — he  turned  to  Reynolds — 
"  have  told  me  your  name.  Am  I  fortunate  enough 
to  be  face  to  face  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds?  Oh, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it.  Oliver  dedicated  his 
last  poem  to  you.  Sir,  I  am  your  servant.  And  you, 
Sir" — he  turned  to  Burke — "I  seem  to  have  seen 
your  face  somewhere — it  is  strangely  familiar " 

"That  gentleman  is  Mr.  Burke,  Sir,"  said  Gold- 
smith. He  was  rapidly  recovering  from  his  embar- 
rassment, and  spoke  with  something  of  an  air  of 
pride,  as  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  right  hand 
towards  Burke.  The  clergyman  made  precisely  the 
same  gesture  with  his  left  hand,  crying — 

"What,  Mr.  Edmund  Burke,  the  friend  of  Liberty 
— the  friend  of  the  people?  " 

"The  same,  Sir,"  said  Oliver.  "He  is,  besides, 
the  friend  of  Oliver  Goldsmith." 

"  Then  he  is  my  friend  also,"  said  the  clergyman. 


15 

"  Sir,  to  be  in  a  position  to  shake  you  by  the  hand 
is  the  greatest  privilege  of  my  life." 

"You  do  me  great  honour,  Sir,"  said  Burke. 

Goldsmith  was  burning  to  draw  the  attention  of 
his  relative  to  Dr.  Johnson,  who  on  his  side  was 
looking  anything  but  pleased  at  being  so  far  neg- 
lected. 

"Mr.  Burke,  you  are  our  countryman — Oliver's 
and  mine — and  I  know  you  are  sound  on  the  Royal 
Marriage  Act.  I  should  dearly  like  to  have  a  talk 
with  you  on  that  iniquitous  measure.  You  opposed 
it,  Sir?" 

"With  all  my  power,  Sir,"  said  Burke. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  again,  Sir.  Mrs.  Luttrel 
was  an  honour  to  her  sex,  and  it  is  she  who  con- 
fers an  honour  upon  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  not 
the  other  way  about.  You  are  with  me,  Mr.  Burke  ? 
Eh,  what  is  the  matter,  cousin  Noll?  Why  do  you 
work  with  your  arm  that  way." 

"  There  are  other  gentlemen  in  the  room,  Mr. 
Dean,"  said  Oliver. 

"They  can  wait,"  cried  Mr.  Dean.  "They  are 
certain  to  be  inferior  to  Mr.  Burke  and  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds.  If  I  should  be  wrong,  they  will  not  feel 
mortified  at  what  I  have  said." 

"This  is  Mr.  Boswell,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"Mr.  Boswell — of  where,  Sir?" 

"Mr.  Boswell,  of— of  Scotland,  Sir." 

"  Scotland,  the  land  where  the  clergymen  write 
plays  for  the  theatre.  Your  clergymen  might  be 
better  employed,  Mr. — Mr. " 


1 6  tlbe  3cssam£ 

«  Boswell,  Sir." 

"  Mr.  Boswell.  Yes,  I  hope  you  will  look  into 
this  matter  should  you  ever  visit  your  country 
again — a  remote  possibility,  from  all  that  I  can  hear 
of  your  countrymen." 

"Why,  Sir,  since  Mr.  Home  wrote  his  tragedy 
of  '  Douglas' "  began  Boswell,  but  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  stranger. 

"  What,  you  would  condone  his  offence?  "  he  cried. 
"The  fact  of  your  having  a  mind  to  do  so  shows 
that  the  clergy  of  your  country  are  still  sadly  lax 
in  their  duty,  Sir.  They  should  have  taught  you 
better." 

"And  this  is  Dr.  Johnson,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith  in 
tones  of  triumph. 

His  relation  sprang  from  his  seat  and  advanced 
to  the  head  of  the  table,  bowing  profoundly. 

u  Dr.  Johnson, "  he  cried,  "  I  have  long  desired  to 
meet  you,  Sir." 

"I  am  your  servant,  Mr.  Dean,"  said  Johnson, 
towering  above  him  as  he  got — somewhat  awkwardly 
— upon  his  feet.  "  No  gentleman  of  your  cloth, 
Sir — leaving  aside  for  the  moment  all  consideration 
of  the  eminence  in  the  Church  to  which  you  have 
attained — fails  to  obtain  my  respect." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  Sir,"  said  the  Dean.  "It 
shows  that  you,  though  a  Nonconformist  preacher, 
and,  as  I  understand,  abounding  in  zeal  on  behalf 
of  the  cause  of  which  you  are  so  able  an  advocate, 
are  not  disposed  to  relinquish  the  example  of  the 
great  Wesley  in  his  admiration  for  the  Church." 


ZLbe  Jessams  Brifce,  17 

"Sir,"  said  Johnson,  with  great  dignity,  but  with 
a  scowl  upon  liis  face.  "Sir,  you  are  the  victim 
of  an  error  as  gross  as  it  is  unaccountable.  I  am 
not  a  Nonconformist — on  the  contrary,  I  would  give 
the  rogues  no  quarter." 

"Sir,"  said  the  clergyman,  with  the  air  of  one 
administering  a  rebuke  to  a  subordinate.  "  Sir, 
such  intoleration  is  unworthy  of  an  enlightened 
country  and  an  age  of  some  culture.  But  I  ask 
your  pardon;  finding  you  in  the  company  of  dis- 
tinguished gentlemen,  I  was  led  to  believe  that  you 
were  the  great  Dr.  Johnson,  the  champion  of  the 
rights  of  conscience.  I  regret  that  I  was  mistaken." 

"  Sir!  "  cried  Goldsmith,  in  great  consternation 
— for  Johnson  was  rendered  speechless  through  being 
placed  in  the  position  of  the  rebuked,  instead  of 
occupying  his  accustomed  place  as  the  rebuker. 
"Sir,  this  is  the  great  Dr.  Johnson — nay,  there  is 
no  Dr.  Johnson  but  one." 

"Tis  so  like  your  good  nature,  Cousin  Oliver, 
to  take  the  side  of  the  weak,"  said  the  clergyman, 
smiling.  "  Well,  well,  we  will  take  the  honest 
gentleman's  greatness  for  granted ;  and,  indeed,  he 
is  great  in  one  sense:  he  is  large  enough  to  out- 
weigh you  and  me  put  together  in  one  scale.  To 
such  greatness  we  would  do  well  to  bow." 

"  Heavens,  Sir !  "  said  Boswell  in  a  whisper  that 
had  something  of  awe  in  it.  "  Is  it  possible  that 
you  have  never  heard  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  ?  " 

"Alas!  Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  am  but  a 
country  parson.  I  cannot  be  expected  to  know  all 

2 


1 8  Ube  5essams 

the  men  who  are  called  great  in  London.  Of  course, 
Mr.  Burke  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  have  a  Euro- 
pean reputation,  but  you,  Mr. — Mr. — ah!  you  see  I 
have  e'en  forgot  your  worthy  name,  Sir,  though  I 
doubt  not  you  are  one  of  London's  greatest.  Pray, 
Sir,  what  have  you  written  that  entitles  you  to  speak 
with  such  freedom  in  the  presence  of  such  gentle- 
men as  Mr.  Burke,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and — I 
add  with  pride — Oliver  Goldsmith?" 

"  I  am  the  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Sir,"  muttered 
Boswell. 

"  And  he  has  doubtless  greatness  enough — avoirdu- 
pois— to  serve  for  both!  Pray,  Oliver,  as  the  gen- 
tleman from  Scotland  is  too  modest  to  speak  for 
himself,  tell  me  what  he  has  written." 

"  He  has  written  many  excellent  works,  Sir,  includ- 
ing an  account  of  Corsica,"  said  Goldsmith  with  some 
stammering. 

"  And  his  friend,  Dr.  Johnson,  has  he  attained  to 
an  equally  dizzy  altitude  in  literature?" 

"You  are  surely  jesting,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith. 
"  The  world  is  familiar  with  Dr.  Johnson's  Dic- 
tionary. " 

*  Alas,  I  am  but  a  country  parson,  as  you  know, 
Oliver,  and  I  have  no  need  for  a  dictionary,  having 
been  moderately  well  educated.  Has  the  work  ap- 
peared recently,  Dr.  Johnson  ?  " 

But  Dr.  Johnson  had  turned  his  back  upon  the 
stranger,  and  picked  up  a  volume  which  Tom  Da- 
vies,  the  bookseller,  had  sent  to  him  at  the  Crown 
and  Anchor,  and  had  buried  his  face  in  its  pages, 


Ube  JessaiuE  Bribe*  19 

bending  it,  as  was  his  wont,  until  the  stitching  had 
cracked,  and  the  back  was  already  loose. 

"  Your  great  friend,  Noll,  is  no  lover  of  books, 
or  he  would  treat  them  with  greater  tenderness," 
said  the  clergyman.  UI  would  fain  hope  that  the 
purchasers  of  his  Dictionary  treat  it  more  fairly  than 
he  does  the  work  of  others.  When  did  he  bring 
out  his  Dictionary?" 

"  Eighteen  years  ago, "  said  Oliver. 

"  And  what  books  has  he  written  within  the 
intervening  years?  " 

u  He  has  been  a  constant  writer,  Sir,  and  is  the 
most  highly  esteemed  of  our  authors." 

"Nay,  Sir,  but  give  me  a  list  of  his  books  pub- 
lished within  the  past  eighteen  years,  so  that  I  may 
repair  my  deplorable  ignorance.  You,  cousin,  have 
written  many  works  that  the  world  would  not  will- 
ingly be  without ;  and  I  hear  that  you  are  about 
to  add  to  that  already  honourable  list;  but  your 
friend — oh,  you  have  deceived  me,  Oliver! — he  is 
no  true  worker  in  literature,  or  he  would  not  nay, 
he  could  not  have  remained  idle  all  these  years.  How 
does  he  obtain  his  means  of  living  if  he  will — not 
use  his  pen  ?  " 

"He  has  a  pension  from  the  King,  Sir,"  stut- 
tered Oliver.  to  I  tell  you,  Sir,  he  is  the  most  learned 
man  in  Europe." 

"  His  is  a  sad  case,"  said  the  clergyman.  u  To 
refrain  from  administering  to  him  the  rebuke  which 
he  deserves  would  be  to  neglect  an  obvious  duty." 
He  took  a  few  steps  towards  Johnson  and  raised 


20  Ube  3e5sant£  Bribe* 

his  head.  Goldsmith  fell  into  a  chair  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands ;  Boswell's  jaw  fell ;  Burke  and 
Reynolds  looked  by  turns  grave  and  amused.  "  Dr. 
Johnson,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  feel  that  it  is  my 
duty  as  a  clergyman  to  urge  upon  you  to  amend 
your  way  of  life." 

tt  Sir,"  shouted  Johnson,  "  if  you  were  not  a  clergy- 
man I  would  say  that  you  were  a  very  impertinent 
fellow ! " 

"  Your  way  of  receiving  a  rebuke  which  your 
conscience — if  you  have  one — tells  you  that  you  have 
earned,  supplements  in  no  small  measure  the  know- 
ledge of  your  character  which  I  have  obtained  since 
entering  this  room,  Sir.  You  may  be  a  man  of  some 
parts,  Dr.  Johnson,  but  you  have  acknowledged 
yourself  to  be  as  intolerant  in  matters  of  religion  as 
you  have  proved  yourself  to  be  intolerant  of  rebuke, 
offered  to  you  in  a  friendly  spirit.  It  seems  to  me 
that  your  habit  is  to  browbeat  your  friends  into 
acquiescence  with  every  dictum  that  comes  from 
your  lips,  though  they  are  workers — not  without 
honour — at  that  profession  of  letters  which  you 
despise — nay,  Sir,  do  not  interrupt  me.  If  you  did  not 
despise  letters,  you  would  not  have  allowed  eighteen 
years  of  your  life  to  pass  without  printing  at  least  an 
equal  number  of  books.  Think  you,  Sir,  that  a  pen- 
sion was  granted  to  you  by  the  State  to  enable  you 
to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness  while  your  betters  are 
starving  in  their  garrets?  Dr.  Johnson,  if  your  name 
should  go  down  to  posterity,  how  do  you  think  you 
will  be  regarded  by  all  discriminating  men?  Do 


Ubc  Jessamp  Bribe*  21 

you  think  that  those  tavern  dinners  at  which  you 
sit  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  shout  down  all  who 
differ  from  you,  will  be  placed  to  your  credit  to 
balance  your  love  of  idleness  and  your  intolerance  ? 
That  is  the  question  which  I  leave  with  you ;  I  pray 
you  to  consider  it  well;  and  so,  Sir,  I  take  my  leave 
of  you.  Gentlemen,  Cousin  Oliver,  farewell,  Sirs. 
I  trust  I  have  not  spoken  in  vain." 

He  made  a  general  bow — an  awkward  bow — and 
walked  with  some  dignity  to  the  door.  Then  he 
turned  and  bowed  again  before  leaving  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IIL 


WHEN  he  had  disappeared,  the  room  was  very  silent. 

Suddenly  Goldsmith,  who  had  remained  sitting  at 
the  table  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  started 
up,  crying  out,  "  '  Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia ! ' 
How  could  I  be  so  great  a  fool  as  to  forget  that 
he  published  'Rasselas'  since  the  Dictionary?  "  He 
ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  calling  downstairs: 
"  'Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia'!  *  Rasselas,  Prince 
of  Abyssinia'!" 

"Sir!"  came  the  roar  of  Dr.  Johnson.  "Close 
that  door  and  return  to  your  chair,  if  you  desire  to 
retain  even  the  smallest  amount  of  the  respect  which 
your  friends  once  had  for  you.  Cease  your  bawl- 
ing, Sir,  and  behave  decently." 

Goldsmith  shut  the  door. 

*  I  did  you  a  gross  injustice,  Sir, "  said  he,  return- 
ing slowly  to  the  table.  al  allowed  that  man  to 
assume  that  you  had  published  no  book  since  your 
Dictionary.  The  fact  is,  that  I  was  so  disturbed  at 
the  moment  I  forgot  your  '  Rasselas.' * 

u  If  you  had  mentioned  that  book,  you  would  but 
have  added  to  the  force  of  your  relation's  conten- 
tion, Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  Johnson.  "  If  I  am  sus- 


TIbe  Jessams  JSrifce,  23 

pected  of  being  an  idle  dog,  the  fact  that  I  have 
printed  a  small  volume  of  no  particular  merit  will 
not  convince  my  accuser  of  my  industry." 

"  Those  who  know  you,  Sir, "  cried  Goldsmith,  "  do 
not  need  any  evidence  of  your  industry.  As  for 
that  man —  " 

"Let  the  man  alone,  Sir,"  thundered  Johnson. 

"Pray  why  should  he  let  the  man  alone,  Sir?" 
said  Eos  well. 

"  Because,  in  the  first  place,  Sir,  the  man  is  a 
clergyman,  in  rank  close  to  a  Bishop ;  in  the  second 
place,  he  is  a  relative  of  Dr.  Goldsmith's;  and,  in 
the  third  place,  he  was  justified  in  his  remarks." 

"Oh,  no,  Sir,"  said  Boswell.  "We  deny  your 
generous  plea  of  justification.  Idle !  Think  of  the 
dedications  which  you  have  written  even  within  the 
year.  * 

"Psha!  Sir,  the  more  I  think  of  them  the — well, 
the  less  I  think  of  them,  if  you  will  allow  me  the 
paradox,"  said  Johnson.  "  Sir,  the  man  is  right,  and 
there's  an  end  on't.  Dr.  Goldsmith,  you  will  con- 
vey my  compliments  to  your  cousin,  and  assure  him 
of  my  good-will.  I  can  forgive  him  for  every- 
thing, Sir,  except  his  ignorance  respecting  my  Dic- 
tionary. Pray  what  is  his  name,  Sir?" 

"His   name,  Sir,  his  name?"  faltered  Goldsmith. 

'  Yes,  Sir,  his  name.  Surely  the  man  has  a  name," 
said  Johnson, 

"  His  name,  Sir,  is — is — God  help  me,  Sir,  I  know 
not  what  is  his  name." 

"  Nonsense,   Dr.    Goldsmith !     He   is   your  cousia 


24  ttbe  Sessams 

and  a  Dean.  Mr.  Boswell  tells  me  that  he  has 
heard  you  refer  to  him  in  conversation;  if  you  did 
so  in  a  spirit  of  boasting,  you  erred." 

For  some  moments  Goldsmith  was  silent.  Then, 
without  looking  up,  he  said  in  a  low  tone: 

*  The  man  is  no  cousin  of  mine ;  I  have  no 
relative  who  is  a  Dean." 

"Nay,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  you  need  not  deny  it," 
cried  Boswell.  "  You  boasted  of  him  quite  recently 
and  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Garrick,  too." 

"  Mr.  Boswell's  ear  is  acute,  Goldsmith, "  said 
Burke  with  a  smile. 

"  His  ears  are  so  long,  Sir,  one  is  not  surprised 
to  find  the  unities  of  nature  maintained  when 
one  hears  his  voice, "  remarked  Goldsmith  in  a  low 
tone. 

"  Here  comes  Mr.  Garrick  himself,"  said  Reynolds, 
as  the  door  was  opened  and  Garrick  returned,  bow- 
ing in  his  usual  pleasant  manner  as  he  advanced  to 
the  chair  which  he  had  vacated  not  more  than  half 
an  hour  before.  "  Mr.  Garrick  is  an  impartial  wit- 
ness on  this  point." 

"Whatever  he  may  be  on  some  other  points," 
remarked  Burke. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Garrick,  "you  seem  to  be 
somewhat  less  harmonious  than  you  were  when  I 
was  compelled  to  hurry  away  to  keep  my  appoint- 
ment. May  I  inquire  the  reason  of  the  differ- 
ence? * 

"  You  may  not,  Sir !  "  shouted  Johnson,  seeing 
that  Boswell  was  burning  to  acquaint  Garrick  with 


ZTbe  3essam£  Bribe*  25 

what  had  occurred.  Johnson  quickly  perceived  that 
it  would  be  well  to  keep  the  visit  of  the  clergyman 
a  secret,  and  he  knew  that  it  would  have  no  chance 
of  remaining  one  for  long  if  Garrick  were  to  hear 
of  it.'  He  could  imagine  Garrick  burlesquing  the 
whole  scene  for  the  entertainment  of  the  Burney 
girls  or  the  Horneck  family.  He  had  heard  more 
than  once  of  the  diversion  which  his  old  pupil  at 
Lichficld  had  created  by  his  mimicry  of  certain 
scenes  in  which  he,  Johnson,  played  an  important 
part.  He  had  been  congratulating  himself  upon  the 
fortunate  absence  of  the  actor  during  the  visit  of 
the  clergyman.  "You  may  tell  Mr.  Garrick  no- 
thing, Sir,"  he  repeated,  as  Garrick  looked  with  a 
blank  expression  of  interrogation  around  the  company. 

"  Sir, "  said  Boswell,  "  my  veracity  is  called  in 
question." 

"  What  is  a  question  of  your  veracity,  Sir,  in 
comparison  with  the  issues  that  have  been  in  the 
balance  during  the  past  half-hour?  "  cried  Johnson. 

"Nay,  Sir,  one  question,"  said  Burke,  seeing  that 
Boswell  had  collapsed.  "  Mr.  Garrick — have  you 
heard  Dr.  Goldsmith  boast  of  having  a  Dean  for  a 
relative  ?  " 

"Why,  no,  Sir,"  replied  Garrick;  "but  I  heard 
him  say  that  he  had  a  brother  who  deserved  to  be 
a  Dean." 

"And  so  I  had,  Sir,"  cried  Goldsmith.  "Alas! 
I  cannot  say  that  I  have  now.  My  poor  brother 
died  a  country  clergyman  a  few  years  ago." 

"  I  am   a  blind   man  so  far  as  evidence  bearing 


26  Ube  3essam£  JBrifc 

upon  things  seen  is  concerned,"  said  Johnson;  "but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  some  of  the  man's  gestures — 
nay,  some  of  the  tones  of  his  voice  as  well  —resem- 
bled those  of  Dr.  Goldsmith.  I  should  like  to  know 
if  anyone  at  the  table  noticed  the  similarity  to  which 
I  allude?" 

"  I  certainly  noticed  it,"  cried  Boswell  eagerly. 
"Your  evidence  is  not  admissible,  Sir,"  said  John- 
son.    u  What  does  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  say  ?  " 

"Why,  Sir,"  said  Reynolds  with  a  laugh,  and  a 
glance  towards  Garrick,  "I  confess  that  I  noticed 
the  resemblance  and  was  struck  by  it,  both  as  regards 
the  man's  gestures  and  his  voice.  But  I  am  as 
convinced  that  he  was  no  relation  of  Dr.  Goldsmith's 
as  I  am  of  my  own  existence." 

"  But  if  not,  Sir,  how  can  you  account  for " 

Boswell's  inquiry  was  promptly  checked  by  Johnson, 
"  Be  silent,  Sir, "  he  thundered.  "  If  you  have  left 
your  manners  in  Scotland  in  an  impulse  of  genero- 
sity, you  have  done  a  foolish  thing,  for  the  gift  was 
meagre  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  needs  of  your 
country  in  that  respect.  Sir,  let  me  tell  you  that 
the  last  word  has  been  spoken  touching  this  incident. 
I  will  consider  any  further  reference  to  it  in  the  light 
of  a  personal  affront." 

After  a  rather  awkward  pause,  Garrick  said: 
41 1  begin  to  suspect  that  I  have  been  more  highly 
diverted  during  the  past  half-hour  than  any  of  this 
company." 

"Well,  Davy,"  said  Johnson,  "the  accuracy  of 
your  suspicion  is  wholly  dependent  on  your  dispo- 


\\j— 


tlbe  Jessams  Bribe*  27 

sition  to  be  entertained.  Where  have  you  been, 
Sir,  and  of  what  nature  was  your  diversion  ?  " 

"Sir,"   said  Garrick,  "  I  have  been  with  a  poet." 

"So  have  we,  Sir — with  the  greatest  poet  alive 
— the  author  of  'The  Deserted  Village' — and  yet 
you  enter  to  find  us  immoderately  glum,"  said 
Johnson.  He  was  anxious  to  show  his  friend  Gold- 
smith that  he  did  not  regard  him  as  accountable 
for  the  visit  of  the  clergyman  whom  he  quite  be- 
lieved to  be  Oliver's  cousin,  in  spite  of  the  repu- 
diation of  the  relationship  by  Goldsmith  himself,  and 
the  asseveration  of  Reynolds. 

"Ah,  Sir,  mine  was  not  a  poet  such  as  Dr. 
Goldsmith,"  said  Garrick.  "Mine  was  only  a  sort 
of  poet." 

"And  pray,  Sir,  what  is  a  sort  of  poet?"  asked 
Boswcll. 

"  A  sort  of  poet,  Sir,  is  one  who  writes  a  sort 
of  poetry,"  replied  Garrick. 

He  then  began  a  circumstantial  account  of  how 
he  had  made  an  appointment  for  the  hour  at  which 
he  had  left  his  friends,  with  a  gentleman  who  was 
anxious  to  read  to  him  some  portions  of  a  play 
which  he  had  just  written.  The  meeting  was  to 
take  place  in  a  neighbouring  coffee-house  in  the 
Strand ;  but  even  though  the  distance  which  he  had 
to  traverse  was  short,  it  had  been  the  scene  of 
more  than  one  adventure,  which,  narrated  by  Gar- 
rick, proved  comical  to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

"  A  few  yards  away  I  almost  ran  into  the  arms 
of  a  clergyman — he  wore  the  bands  and  apron  of 


28  TTbe  Jessams 

a  Dean,"  he  continued,  not  seeming  to  notice  the 
little  start  which  his  announcement  caused  in  some 
directions.  "  The  man  grasped  me  by  the  arm," 
he  continued,  "  doubtless  recognising  me  from  my 
portraits — for  he  said  he  had  never  seen  me  act — 
and  then  began  an  harangue  on  the  text  of  neg- 
lected opportunities.  It  seemed,  however,  that  he  had 
no  more  apparent  example  of  my  sins  in  this  di- 
rection than  my  neglect  to  produce  Dr.  Goldsmith's 
'  Good-Natured  Alan.'  Faith,  Gentlemen,  he  took 
it  quite  as  a  family  grievance."  Suddenly  he 
paused,  and  looked  round  the  party:  only  Reynolds 
was  laughing,  all  the  rest  were  grave.  A  thought 
seemed  to  strike  the  narrator.  "  What !  "  he  cried, 
"it  is  not  possible  that  this  was,  after  all,  Dr. 
Goldsmith's  cousin,  the  Dean,  regarding  whom  you 
interrogated  me  just  now?  If  so,  'tis  an  extraor- 
dinary coincidence  that  I  should  have  encountered 
him — unless — good  Heavens,  Gentlemen!  is  it  the 
case  that  he  came  here  when  I  had  thrown  him 
off?" 

"  Sir, "  cried  Oliver,  a  I  affirm  that  no  relation  of 
mine,  Dean  or  no  Dean,  entered  this  room !  " 

"  Then,  Sir,  you  may  look  to  find  him  at  your 
chambers  in  Brick  Court  on  your  return,"  said  Gar- 
rick.  *  Oh,  yes,  Doctor! — a  small  man  with  the 
family  bow  of  the  Goldsmith's — something  like  this" — 
he  gave  a  comical  reproduction  of  the  salutation 
of  the  clergyman. 

a  I  tell  you,  Sir,  once  and  for  all,  that  the  man  is 
no  relation  of  mine,"  protested  Goldsmith. 


Ubc  Jes0am2  Bribe*  29 

"And  let  that  be  the  end  of  the  matter,"  declared 
Johnson,  with  no  lack  of  decisiveness  in  his  voice. 

u  Oh,  Sir,  I  assure  you  I  have  no  desire  to  meet 
the  gentleman  again,"  laughed  Garrick.  "I  got  rid 
of  him  by  a  feint,  just  as  he  was  endeavouring  to 
force  me  to  promise  a  production  of  a  dramatic 
version  of  4The  Deserted  Village' — he  said  he  had 
the  version  at  his  lodging,  and  meant  to  read  it  to 
his  cousin — I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir,  but  he  said 
*  cousin.'  * 

"  Sir,  let  us  have  no  more  of  this — cousin  or  no 
cousin,"  roared  Johnson. 

u  That  is  my  prayer,  Sir — I  utter  it  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul,"  said  Garrick.  "It  was  about  my 
poet  I  meant  to  speak — my  poet  and  his  play. 
What  think  you  of  the  South  Seas  and  the  visit  of 
Lieutenant  Cook  as  the  subject  of  a  tragedy  in  blank 
verse,  Dr.  Johnson  ?  " 

M I  think,  Davy,  that  the  subject  represents  so 
magnificent  a  scheme  of  theatrical  bankruptcy  you 
would  do  well  to  hand  it  over  to  that  scoundrel 
Foote,"  said  Johnson  pleasantly.  He  was  by  this 
time  quite  himself  again,  and  ready  to  pronounce 
an  opinion  on  any  question  with  that  finality  which 
carried  conviction  with  it — yes,  to  James  Boswell. 

For  the  next  half-hour  Garrick  entertained  his 
friends  with  the  details  of  his  interview  with  the 
poet  who — according  to  his  account — had  designed 
the  drama  of  "  Otaheite  "  in  order  to  afford  Garrick 
an  opportunity  of  playing  the  part  of  a  Cannibal 
King,  dressed  mainly  in  feathers,  and  beating  time 


30  Hbe  3essant£ 

alternately  with  a  club  and  a  tomahawk,  while  he 
delivered  a  series  of  blank  verse  soliloquies  and 
apostrophes  to  Mars,  Vulcan,  and  Diana. 

"The  monarch  was  especially  devoted  to  Diana,1 
said  Garrick.  "My  poet  explained  that,  being  a 
hunter,  he  would  naturally  find  it  greatly  to  his 
advantage  to  say  a  good  word  now  and  again  for 
the  chaste  goddess ;  and  when  I  inquired  how  it  was 
possible  that  his  Majesty  of  Otaheite  could  know 
anything  about  Diana,  he  said  that,  as  the  Romans  and 
the  South  Sea  Islanders  were  equally  Pagans,  and  that, 
as  such,  they  had  equal  rights  in  the  Pagan  mytho- 
logy, it  would  be  monstrously  unjust  to  assume 
that  the  Romans  should  claim  a  monopoly  of  Diana." 

Boswell  interrupted  him  to  express  the  opinion 
that  the  poet's  contention  was  quite  untenable,  and 
Garrick  said  it  was  a  great  relief  to  his  mind  to 
have  so  erudite  a  scholar  as  Boswell  on  his  side, 
though  he  admitted  that  he  thought  there  was  a 
good  deal  in  the  poet's  argument. 

He  adroitly  led  on  his  victim  to  enter  into  a  se- 
rious argument  on  the  question  of  the  possibility  of 
the  Otaheitans  having  any  definite  notion  of  the  cha- 
racter and  responsibilities  assigned  to  Diana  in  the 
Roman  mythology;  and  after  keeping  the  party  in 
roars  of  laughter  for  half  an  hour,  he  delighted  Bos- 
well by  assuring  him  that  his  eloquence  and  the  force 
of  his  arguments  had  removed  whatever  misgivings 
he,  Garrick,  originally  had,  that  he  was  doing  the 
poet  an  injustice  in  declining  his  tragedy. 

When    the    party    were   about  to  separate,  Gold- 


TTbe  Jessams  35rtt>e*  31 

smith  drew  Johnson  apart — greatly  to  the  pique  of 
Boswell — and  said, 

"  Dr.  Johnson,  I  have  a  great  favour  to  ask  of 
you,  Sir,  and  I  hope  you  will  see  your  way  to  grant 
it,  though  I  do  not  deserve  any  favour  from  you." 

"You  deserve  no  favour,  Goldy,"  said  Johnson, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  little  man's  shoulder,  "  and 
therefore,  Sir,  you  make  a  man  who  grants  you 
one  so  well  satisfied  with  himself  he  should  regard 
himself  your  debtor.  Pray,  Sir,  make  me  your 
debtor  by  giving  me  a  chance  of  granting  you  a 
favour." 

*  You  say  everything  better  than  any  living  man, 
Sir,"  cried  Goldsmith.  "How  long  would  it  take 
me  to  compose  so  graceful  a  sentence,  do  you  sup- 
pose? You  are  the  man  whom  I  most  highly  re- 
spect, Sir,  and  I  am  anxious  to  obtain  your  permis- 
sion to  dedicate  to  you  the  comedy  which  I  have 
written  and  which  Mr.  Colman  is  about  to  produce." 

"Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  Johnson,  u  we  have  been 
good  friends  for  several  years  now." 

"Long  before   Mr.   Boswell  came  to  town,  Sir." 

44  Undoubtedly,  Sir — long  before  you  became  re- 
cognised as  the  most  melodious  of  our  poets — the 
most  diverting  of  our  play-writers.  I  wrote  the 
prologue  to  your  first  play,  Goldy,  and  I'll  stand 
sponsor  for  your  second — nay,  Sir,  not  only  so,  but 
I'll  also  go  to  see  it,  and  if  it  be  damned,  111  drink 
punch  with  you  all  night  and  talk  of  my  tragedy 
of  *  Irene,'  which  was  also  damned ;  there's  my  hand 
on  it,  Dr.  Goldsmith." 


Goldsmith  pressed  the  great  hand  with  both  of 
his  own,  and  tears  were  in  his  eyes  and  his  voice 
as  he  said, 

u  Your  generosity  overpowers  me,  Sir." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BOSWELL,  who  was  standing  to  one  side  watching 
— his  eyes  full  of  curiosity  and  his  ears  strained  to 
catch  by  chance  a  word — the  little  scene  that  was 
being  enacted  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  took  good 
care  that  Johnson  should  be  in  his  charge  going 
home.  This  walk  to  Johnson's  house  necessitated 
a  walk  back  to  his  own  lodgings  in  Piccadilly;  but 
this  was  nothing  to  Boswell,  who  had  every  con- 
fidence in  his  own  capability  to  extract  from  his 
great  patron  some  account  of  the  secrets  which  had 
been  exchanged  in  the  corner. 

For  once,  however,  he  found  himself  unable  to 
effect  his  object — nay,  when  he  began  his  operations 
with  his  accustomed  lightness  of  touch,  Johnson 
turned  upon  him,  saying, 

u  Sir,  I  observe  what  is  your  aim,  and  I  take  this 
opportunity  to  tell  you  that  if  you  make  any  further 
remarks,  direct  or  indirect,  to  man,  woman,  or  child, 
in  regard  to  the  occurrences  of  this  evening,  you  will 
cease  to  be  a  friend  of  mine.  I  have  been  humiliated 
sufficiently  by  a  stranger,  who  had  every  right  to 
speak  as  he  did,  but  I  refuse  to  be  humiliated  by 
you,  Sir." 

33  3 


34 

Boswell  expressed  himself  willing  to  give  the 
amplest  security  for  his  good  behaviour.  He  had 
great  hope  of  conferring  upon  his  patron  a  month 
of  inconvenience  in  making  a  tour  of  the  west  coast 
of  Scotland  during  the  summer. 

The  others  of  the  party  went  northward  by  one 
of  the  streets  off  the  Strand  into  Coventry  Street, 
and  thence  toward  Sir  Joshua's  house  in  Leicester 
Square,  Burke  walking  in  front  with  his  arm  through 
Goldsmith's,  and  Garrick  some  way  behind  with 
Reynolds.  Goldsmith  was  very  eloquent  in  his 
references  to  the  magnanimity  of  Johnson,  who,  he 
said  —  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  grossly 
insulted  by  an  impostor  calling  himself  his,  Gold- 
smith's, cousin  —  had  consented  to  receive  the  dedica- 
tion of  the  new  comedy.  Burke,  who  understood 
the  temperament  of  his  countryman,  felt  that  he 
himself  might  surpass  in  eloquence  even  Oliver 
Goldsmith  if  he  took  for  his  text  the  magnanimity 
of  the  author  of  "The  Good-Natured  Man."  He, 
however,  refrained  from  the  attempt  to  prove  to  his 
companion  that  there  were  other  ways  by  which  a 
man  could  gain  a  reputation  for  generosity  than  by 
permitting  the  most  distinguished  writer  of  the  age 
to  dedicate  a  comedy  to  him. 

Of  the  other  couple  Garrick  was  rattling  away  in 
the  highest  spirits,  quite  regardless  of  the  position 
of  Reynolds's  ear-trumpet.  Reynolds  was  as  silent 
as  Burke  for  a  considerable  time;  but  then,  stop- 
ping at  a  corner  so  as  to  allow  Goldsmith  and  his 
companion  to  get  out  of  earshot,  he  laid  his 


tlbe  3essam£  Bribe*  35 

hand  on  Garrick's  arm,  laughing  heartily  as  he 
said, 

"  You  are  a  pretty  rascal,  David,  to  play  such  a 
trick  upon  your  best  friends,  You  are  a  pretty 
rascal,  and  a  great  genius,  Davy — the  greatest  genius 
alive.  There  never  has  been  such  an  actor  as  you, 
Davy,  and  there  never  will  be  another  such." 

"  Sir,"  said  Garrick,  with  an  overdone  expression 
of  embarrassment  upon  his  face,  every  gesture  that 
he  made  corresponding.  "  Sir,  I  protest  that  you 
are  speaking  in  parables.  I  admit  the  genius,  if 
you  insist  upon  it,  but  as  for  the  rascality — well,  it 
is  possible,  I  suppose,  to  be  both  a  great  genius 
and  a  great  rascal ;  there  was  our  friend  Benvenuto, 
for  example,  but " 

"Only  a  combination  of  genius  and  rascality  could 
have  hit  upon  such  a  device  as  that  bow  which  you 
made,  Davy,"  said  Reynolds.  "It  presented  before 
my  eyes  a  long  vista  of  Goldsmiths — all  made  in 
the  same  fashion  as  our  friend  on  in  front,  and  all 
striving — and  not  unsuccessfully,  either — to  maintain 
the  family  tradition  of  the  Goldsmith  bow.  And  then 
your  imitation  of  your  imitation  of  the  same  movement 
—how  did  we  contain  ourselves — Burke  and  I  ?  " 

"  You  fancy  that  Burke  saw  through  the  Dean 
also?  "  said  Garrick. 

"  I'm  convinced  that  he  did." 

"  But  he  will  not  tell  Johnson,  I  would  fain  hope." 

"  You  are  very  anxious  that  Johnson  should  not 
know  how  it  was  he  was  tricked.  But  you  do  not 
mind  how  you  pain  a  much  more  generous  man." 


"You  mean  Goldsmith?  Faith,  Sir,  I  do  mind 
it  greatly.  If  I  were  not  certain  that  he  would 
forthwith  hasten  to  tell  Johnson,  I  would  go  to  him 
and  confess  all,  asking  his  forgiveness.  But  he 
would  tell  Johnson  and  never  forgive  me,  so  I'll 
e'en  hold  my  tongue." 

"You  will  not  lose  a  night's  rest  though  brooding 
on  Goldsmith's  pain,  David." 

"  It  was  an  impulse  of  the  moment  that  caused 
me  to  adopt  that  device,  my  friend.  Johnson  is 
past  all  argument,  Sir.  That  sickening  sycophant, 
Boswell,  may  find  happiness  in  being  insulted  by 
him,  but  there  are  others  who  think  that  the  Doc- 
tor has  no  more  right  than  any  ordinary  man  to 
offer  an  affront  to  those  whom  the  rest  of  the  world 
respects. " 

"  He  will  allow  no  one  but  himself  to  attack  you, 
Davy." 

"And  by  my  soul,  Sir,  I  would  rather  that  he 
allowed  everyone  else  to  attack  me  if  he  refrained 
from  it  himself.  Where  is  the  generosity  of  a  man 
who,  with  the  force  and  influence  of  a  dozen  men, 
will  not  allow  a  bad  word  to  be  said  about  you,  but 
says  himself  more  in  five  minutes  than  the  whole  dozen 
could  say  in  as  many  years?  Sir,  do  the  pheasants, 
which  our  friend  Mr.  Bunbury  breeds  so  success- 
fully, regard  him  as  a  pattern  of  generosity  be- 
cause he  won't  let  a  dozen  of  his  farmers  have  a 
shot  at  them,  but  preserves  them  for  his  own  un- 
erring gun  ?  By  the  Lord  Harry,  I  would  rather,  if 
I  were  a  pheasant,  be  shot  at  by  the  blunderbusses 


37 

of  a  dozen  yokels  than  by  the  fowling-piece  of  one 
good  marksman,  such  as  Bunbury.  On  the  same 
principle,  I  have  no  particular  liking  to  be  pre- 
served to  make  sport  for  the  heavy  broadsides  that 
come  from  that  literary  three-decker,  Johnson." 

*  I  have  sympathy  with  your  contentions,  David ; 
but  we  all  allow  your  old  schoolmaster  a  license 
which  would  be  permitted  to  no  one  else." 

a  That  license  is  not  a  game  license,  Sir  Joshua ; 
and  so  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  if  he  says 
anything  more  about  the  profession  of  an  actor  being 
a  degrading  one — about  an  actor  being  on  the  level 
with  a  fiddler — nay,  one  of  the  puppets  of  Panton 
Street — I  will  teach  my  old  schoolmaster  a  more 
useful  lesson  than  he  ever  taught  to  me.  I  think 
it  is  probable  that  he  is  at  this  very  moment  pon- 
dering upon  those  plain  truths  which  were  told  to 
him  by  the  Dean." 

u  And  poor  Goldsmith  has  been  talking  so  inces- 
santly and  so  earnestly  to  Burke,  I  am  convinced 
that  he  feels  greatly  pained  as  well  as  puzzled  by 
that  inopportune  visit  of  the  clergyman  who  exhi- 
bited such  striking  characteristics  of  the  Goldsmith 
family." 

"  Nay,  did  I  not  bear  testimony  in  his  favour — 
declaring  that  he  had  never  alluded  to  a  relation 
who  was  a  Dean  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes;  you  did  your  best  to  place  us  all  at 
our  ease,  Sir.  You  were  magnanimous,  David — as 
magnanimous  as  the  surgeon  who  cuts  off  an  arm, 
plunges  the  stump  into  boiling  pitch,  and  then  gives 


38  Ube  Jessams 

the  patient  a  grain  or  two  of  opium  to  make  him 
sleep.  But  I  should  not  say  a  word:  I  have  seen 
you  in  your  best  part,  Mr.  Garrick,  and  I  can  give 
the  heartiest  commendation  to  your  powers  as  a 
comedian,  while  condemning  with  equal  force  the 
immorality  of  the  whole  proceeding." 

They  had  now  arrived  at  Reynolds's  house  in  Lei- 
cester Square,  Goldsmith  and  Burke — the  former  still 
talking  eagerly — having  waited  for  them  to  come  up. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Reynolds,  "you  have  all  gone 
out  of  your  accustomed  way  to  leave  me  at  my  own 
door.  I  insist  on  your  entering  to  have  some  refresh- 
ment. Mr.  Burke,  you  will  not  refuse  to  enter  and 
pronounce  an  opinion  as  to  the  portrait  at  which  I 
am  engaged  of  the  charming  Lady  Betty  Hamilton. " 

"  O  matre  pulcra  filia  pulchrior, "  said  Goldsmith ; 
but  there  was  not  much  aptness  in  the  quotation, 
the  mother  of  Lady  Betty  having  been  the  loveliest 
of  the  Sisters  Gunning.  She  had  married  first  the 
Duke  of  Hamilton  and,  later,  the  Duke  of  Argyll. 

Before  they  had  rung  the  bell  the  hall  door  was 
opened  by  Sir  Joshua's  servant  Ralph,  and  a  young 
man,  very  elegantly  dressed,  was  shown  out  by 
the  servant.  He  at  once  recognised  Sir  Joshua  and 
then  Garrick. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Sir  Joshua, "  he  cried,  "  I  have  to 
entreat  your  forgiveness  for  having  taken  the  liberty 
of  going  into  your  painting-room  in  your  absence." 

"  Your  Lordship  has  every  claim  upon  my  con- 
sideration, "  said  Sir  Joshua.  "  I  cannot  doubt  which 
of  my  poor  efforts  drew  you  thither." 


TIbe  Jessams  Bribe*  39 

u  The  fact  is,  Sir  Joshua,  I  promised  her  Grace 
three  days  ago  to  see  the  picture,  and  as  I  think 
it  likely  that  I  shall  meet  her  to-night,  I  made  a 
point  of  coming  hither.  The  Duchess  of  Argyll  is 
not  easily  put  aside  when  she  commences  to  cate- 
chise a  poor  weak  man,  Sir." 

"  I  cannot  hope,  my  Lord,  that  the  picture  of 
Lady  Betty  commended  itself  to  your  Lordship's 
eye,"  said  Sir  Joshua. 

"The  picture  is  a  beauty,  my  dear  Sir  Joshua," 
said  the  young  man,  but  with  no  great  show  of 
ardour.  u  It  pleases  me  greatly.  Your  macaw  is 
also  a  beauty.  A  capital  notion  of  painting  a 
macaw  on  a  pedestal  by  the  side  of  the  lady,  is  it 
not,  Mr.  Garrick? — two  birds  with  the  one  stone, 
you  know." 

"True,  Sir,"  said  Garrick,  "Lady  Betty  is  a  Bird 
of  Paradise." 

"  That's  as  neatly  said  as  if  it  were  part  of  a  play," 
said  the  young  man.  "  Talking  of  plays,  there  is 
going  to  be  a  pretty  comedy  enacted  at  the  Pan- 
theon to-night." 

"  Is  it  not  a  mask  ?  "  said  Garrick. 

"Nay,  finer  sport  even  than  that,"  laughed  the 
youth.  "  We  are  going  to  do  more  for  the  drama 
in  an  hour,  Mr.  Garrick,  than  you  have  done  in 
twenty  years,  Sir." 

"  At  the  Pantheon,  Lord  Stanley  ?  "  inquired  Gar- 
rick. 

"  Come  to  the  Pantheon  arid  you  shall  see  all  that 
there  is  to  be  seen,"  cried  Lord  Stanley.  "Who- 


40  ZTbe  Jessatnp  Bribe* 

are  your  friends?  Have  I  had  the  honour  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  them  ?  " 

"Your  Lordship  must  have  met  Mr.  Burke  and 
Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  Garrick. 

"  I  have  often  longed  for  that  privilege, "  said 
Lord  Stanley,  bowing  in  reply  to  the  others.  "  Mr. 
Burke's  speech  on  the  Marriage  Bill  was  a  fine  ef- 
fort, and  Dr.  Goldsmith's  comedy  has  always  been 
my  favourite.  I  hear  that  you  are  at  present  en- 
gaged upon  another,  Dr.  Goldsmith.  That  is  good 
news,  Sir.  Oh,  'twere  a  great  pity  if  so  distinguished 
a  party  missed  the  sport  which  is  on  foot  to-night ! 
Let  me  invite  you  all  to  the  Pantheon — here  are  tickets 
to  the  show.  You  will  give  me  a  box  at  your  theatre, 
Garrick,  in  exchange,  on  the  night  when  Dr.  Gold- 
smith's new  play  is  produced." 

"Alas,  my  Lord,"  said  Garrick,  "that  privilege 
will  be  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Colman." 

"  What,  at  t'other  house  ?  Mr.  Garrick,  I'm  ashamed 
of  you.  Nevertheless,  you  will  come  to  the  comedy 
at  the  Pantheon  to-night.  I  must  hasten  to  act  my 
part.  But  we  shall  meet  there,  I  trust." 

He  bowed  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  to  the  group, 
and  hastened  away  with  an  air  of  mystery. 

"What  does  he  mean?"  asked  Reynolds. 

"  That  is  what  I  have  been  asking  myself, "  said 
Garrick.  "  By  Heavens,  I  have  it ! "  he  cried  after 
a  pause  of  a  few  moments.  "  I  have  heard  rumours 
of  what  some  of  our  young  bloods  swore  to  do, 
since  the  managers  of  the  Pantheon,  in  an  outburst 
of  virtuous  indignation  at  the  orgies  of  Vauxhall 


Ube  Sessams  36r.ifce*  41 

and  Ranelagh,  issued  their  sheet  of  regulations  pro- 
hibiting the  entrance  of  actresses  to  their  rotunda. 
Lord  Conway,  I  heard,  was  the  leader  of  the  scheme, 
and  it  seems  that  this  young  Stanley  is  also  one  of 
the  plot.  Let  us  hasten  to  witness  the  sport  I  would 
not  miss  being  present  for  the  world." 

"  I  am  not  so  eager, "  said  Sir  Joshua.  "  I  have 
my  work  to  engage  me  early  in  the  morning,  and 
I  have  lost  all  interest  in  such  follies  as  seem  to 
be  on  foot." 

"  I  have  not,  thank  Heaven ! "  cried  Garrick ;  u  nor 
has  Dr.  Goldsmith,  I'll  swear.  As  for  Burke — well, 
being  a  member  of  Parliament,  he  is  a  seasoned 
rascal;  and  so  good-night  to  you,  good  Mr.  Pre- 
sident " 

"  We  need  a  frolic, "  cried  Goldsmith.  "  God 
knows  we  had  a  dull  enough  dinner  at  the  Crown 
and  Anchor." 

"An  Irishman  and  a  frolic  are  like — well,  let  us 
say  like  Lady  Betty  and  your  macaw,  Sir  Joshua," 
said  Burke.  "  They  go  together  very  naturally." 


CHAPTER  V. 

SIR  JOSHUA  entered  his  house,  and  the  others 
hastened  northward  to  the  Oxford  Road,  where  the 
Pantheon  had  scarcely  been  opened  more  than  a 
year  for  the  entertainment  of  the  fashionable  world — 
a  more  fashionable  world,  it  was  hoped,  than  was 
in  the  habit  of  appearing  at  Ranelagh  and  Vauxhall. 
From  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
rank  and  fashion  sought  their  entertainment  almost 
exclusively  at  the  Assembly  Rooms  when  the  wea- 
ther failed  to  allow  of  their  meeting  at  the  two 
great  public  gardens.  But  as  the  government  of 
the  majority  of  these  places  invariably  became  lax- 
there  was  only  one  Beau  Nash  who  had  the  clever- 
ness to  perceive  that  an  autocracy  was  the  only 
possible  form  of  government  for  such  assemblies— 
the  committee  of  the  Pantheon  determined  to  frame 
so  strict  a  code  of  rules,  bearing  upon  the  admis- 
sion of  visitors,  as  should,  they  believed,  prevent 
the  place  from  falling  to  the  low  level  of  the 

* 

Gardens. 

In  addition  to  the  charge  of  half-a-guinea  for 
admission  to  the  rotunda,  there  were  rules  which 
gave  the  committee  the  option  of  practically  exclud- 

42 


Ube  Sessams  Bribe*  43 

ing  any  person  whose  presence  they  might  regard 
as  not  tending  to  maintain  the  high  character  of 
the  Pantheon;  and  it  was  announced  in  the  most 
decisive  way  that  upon  no  consideration  would 
actresses  be  allowed  to  enter. 

The  announcements  made  to  this  effect  were 
regarded  in  some  directions  as  eminently  salutary. 
They  were  applauded  by  all  persons  who  were 
sufficiently  strict  to  prevent  their  wives  or  daugh- 
ters from  going  to  those  entertainments  that  possessed 
little  or  no  supervision.  Such  persons  understood 
the  world  and  the  period  so  indifferently  as  to  be 
optimists  in  regard  to  the  question  of  the  possibility 
of  combining  Puritanism  and  promiscuous  entertain- 
ments terminating  long  after  midnight.  They  hailed 
the  arrival  of  the  time  when  innocent  recreation 
would  not  be  incompatible  with  the  display  of  the 
richest  dresses  or  the  most  sumptuous  figures. 

But  there  was  another,  and  a  more  numerous  set, 
who  were  very  cynical  on  the  subject  of  the  regulation 
of  beauty  and  fashion  at  the  Pantheon.  The  best 
of  this  set  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  expressed 
the  belief  that  the  supervised  entertainments  would 
be  vastly  dull.  The  worst  of  them  published  verses 
full  of  cheap  sarcasm,  and  proper  names  with  asterisks 
artfully  introduced  in  place  of  vowels,  so  as  to  evade 
the  possibility  of  actions  for  libel  when  their  allusions 
were  more  than  usually  scandalous. 

While  the  ladies  of  the  committee  were  applaud- 
ing one  another  and  declaring  that  neither  threats 
nor  sarcasms  would  prevail  against  their  resolution, 


44 

an  informal  meeting  was  held  at  White's  of  the 
persons  who  affirmed  that  they  were  more  affected 
than  any  others  by  the  carrying  out  of  the  new 
regulations;  and  at  the  meeting  they  resolved  to 
make  the  management  aware  of  the  mistake  into 
which  they  had  fallen  in  endeavouring  to  discrim- 
inate between  the  classes  of  their  patrons. 

When  Garrick  and  his  friends  reached  the  Ox- 
ford Road,  as  the  thoroughfare  was  then  called, 
the  result  of  this  meeting  was  making  itself  felt. 
The  road  was  crowded  with  people  who  seemed 
waiting  for  something  unusual  to  occur,  though 
what  form  it  was  to  assume  no  one  seemed  to  be 
aware.  The  crowd  were  at  any  rate  good-hu- 
moured. They  cheered  heartily  every  coach  that  rolled 
by  bearing  splendidly  dressed  ladies  to  the  Pan- 
theon and  to  other  and  less  public  entertainments. 
They  waved  their  hats  over  the  chairs  which,  si- 
milarly burdened,  went  swinging  along  between 
the  bearers,  footmen  walking  on  each  side  and 
link-boys  running  in  advance,  the  glare  of  their 
torches  giving  additional  redness  to  the  faces  of 
the  hot  fellows  who  had  the  chair-straps  over  their 
shoulders.  Every  now  and  again  an  officer  of  the 
Guards  came  in  for  the  cheers  of  the  people,  and 
occasionally  a  jostling  match  took  place  between 
some  supercilious  young  beau  and  the  apprentices, 
through  the  midst  of  whom  he  attempted  to  force 
his  way.  More  than  once  swords  flashed  beneath 
the  sickly  illumination  of  the  lamps,  but  the  drawers 
of  the  weapons  regretted  their  impetuosity  the  next 


3essam£  JSrtfce*  45 

minute,  for  they  were  quickly  disarmed,  either  by 
the  crowd  closing  upon  them  or  jostling  them  into 
the  kennel,  which  at  no  time  was  savoury.  Once, 
however,  a  tall  young  fellow,  who  had  been  struck 
by  a  stick,  drew  his  sword  and  stood  against  a 
lamp-post  preparatory  to  charging  the  crowd.  It 
looked  as  if  those  who  interfered  with  him  would 
suffer,  and  a  space  was  soon  cleared  in  front  of 
him.  At  that  instant,  however,  he  was  thrown  to 
the  ground  by  the  assault  of  a  previously  unseen 
foe:  a  boy  dropped  upon  him  from  the  lamp-post 
and  sent  his  sword  flying,  while  the  crowd  cheered 
in  turn. 

At  intervals  a  roar  would  arise,  and  the  people 
would  part  before  the  frantic  flight  of  a  pickpocket, 
pursued  and  belaboured  in  his  rush  by  a  dozen  ap- 
prentices, who  carried  sticks  and  straps,  and  were 
well  able  to  use  both. 

But  a  few  minutes  after  Garrick,  Goldsmith,  and 
Burke  reached  the  road,  all  the  energies  of  the  crowd 
seemed  to  be  directed  upon  one  object,  and  there 
was  a  cry  of,  "  Here  they  come — here  she  comes — 
a  cheer  for  Mrs.  Baddeley ! " 

"O  Lord,"  cried  Garrick,  "they  have  gone  so  far 
as  to  choose  Sophia  Baddeley  for  their  experiment !  " 

u  Their  notion  clearly  is  not  to  do  things  by  de- 
grees," said  Goldsmith.  "They  might  have  begun 
with  a  less  conspicuous  person  than  Mrs.  Baddeley. 
There  are  many  gradations  in  colour  between  black 
and  white." 

"  But  not  between  black  and  White's, "  said  Burke. 


46  Ube  Jessams  Bribe* 


"This  notion  is  well  worthy  of  the  wit  of  White's." 

"Sophia  is  not  among  the  gradations  that  Gold- 
smith speaks  of,"  said  Garrick.  "But  whatever  be 
the  result  of  this  jerk  into  prominence,  it  cannot 
fail  to  increase  her  popularity  at  the  playhouse." 

"  That's  the  standpoint  from  which  a  good  man- 
ager regards  such  a  scene  as  this,"  said  Burke. 
"  Sophia  will  claim  an  extra  twenty  guineas  a  week 
after  to-night." 

"  By  my  soul  !  "  cried  Goldsmith,  "  she  looks  as 
if  she  would  give  double  that  sum  to  be  safe  at 
home  in  bed." 

The  cheers  of  the  crowd  increased  as  the  chair 
containing  Mrs.  Baddeley,  the  actress,  was  borne 
along,  the  lady  smiling  in  a  half-hearted  way  through 
her  paint.  On  each  side  of  the  chair,  but  some  short 
distance  in  front,  were  four  link-boys  in  various  liv- 
eries, shining  with  gold  and  silver  lace.  In  place 
of  footmen,  however,  there  walked  two  rows  of  gentle- 
men on  each  side  of  the  chair.  They  were  all  splen- 
didly dressed,  and  they  carried  their  swords  drawn, 
At  the  head  of  the  escort  on  one  side  was  the  well- 
known  young  Lord  Conway,  and  at  the  other  side 
Mr.  Hanger,  equally  well  known  as  a  leader  of 
fashion.  Lord  Stanley  was  immediately  behind  his 
friend  Conway,  and  almost  every  other  member  of 
the  lady's  escort  was  a  young  nobleman  or  the  heir 
to  a  peerage. 

The  lines  extended  to  a  second  chair,  in  which 
Mrs.  Abington  was  seated,  smiling  —  "Very  much 
more  naturally  than  Mrs.  Baddeley,"  Burke  remarked. 


The  chair  containing  Mrs.  Baddeley,  the  actress,  was  borne  along.       [/>.  46. 


tlbe  Jessams  Bribe*  47 

u  Oh,  yes, "  cried  Goldsmith ;  "  she  was  always  the 
better  actress.  I  am  fortunate  in  having  her  in  my 
new  comedy." 

"The  Duchesses  have  become  jealous  of  the 
sway  of  Mrs.  Abington,"  said  Garrick,  alluding  to 
the  fact  that  the  fashions  in  dress  had  been  for 
several  years  controlled  by  that  lovely  and  accom- 
plished actress. 

"And  young  Lord  Conway  and  his  friends  have 
become  tired  of  the  sway  of  the  Duchesses,"  said 
Burke. 

"  My  Lord  Stanley  looked  as  if  he  were  pretty 
nigh  weary  of  his  Duchess's  sway,"  said  Garrick. 
"  I  wonder  if  he  fancies  that  his  joining  that  band 
will  emancipate  him  ?  " 

"  If  so  he  is  in  error, "  said  Burke.  u  The  Duchess 
of  Argyll  will  never  let  him  out  of  her  clutches  till 
he  is  safely  married  to  the  Lady  Betty." 

"  Till  then,  do  you  say  ?  "  said  Goldsmith.  "  Faith, 
Sir,  if  he  fancies  he  will  escape  from  her  clutches 
by  marrying  her  daughter  he  must  have  had  a  very 
limited  experience  of  life.  Still,  I  think  the  lovely 
young  lady  is  most  to  be  pitied.  You  heard  the 
cold  way  he  talked  of  her  picture  to  Reynolds." 

The  engagement  of  Lord  Stanley,  the  heir  to  the 
earldom  of  Derby,  to  Lady  Betty  Hamilton,  though 
not  formally  announced,  was  understood  to  be  a 
fait  accompli;  but  there  were  rumours  that  the  young 
man  had  of  late  been  making  an  effort  to  release 
himself — that  it  was  only  with  difficulty  the  Duchess 
managed  to  secure  his  attendance  in  public  upon 


48  Ube  Sessams  Bribe* 

her  daughter,  whose  portrait  was  being  painted  by 
Reynolds. 

The  picturesque  procession  went  slowly  along 
amid  the  cheers  of  the  crowds,  and  certainly  not 
without  many  expressions  of  familiarity  and  friend- 
liness toward  the  two  ladies,  whose  beauty  of  coun- 
tenance and  of  dress  was  made  apparent  by  the 
flambeaux  of  the  link-boys,  which  also  gleamed  upon 
the  thin  blades  of  the  ladies'  escort.  The  actresses 
were  plainly  more  popular  than  the  committee  of 
the  Pantheon. 

It  was  only  when  the  crowds  were  closing  in  on 
the  end  of  the  procession  that  a  voice  cried — 

"  Woe  unto  them !  Woe  unto  Aholah  and  Aholibah ! 
Woe  unto  ye  who  follow  them  to  your  own  de- 
struction !  Turn  back  ere  it  be  too  late ! "  The 
discordant  note  came  from  a  Methodist  preacher 
who  considered  the  moment  a  seasonable  one  for 
an  admonition  against  the  frivolities  of  the  town. 

The  people  did  not  seem  to  agree  with  him  in 
this  matter.  They  sent  up  a  shout  of  laughter,  and 
half  a  dozen  youths  began  a  travesty  of  a  Methodist 
service,  introducing  all  the  hysterical  cries  and  moans 
with  which  the  early  followers  of  Wesley  punctuated 
their  prayers.  In  another  direction  a  ribald  parody 
of  a  Methodist  hymn  was  sung  by  women  as  well 
as  men;  but  above  all  the  mockery  the  stern,  stri- 
dent voice  of  the  preacher  was  heard. 

"  By  my  soul,  *  said  Garrick,  "  that  effect  is  strik- 
ingly dramatic.  I  should  like  to  find  someone  who 
would  give  me  a  play  with  such  a  scene." 


Jessam^  3Bri&e»  49 

A  good-looking  young  officer  in  the  uniform  of 
the  Guards,  who  was  in  the  act  of  hurrying  past 
where  Garrick  and  his  friends  stood,  turned  suddenly 
round. 

"  I'll  take  your  order,  Sir, "  he  cried.  "  Only  you 
will  have  to  pay  me  handsomely." 

"  What,  Captain  Horneck  ?  Is  't  possible  that  you 
are  a  straggler  from  the  escort  of  the  two  ladies  who 
are  being  feted  to-night?"  said  Garrick. 

"  Hush,  man,  for  Heaven's  sake, "  cried  Captain 
Horneck — Goldsmith's  "Captain  in  lace."  "If  Mr. 
Burke  had  a  suspicion  that  I  was  associated  with 
such  a  rout  he  would,  as  the  guardian  of  my  purse 
if  not  of  my  person,  give  notice  to  my  LordAlbe- 
marle's  trustees,  and  then  the  Lord  only  knows  what 
would  happen."  Then  he  turned  to  Goldsmith. 
"  Come  along,  Nolly,  my  friend, "  he  cried  putting 
his  arm  through  Oliver's ;  "  if  you  want  a  scene  for 
your  new  comedy  you  will  find  it  in  the  Pantheon 
to-night.  You  are  not  wearing  the  peach-bloom 
coat,  to  be  sure,  but,  Lord,  Sir!  you  are  not  to  be 
resisted  whatever  you  wear." 

"You,  at  any  rate,  are  not  to  be  resisted,  my 
gallant  Captain, "  said  Goldsmith.  "  I  have  half  a 
mind  to  see  the  sport  when  the  ladies'  chairs  stop 
at  the  porch  of  the  Pantheon." 

"  As  a  matter  of  course  you  will  come,"  said 
young  Horneck.  "  Let  us  hasten  out  of  range  of 
that  howling.  What  a  time  for  a  fellow  to  begin 
to  preach! " 

He  hurried  Oliver  away,  taking  charge  of  him 

4 


50  TIbe  Sessamg 

though  the  crowd  with  his  arm  across  his  shoulder. 
Garrick  and  Burke  followed  as  rapidly  as  they 
could,  and  Charles  Horneck  explained  to  them,  as 
well  as  to  his  companion,  that  he  would  have  been 
in  the  escort  of  the  actresses,  but  for  the  fact  of 
his  being-  about  to  marry  the  orphan  daughter  of 
Lord  Albemarle,  and  that  his  mother  had  entreated 
him  not  to  do  anything  that  might  jeopardise  the 
match. 

"You  are  more  discreet  than  Lord  Stanley,"  said 
Garrick. 

"  Nay, "  said  Goldsmith.  "  Tis  not  a  question  of 
discretion,  but  of  the  means  to  an  end.  Our  Cap- 
tain in  lace  fears  that  his  joining  the  escort  would 
offend  his  charming  bride,  but  Lord  Stanley  is  only 
afraid  that  his  act  in  the  same  direction  will  not 
offend  his  Duchess." 

"  You  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  as  usual, 
Nolly,"  said  the  Captain.  "  Poor  Stanley  is  anxious 
to  fly  from  his  charmer  through  any  loop-hole.  But 
he'll  not  succeed.  Why,  Sir,  I'll  wager  that  if  her 
daughter  Betty  and  the  Duke  were  to  die,  her  Grace 
would  marry  him  herself." 

u  Ay,  assuming  that  a  third  Duke  was  not  forth- 
coming," said  Burke. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  party  found,  on  approaching  the  Pantheon,  the 
advantage  of  being  under  the  guidance  of  Captain 
Horneck.  Without  his  aid  they  would  have  had 
considerable  difficulty  in  getting  near  the  porch  of  the 
building,  where  the  crowds  were  most  dense.  The 
young  guardsman,  however,  pushed  his  way  quite 
good-humouredly,  but  not  the  less  effectively,  through 
the  people,  and  was  followed  by  Goldsmith,  Garrick 
and  Burke  being  a  little  way  behind.  But  as  soon 
as  the  latter  couple  came  within  the  light  of  the 
hundred  lamps  which  hung  around  the  porch,  they 
were  recognised  and  cheered  by  the  crowd,  who 
made  a  passage  for  them  to  the  entrance  just  as 
Mrs.  Baddeley's  chair  was  set  down. 

The  doors  had  been  hastily  closed  and  half-a-dozen 
constables  stationed  in  front  with  their  staves.  The 
gentlemen  of  the  escort  formed  in  a  line  on  each 
side  of  her  chair  to  the  doors,  and  when  the  lady 
stepped  out — she  could  not  be  persuaded  to  do  so 
for  some  time — and  walked  between  the  ranks  of  her 
admirers,  they  took  off  their  hats  and  lowered  the 
points  of  their  swords,  bowing  to  the  ground  with 
greater  courtesy  than  they  would  have  shown  to 

51 


52  Ube  Sessams 

either  of  the  royal  Duchesses,  who  just  at  that  period 
were  doing  their  best  to  obtain  some  recognition. 

Mrs.  Baddeley  had  rehearsed  the  "  business  "  of 
the  part  which  she  had  to  play,  but  she  was  so  ner- 
vous that  she  forgot  her  words  on  finding  herself 
confronted  by  the  constables.  She  caught  sight  of 
Garrick  standing  at  one  side  of  the  door  with  his 
hat  swept  behind  him  as  he  bowed  with  exquisite 
irony  as  she  stopped  short,  and  the  force  of  habit 
was  too  much  for  her.  Forgetting  that  she  was 
playing  the  part  of  a  grand  dame,  she  turned  in  an 
agony  of  fright  ;to  Garrick,  raising  her  hands- 
one  holding  a  lace  handkerchief,  the  other  a  fan — 
crying, 

"La!  Mr.  Garrick,  I'm  so  fluttered  that  I've  for- 
got my  words.  Where's  the  prompter,  Sir  ?  Pray, 
what  am  I  to  say  now?" 

"  Nay,  Madam,  I  am  not  responsible  for  this  pro- 
duction," said  Garrick  gravely,  and  there  was  a  roar 
of  laughter  from  the  people  around  the  porch. 

The  young  gentlemen  who  had  their  swords  drawn 
were,  however,  extremely  serious.  They  began  to 
perceive  the  possibility  of  their  heroic  plan  collaps- 
ing into  a  merry  burlesque,  and  so  young  Mr.  Han- 
ger sprang  to  the  side  of  the  lady. 

"Madam,"  he  cried,  "honour  me  by  accepting 
my  escort  into  the  Pantheon.  What  do  you  mean, 
Sirrah,  by  shutting  that  door  in  the  face  of  a  lady 
visitor?"  he  shouted  to  the  liveried  porter. 

"  Sir,  we  have  orders  from  the  management  to 
permit  no  players  to  enter,"  replied  the  man. 


Jessamp  JBrifce*  53 

"Nevertheless,  you  will  permit  this  lady  to  enter," 
said  the  young  gentleman.  "Come,  Sir,  open  the 
doors  without  a  moment's  delay." 

"I  cannot  act  contrary  to  my  orders,  Sir,"  re- 
plied the  man. 

"Nay,  Mr.  Hanger,"  replied  the  frightened  actress, 
"  I  wish  not  to  be  the  cause  of  a  disturbance.  Pray, 
Sir,  let  me  return  to  my  chair." 

"Gentlemen,"  cried  Mr.  Hanger  to  his  friends, 
"  I  know  that  it  is  not  your  will  that  we  should 
come  in  active  contest  with  the  representatives  of 
authority;  but  am  I  right  in  assuming  that  it  is 
your  desire  that  our  honoured  friend,  Mrs.  Badde- 
ley,  should  enter  the  Pantheon  ?  "  When  the  cries 
of  assent  came  to  an  end  he  continued.  a  Then, 
Sirs,  the  responsibility  for  bloodshed  rests  with  those 
who  oppose  us.  Swords  to  the  front!  You  will 
touch  no  man  with  a  point  unless  he  oppose  you. 
Should  a  constable  assault  any  of  this  company  you 
will  run  him  through  without  mercy.  Now,  gentle- 


men." 


In  an  instant  thirty  sword-blades  were  radiating 
from  the  lady,  and  in  that  fashion  an  advance  was 
made  upon  the  constables,  who  for  a  few  moments 
stood  irresolute,  but  then — the  points  of  a  dozen 
swords  were  within  a  yard  of  their  breasts — low- 
ered their  staves  and  slipped  quietly  aside.  The 
porter,  finding  himself  thus  deserted,  made  no  at- 
tempt to  withstand  single-handed  an  attack  con- 
verging upon  the  doors;  he  hastily  went  through 
the  porch,  leaving  the  doors  wide  apart. 


54  TOe  Sessams  Bribe* 

To  the  sound  of  roars  of  laughter  and  shouts  of 
congratulation  from  the  thousands  who  blocked  the 
road,  Mrs.  Baddeley  and  her  escort  walked  through 
the  porch  and  on  to  the  rotunda  beyond,  the  swords 
being  sheathed  at  the  entrance. 

It  seemed  as  if  all  the  rank  and  fashion  of  the 
town  had  come  to  the  rotunda  this  night.  Peer- 
esses were  on  the  raised  dai's  by  the  score,  some  of 
them  laughing,  others  shaking  their  heads  and 
doing  their  best  to  look  scandalised.  Only  one 
matron,  however,  felt  it  imperative  to  leave  the 
assembly  and  to  take  her  daughters  with  her.  She 
was  a  lady  whose  first  husband  had  divorced  her, 
and  her  daughters  were  excessively  plain,  in  spite 
of  their  masks  of  paint  and  powder. 

The  Duchess  of  Argyll  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
dai's  by  the  side  of  her  daughter,  Lady  Betty  Ha- 
milton, her  figure  as  graceful  as  it  had  been  twenty 
years  before,  when  she  and  her  sister  Maria,  who 
became  Countess  of  Coventry,  could  not  walk  down 
the  Mall  unless  under  the  protection  of  a  body  of 
soldiers,  so  closely  were  they  pressed  by  the  fash- 
ionable mob  anxious  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  beau- 
tiful Miss  Gunnings.  She  had  no  touch  of  carmine 
or  powder  to  obscure  the  transparency  of  her  com- 
plexion, a.nd  her  wonderful,  long  eyelashes  needed 
no  darkening  to  add  to  their  silken  effect.  Her 
neck  and  shoulders  were  white,  not  with  the  cold 
whiteness  of  snow,  but  with  the  pearl-like  charm  of 
the  white  rose.  The  solid  roundness  of  her  arms, 
and  the  grace  of  every  movement  that  she  made 


ttbe  SessamE  JSrifce,  55 

with  them,  added  to  the  delight  of  those  who  looked 
upon  that  lovely  woman. 

Pier  daughter  had  only  a  measure  of  her  mother's 
charm.  Her  features  were  small,  and  though  her 
figure  was  pleasing,  she  suggested  nothing  of  the 
Duchess's  elegance  and  distinction. 

Both  mother  and  daughter  looked  at  first  with 
scorn  in  their  eyes  at  the  lady  who  stood  at  one  of 
the  doors  of  the  rotunda,  surrounded  by  her  body- 
guard; but  when  they  perceived  that  Lord  Stanley 
was  next  to  her,  they  exchanged  a  few  words,  and 
the  scorn  left  their  eyes.  The  Duchess  even  smiled 
at  Lady  Ancaster,  who  stood  near  her,  and  Lady 
Ancaster  shrugged  her  shoulders  almost  as  naturally 
as  if  she  had  been  a  Frenchwoman. 

Cynical  people  who  had  been  watching  the 
Duchess's  change  of  countenance  also  shrugged 
their  shoulders  (indifferently),  saying, 

"  Her  Grace  will  not  be  inexorable ;  the  son-in-law 
upon  whom  she  has  set  her  heart,  and  tried  to  set 
her  daughter's  heart  as  well,  must  not  be  frightened 
away." 

Captain  Horneck  had  gone  up  to  his  fiancee. 

"You  were  not  in  that  creature's  train,  I  hope," 
said  the  lady. 

"I?  Dear  child,  for  what  do  you  take  me?"  he 
said.  a  No,  I  certainly  was  not  in  her  train.  I  was 
with  my  friend  Dr.  Goldsmith." 

B  If  you  had  been  among  that  woman's  escort,  I 
should  never  have  forgiven  you  the  impropriety," 
said  she. 


56  Ube  Jessams 

(She  was  inflexible  as  a  girl,  but  before  she  had 
been  married  more  than  a  year  she  had  run  away 
with  her  husband's  friend,  Mr.  Scawen.) 

By  this  time  Lord  Conway  had  had  an  interview 
with  the  management,  and  now  returned  with  two 
of  the  gentlemen  who  comprised  that  body  to  where 
Mrs.  Baddeley  was  standing  simpering  among  her 
admirers. 

"Madam,"  said  Lord  Conway,  "these  gentlemen 
are  anxious  to  offer  you  their  sincere  apologies  for 
the  conduct  of  their  servants  to-night,  and  to  express 
the  hope  that  you  and  your  friends  will  frequently 
honour  them  by  your  patronage." 

And  those  were  the  very  words  uttered  by  the 
spokesman  of  the  management,  with  many  humble 
bows,  in  the  presence  of  the  smiling  actress. 

"And  now  you  can  send  for  Mrs.  Abington," 
said  Lord  Stanley.  "She  agreed  to  wait  in  her 
chair  until  this  matter  was  settled." 

"  She  can  take  very  good  care  of  herself,"  said 
Mrs.  Baddeley  somewhat  curtly.  Her  fright  had  now 
vanished,  and  she  was  not  disposed  to  underrate  the 
importance  of  her  victory.  She  had  no  particular 
wish  to  divide  the  honours  attached  to  her  position 
with  another  woman,  much  less  with  one  who  was 
usually  regarded  as  better  looking  than  herself. 
"Mrs.  Abington  is  a  little  timid,  my  Lord,"  she 
continued ;  "  she  may  not  find  herself  quite  at  home 
in  this  assembly.  Tis  a  monstrous  fine  place,  to 
be  sure ;  but  for  my  part,  I  think  Vauxhall  is  richer 
and  in  better  taste." 


Jessams  Bribe.  57 

But  in  spite  of  the  indifference  of  Mrs.  Baddeley, 
a  message  was  conveyed  to  Mrs.  Abington,  who 
had  not  left  her  chair,  informing  her  of  the  honours 
which  were  being  done  to  the  lady  who  had  entered 
the  room,  and  when  this  news  reached  her  she  lost 
not  a  moment  in  hurrying  through  the  porch  to  the 
side  of  her  sister  actress. 

And  then  a  remarkable  incident  occurred,  for 
the  Duchess  of  Argyll  and  Lady  Ancaster  stepped 
down  from  their  dais  and  went  to  the  two  actresses, 
offering  them  their  hands,  and  expressing  the  desire  to 
see  them  frequently  at  the  assemblies  in  the  rotunda. 

The  actresses  made  stage  courtesies  and  returned 
thanks  for  the  condescension  of  the  great  ladies. 
The  cynical  ones  laughed  and  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders once  more. 

Only  Lord  Stanley  looked  chagrined.  He  perceived 
that  the  Duchess  was  disposed  to  regard  his  freak  in 
the  most  liberal  spirit,  and  he  knew  that  the  point  of 
view  of  the  Duchess  was  the  point  of  view  of  the 
Duchess's  daughter.  He  felt  rather  sad  as  he  reflected 
upon  the  laxity  of  mothers  with  daughters  yet  un- 
married. Could  it  be  that  eligible  suitors  were 
growing  scarce? 

Garrick  was  highly  amused  at  the  little  scene 
that  was  being  played  under  his  eyes;  he  consi- 
dered himself  a  pretty  fair  judge  of  comedy,  and 
he  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  never 
witnessed  any  more  highly  finished  exhibition  of 
this  form  of  art. 

His  friend  Goldsmith  had  not  waited  at  the  door 


58  Ube  Sessams  Bribe, 

for  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Abington.  He  was  not  wear- 
ing any  of  the  gorgeous  costumes  in  which  he  liked 
to  appear  at  places  of  amusement,  and  so  he  did 
not  intend  to  remain  in  the  rotunda  for  longer  than 
a  few  minutes;  he  was  only  curious  to  see  what 
would  be  the  result  of  the  bold  action  of  Lord  Con- 
way  and  his  friends.  But  when  he  was  watching 
the  act  of  condescension  on  the  part  of  the  Duchess 
and  the  Countess,  and  had  had  his  laugh  with  Burke, 
he  heard  a  merry  voice  behind  him  saying, 

"  Is  Dr.  Goldsmith  a  modern  Marius,  \veeping  over 
the  ruin  of  the  Pantheon  ?  " 

"Nay,"  cried  another  voice,  "Dr.  Goldsmith  is 
contemplating  the  writing  of  the  history  of  the  at- 
tempted reformation  of  society  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury through  the  agency  of  a  Greek  temple  known 
as  the  Pantheon  on  the  Oxford  Road." 

He  turned  and  stood  face  to  face  with  two  lovely 
laughing  girls  and  a  handsome  elder  lady,  who  was 
pretending  to  look  scandalised. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Jessamy  Bride — and  my  sweet 
Little  Comedy !  "  he  cried,  as  the  girls  caught  each 
a  hand  of  his.  He  had  dropped  his  hat  in  the  act 
of  making  his  bow  to  Mrs.  Horneck,  the  mother  of 
the  two  girls,  Mary  and  Katherine — the  latter  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Bunbury.  "  Mrs.  Horneck,  madam,  I 
am  your  servant — and  don't  I  look  your  servant  too, n 
he  added,  remembering  that  he  was  not  wearing  his 
usual  gala  dress. 

"  You  look  always  the  same  good  friend,"  said  the 
lady. 


59 

"  Nay, "  laughed  Mrs.  Bunbury,  "  if  he  were  your 
servant  he  would  take  care,  for  the  honour  of  the 
house,  that  he  was  splendidly  dressed;  it  is  not  that 
snuff-coloured  suit  we  should  have  on  him,  but  some- 
thing gorgeous.  What  would  you  say  to  a  peach- 
bloom  coat,  Dr.  Goldsmith?" 

(His  coat  of  this  tint  had  become  a  family  joke 
among  the  Hornecks  and  Bunburys.) 

"  Well,  if  the  bloom  remain  on  the  peach  it  would 
be  well  enough  in  your  company,  Madam,"  said 
Goldsmith,  with  a  face  of  humorous  gravity.  "  But 
a  peach  with  the  bloom  off  would  be  more  conge- 
nial to  the  Pantheon  after  to-night."  He  gave  a 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  group  of  actresses  and 
their  admirers. 

Mrs.  Horneck  looked  serious,  her  two  daughters 
looked  demurely  down. 

"The  air  is  tainted,"  said  Goldsmith  solemnly. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bunbury  with  a  charming  mock 
demureness.  "  Tis  as  you  say :  the  Pantheon  will 
soon  become  as  amusing  as  Ranelagh." 

"I  said  not  so,  Madam,"  cried  Goldsmith,  shaking 
his  head.  "As  amusing — amusing " 

"  As  Ranelagh.  Those  were  your  exact  words, 
Doctor,  I  assure  you,"  protested  Little  Comedy. 
"Were  they  not,  Mary?" 

"  Oh,  undoubtedly  those  were  his  words — only  he 
did  not  utter  them,"  replied  the  Jessamy  Bride. 

"  There,  now,  you  will  not  surely  deny  your 
words  in  the  face  of  two  such  witnesses ! "  said  Mrs. 
Bunbury. 


60  Ube  Jessams  Bribe* 

"I  could  deny  nothing  to  two  such  faces,"  said 
Goldsmith,  a  even  though  one  of  the  faces  is  that 
of  a  little  dunce  who  could  talk  of  Marius  weeping 
over  the  Pantheon." 

"  And  why  should  not  he  weep  over  the  Pantheon 
if  he  saw  good  cause  for  it  ? "  she  inquired,  with 
her  chin  in  the  air. 

u  Ah,  why  not  indeed  ?  Only  he  was  never  within 
reach  of  it,  my  dear,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"  Psha!  I  daresay  Marius  was  no  better  than  he 
need  be,"  cried  the  young  lady. 

a  Few  men  are  even  so  good  as  it  is  necessary 
for  them  to  be,"  said  Oliver. 

u  That  depends  upon  their  own  views  as  to  the 
need  of  being  good,"  remarked  Mary. 

"And  so  I  say  that  Marius  most  likely  made 
many  excursions  to  the  Pantheon  without  the  know- 
ledge of  his  biographer,"  cried  her  sister,  with  an 
air  of  worldly  wisdom  of  which  a  recent  bride  was 
so  well  qualified  to  be  an  exponent. 

u  'Twere  vain  to  attempt  to  contend  against  such 
wisdom,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"  Nay,  all  things  are  possible  with  a  Professor  of 
Ancient  History  to  the  Royal  Academy  of  Arts," 
said  a  lady  who  had  come  up  with  Burke  at  that 
moment — a  small  but  very  elegant  lady  with  dis- 
tinction in  every  movement,  and  withal  having  eyes 
sparkling  with  humour. 

Goldsmith  bowed  low — again  over  his  fallen  hat, 
on  the  crown  of  which  Little  Comedy  set  a  very 
dainty  foot  with  an  aspect  of  the  sweetest  uncon- 


Ube  3essam£  Bribe*  61 

sciousness.  She  was  a  torn-boy  down  to  the  sole  of 
that  dainty  foot. 

"In  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Thrale, w  Goldsmith 
began,  but,  seeing  the  ill-treatment  to  which  his 
hat  was  subjected,  he  become  confused,  and  the 
compliment  which  he  had  been  elaborating  dwin- 
dled away  in  a  murmur. 

"  Is  it  not  the  business  of  a  Professor  to  contend 
with  wisdom,  Dr.  Goldsmith?"  said  Mrs.  Thrale. 

"  Madam,  if  you  say  that  it  is  so,  I  will  prove 
that  you  are  wrong  by  declining  to  argue  out  the 
matter  with  you,"  said  the  Professor  of  Ancient 
History. 

Miss  Horneck's  face  shone  with  appreciation  of 
her  dear  friend's  quickness;  but  the  lively  Mrs. 
Thrale  was,  as  usual,  too  much  engrossed  in  her 
own  efforts  to  be  brilliant  to  be  able  to  pay  any 
attention  to  the  words  of  so  clumsy  a  person  as 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  and  one  who,  moreover,  declined 
to  join  with  so  many  other  distinguished  persons  in 
accepting  her  patronage. 

She  found  it  to  her  advantage  to  launch  into  a 
series  of  sarcasms — most  of  which  had  been  said  at 
least  once  before — at  the  expense  of  the  Duchess  of 
Argyll  and  Lady  Ancaster,  and  finding  that  Gold- 
smith was  more  busily  engaged  in  listening  to  Mrs. 
Bunbury's  mock  apologies  for  the  injury  she  had 
done  to  his  hat  than  in  attending  to  herjeux  d*  esprit, 
she  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and  gave  Burke  and 
Mrs.  Horneck  the  benefit  of  her  remarks. 

Goldsmith  continued  taking  part  in  the  fun  made 


Ube 


by  Little  Comedy,  pointing  out  to  her  the  details 
of  his  hat's  disfigurement,  when,  suddenly  turning 
in  the  direction  of  Mary  Horneck,  who  was  stand- 
ing behind  her  mother,  the  jocular  remark  died  on 
his  lips.  He  saw  the  expression  of  dismay — worse 
than  dismay — which  was  on  the  girl's  face  as  she 
gazed  across  the  rotunda. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GOLDSMITH  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes  and 
saw  that  their  object  was  a  man  in  the  uniform  of 
an  officer,  who  was  chatting  with  Mrs.  Abington. 
He  was  a  showily  handsome  man,  though  his  face 
bore  evidence  of  some  dissipated  years,  and  there 
was  an  undoubted  swagger  in  his  bearing. 

Meanwhile  Goldsmith  watched  him.  The  man 
caught  sight  of  Miss  Horneck  and  gave  a  slight 
start,  his  jaw  falling  for  an  instant — only  for  an 
instant,  however;  then  he  recovered  himself  and 
made  an  elaborate  bow  to  the  girl  across  the  room. 

Goldsmith  turned  to  Miss  Horneck  and  perceived 
that  her  face  had  become  white,  she  returned  very 
coldly  the  man's  recognition,  and  only  after  the  lapse 
of  some  seconds.  Goldsmith  possessed  naturally 
both  delicacy  of  feeling  and  tact.  He  did  not  allow 
the  girl  to  see  that  he  had  been  a  witness  of  a 
rencontre  which  evidently  was  painful  to  her;  but 
he  spoke  to  her  sister,  who  was  amusing  her  hus- 
band by  a  scarcely  noticeable  imitation  of  a  certain 
great  lady  known  to  both  of  them ;  and,  professing 
himself  woefully  ignorant  as  to  the  personnel  of  the 
majority  of  the  people  who  were  present,  inquired 

63 


64  ftbe  Sessams  iJBribe, 

first  what  was  the  name  of  a  gentleman  wearing  a 
star  and  talking  to  a  group  of  apparently  interested 
ladies,  and  then  of  the  officer  whom  he  had  seen 
make  that  elaborate  bow. 

Mrs.  Bunbury  was  able  to  tell  him  who  was  the 
gentleman  with  the  star,  but  after  glancing  casually 
at  the  other  man,  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  have  never  seen  him  before,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  think  he  can  be  anyone  in  particular.  The 
people  whom  we  don't  know  are  usually  nobodies 
— until  we  come  to  know  them." 

"That  is  quite  reasonable,"  said  he.  "It  is  a 
distinction  to  become  your  friend.  It  will  be  re- 
membered in  my  favour  when  my  efforts  as  Pro- 
fessor at  the  Academy  are  forgotten." 

His  last  sentence  was  unheard,  for  Mrs.  Bunbury 
was  giving  all  her  attention  to  her  sister,  of  whose 
face  she  had  just  caught  a  glimpse. 

"  Heavens,  child !  "  she  whispered  to  her,  "  what 
is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"  What  should  be  the  matter  with  me?  "  said  Mary. 
"  What,  except — oh,  this  place  is  stifling !  And  the 
managers  boasted  that  it  would  be  cool  and  well 
ventilated  at  all  times !  " 

"  My  dear  girl,  you'll  be  quite  right  when  I  take 
you  into  the  air,"  said  Bunbury. 

"No,  no;  I  do  not  need  to  leave  the  rotunda,  I 
shall  be  myself  in  a  moment,"  said  the  girl  some- 
what huskily  and  spasmodically.  "  For  heaven's  sake 
don't  stare  so,  child,"  she  added  to  her  sister,  mak- 
ing a  pitiful  attempt  to  laugh. 


TTbe  Sessams  Bribe*  65 

"  But,  my  dear "  began  Mrs.  Bunbury ;  she 

was  interrupted  by  Mary. 

"Nay,"  she  cried,  "I  will  not  have  our  mother 
alarmed,  and — well,  everyone  knows  what  a  tongue 
Mrs.  Thrale  has.  Oh,  no ;  already  the  faintness  has 
passed  away.  What  should  one  fear  with  a  doctor 
in  one's  company?  Come,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  you  are 
a  sensible  person.  You  do  not  make  a  fuss.  Lend 
me  your  arm,  if  you  please." 

"  With  all  pleasure  in  life, "  cried  Oliver. 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  it.  He  could  feel  how  greatly  she  was  trem- 
bling. 

When  they  had  taken  a  few  steps  away  Mary 
looked  back  at  her  sister  and  Bunbury  and  smiled 
reassuringly  at  them.  Her  companion  saw  that,  im- 
mediately afterwards,  her  glance  went  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  officer  who  had  bowed  to  her. 

"Take  me  up  to  one  of  the  galleries,  my  dear 
friend, "  she  said.  "  Take  me  somewhere — some 
place  away  from  here — any  place  away  from  here." 

He  brought  her  to  an  alcove  off  one  of  the  gal- 
leries where  only  one  sconce  with  wax  candles 
was  alight. 

*  Why  should  you  tremble,  my  dear  girl  ?  "  said 
he.  "What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of?  I  am  your 
friend — you  know  that  I  would  die  to  save  you 
from  the  least  trouble." 

"Trouble?  Who  said  anything  about  trouble?" 
she  cried.  "  I  am  in  no  trouble — only  for  the  trou- 
ble I  am  giving  you,  dear  Goldsmith.  And  you 

5 


66  Ube  _ 

did    not    come    in    the  bloom-tinted  coat  after  all." 

He  made  no  reply  to  her  spasmodic  utterances. 
The  long  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  playing 
of  the  band,  following  Madame  Agujari's  song — 
the  hum  of  voices  and  laughter  from  the  well-dressed 
mob  in  the  rotunda  and  around  the  galleries. 

At  last  the  girl  put  her  hand  again  upon  his 
arm,  saying, 

"  I  wonder  what  you  think  of  this  business,  my 
dear  friend — I  wonder  what  you  think  of  your  Jes- 
samy  Bride." 

"  I  think  nothing  but  what  is  good  of  you,  my 
dear, "  said  he  tenderly.  "  But  if  you  can  tell  me 
of  the  matter  that  troubles  you,  I  think  I  may  be 
able  to  make  you  see  that  it  should  not  be  a  trouble 
to  you  for  a  moment.  Why,  what  can  possibly 
have  happened  since  we  were  all  so  merry  in 
France  together  ?  " 

"  Nothing — nothing    has    happened — I    give    you 

my  word  upon  it, "  she  said.     "  Oh,  I  feel  that  you 

are  altogether  right.     I  have  no  cause  to  be  frightened 

—no   cause   to   be   troubled.     Why,   if  it   came  to 

fighting,   have  not   I   a  brother?     Ah,  I  had  much 

better  say  nothing  more.    You  could  not  understand 

— psha!    there    is    nothing  to   be  understood,    dear 

Dr.  Goldsmith;  girls  are  foolish  creatures." 

"Is  it  nothing  to  you  that  we  have  been  friends 
so  long,  dear  child  ? "  said  he.  "  Is  it  not  possible 
for  you  to  let  me  have  your  confidence?  Think  if 
it  be  possible,  Mary.  I  am  not  a  wise  man  where 
my  own  affairs  are  concerned,  but  I  feel  that  for 


-Jessams  JSrifce.  67 

others — for  you,  my  dear — ah,  child,  don't  you 
know  that  if  you  share  a  secret  trouble  with  another 
its  poignancy  is  blunted?" 

"  I  have  never  had  consolation  except  from  you," 
said  the  girl.  "  But  this — this — oh,  my  friend,  by 
what  means  did  you  look  into  a  woman's  soul  to 
enable  you  to  write  those  lines — 

'When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late     .     .     .'?" 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  he  started  up 
with  his  hand  pressed  to  his  forehead.  He  looked 
at  her  strangely  for  a  moment,  and  then  walked 
slowly  away  from  her  with  his  head  bent.  Before 
he  had  taken  more  than  a  dozen  steps,  however, 
he  stopped,  and,  after  another  moment  of  indecision, 
hastened  back  to  her  and  offered  her  his  hand,  saying, 

"  I  am  but  a  man ;  I  can  think  nothing  of  you 
but  what  is  good." 

"  Yes, "  she  said ;  "  it  is  only  a  woman  who  can 
think  everything  that  is  evil  about  a  woman.  It 
is  not  by  men  that  women  are  deceived  to  their 
own  destruction,  but  by  women." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm  once  again. 

"Let  us  go  away,"  she  said.  a  I  am  sick  of  this 
place.  There  is  no  corner  of  it  that  is  not  penetrated 
by  the  Agujari's  singing.  Was  there  ever  any  sing- 
ing so  detestable  ?  And  they  pay  her  fifty  guineas 
a  song!  I  would  pay  fifty  guineas  to  get  out  of 
earshot  of  the  best  of  her  efforts." 


68  Ube  Jessams 


Her  laugh  had  a  shrill  note  that  caused  it  to 
sound  very  pitiful  to  the  man  who  heard  it. 

He  spoke  no  word,  but  led  her  tenderly  back  to 
where  her  mother  was  standing  with  Burke  and  her  son. 

"  I  do  hope  that  you  have  not  missed  Agujari's 
last  song,"  said  Mrs.  Horneck.  "We  have  been 
entranced  with  its  melody." 

"  Oh,  no;  I  have  missed  no  note  of  it — no  note. 
Was  there  ever  anything  so  delicious — so  liquid- 
sweet?  Is  it  not  time  that  we  went  homeward, 
mother?  I  do  feel  a  little  tired,  in  spite  of  the 
Agujari." 

"At  what  an  admirable  period  we  have  arrived 
in  the  world's  history ! "  said  Burke.  "  It  is  the 
young  miss  in  these  days  who  insists  on  her  mother's 
keeping  good  hours.  How  wise  we  are  all  growing ! " 

"  Mary  was  always  a  wise  little  person,"  said 
Mrs.  Horneck. 

"Wise?  Oh,  let  us  go  home!"  said  the  girl 
wearily. 

a  Dr.  Goldsmith  will,  I  am  sure,  direct  our  coach 
to  be  called,"  said  her  mother. 

Goldsmith  bowed  and  pressed  his  way  to  the  door, 
where  he  told  the  janitor  to  call  for  Mrs.  Horneck's 
coach. 

He  led  Mary  out  of  the  rotunda,  Burke  having 
gone  before  with  the  elder  lady.  Goldsmith  did  not 
fail  to  notice  the  look  of  apprehension  on  the  girl's 
face  as  her  eyes  wandered  around  the  crowd  in  the 
porch.  He  could  hear  the  little  sigh  of  relief  that 
she  gave  after  her  scrutiny. 


TTbe  3e05am2  ifiSrf&e.  69 

The  coach  had  drawn  up  at  the  entrance,  and  the 
little  party  went  out  into  the  region  of  flaring  links 
and  pitch-scented  smoke.  While  Goldsmith  was  in 
the  act  of  helping  Mary  Horneck  up  the  steps  he 
was  furtively  glancing  round,  and  before  she  had 
got  into  a  position  for  seating  herself  by  the  side 
of  her  mother,  he  dropped  her  hand  in  so  clumsy  a 
way  that  several  of  the  onlookers  laughed.  Then 
he  retreated,  bowing  awkwardly,  and,  to  crown  his 
stupidity,  he  turned  round  so  rapidly  and  unexpect- 
edly that  he  ran  violently  full-tilt  against  a  gentle- 
man in  uniform,  who  was  hurrying  to  the  side  of 
the  chariot  as  if  to  take  leave  of  the  ladies. 

The  crowd  roared  as  the  officer  lost  his  footing 
for  a  moment  and  staggered  among  the  loiterers  in 
the  porch,  not  recovering  himself  until  the  vehicle 
had  driven  away.  Even  then  Goldsmith,  with  dis- 
ordered hair — his  wig  had  fallen  off — was  barring 
the  way  to  the  carriage,  profusely  apologising  for 
his  awkwardness. 

u  Curse  you  for  a  lout !  "  cried  the  officer. 

Goldsmith  put  his  hat  on  his  head. 

"Look  you,  Sir!"  he  said.  "I  have  offered  you 
my  humblest  apologies  for  the  accident.  If  you  do 
not  choose  to  accept  them,  you  have  but  got  to  say 
as  much  and  I  am  at  your  service.  My  name  is 
Goldsmith,  Sir — Oliver  Goldsmith — and  my  friend  is 
Mr.  Edmund  Burke.  I  flatter  myself  that  we  are 
as  well  known  and  of  as  high  repute  as  yourself, 
whoever  you  may  be." 

The   onlookers  in  the   porch  laughed,  those  out- 


70  TIbe  Jessamp  Bribe, 

side  gave  an  encouraging  cheer,  while  the  chairmen 
and  linkmen.  who  were  nearly  all  Irish,  shouted, 
"  Well  done,  your  Honour !  The  Little  Doctor  and 
Mr.  Burke  for  ever!  "  For  both  Goldsmith  and  Burke 
were  as  popular  with  the  mob  as  they  were  in 
society. 

While  Goldsmith  stood  facing  the  scowling  officer, 
an  old  gentleman,  in  the  uniform  of  a  general  and 
with  his  breast  covered  with  orders,  stepped  out 
from  the  side  of  the  porch  and  shook  Oliver  by  the 
hand.  Then  he  turned  to  his  opponent,  saying, 

"  Dr.  Goldsmith  is  my  friend,  Sir.  If  you  have 
any  quarrel  with  him  you  can  let  me  hear  from 
you.  I  am  General  Oglethorpe." 

"  Or  if  it  suits  you  better,  Sir,"  said  another  gentle- 
man coming  to  Goldsmith's  side,  "  you  can  send 
your  friend  to  my  house.  My  name  is  Lord  Clare." 

"My  Lord,"  cried  the  man,  bowing  with  a  little 
swagger,  "I  have  no  quarrel  with  Dr.  Goldsmith. 
He  has  no  warmer  admirer  than  myself.  If  in  the 
heat  of  the  moment  I  made  use  of  any  expression 
that  one  gentleman  might  not  make  use  of  toward 
another,  I  ask  Dr.  Goldsmith's  pardon.  I  have  the 
honour  to  wish  your  Lordship  good-night  1" 

He  bowed  and  made  his  exit. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHEN  Goldsmith  reached  his  chambers  in  Brick 
Court,  he  found  awaiting  him  a  letter  from  Colman, 
the  lessee  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  to  let  him 
know  that  Woodward  and  Mrs.  Abington  had  re- 
signed their  parts  in  his  comedy  which  had  been 
in  rehearsal  for  a  week,  and  that  he,  Colman,  felt 
they  were  right  in  doing  so,  as  the  failure  of  the 
piece  was  so  inevitable.  He  hoped  that  Dr.  Gold- 
smith would  be  discreet  enough  to  sanction  its  with- 
drawal while  its  withdrawal  was  still  possible. 

He  read  this  letter — one  of  several  which  he  had 
received  from  Colman  during  the  week  prophesying 
disaster — without  impatience,  and  threw  it  aside  with- 
out a  further  thought.  He  had  no  thought  for  any- 
thing save  the  expression  that  had  been  on  the  face 
of  Mary  Horneck  as  she  had  spoken  his  lines — 


"  Too  late "  She  had  not  got  bey  end  those  words. 

Her  voice  had  broken,  as  he  had  often  believed  that  his 
beloved  Olivia's  voice  had  broken,  when  trying  to  sing 
her  song  in  which  a  woman's  despair  is  enshrined 

71 


72  ZTbe 


for  all  ages.  Her  voice  had  broken,  though  not 
with  the  stress  of  tears.  It  would  not  have  been  so 
full  of  despair  if  tears  had  been  in  her  eyes.  Where 
there  are  tears  there  is  hope.  But  her  voice 

What  was  he  to  believe  ?  What  was  he  to  think 
regarding-  that  sweet  girl  who  had,  since  the  first 
day  he  had  known  her,  treated  him  as  no  other 
human  being  had  ever  treated  him?  The  whole 
family  of  the  Hornecks  had  shown  themselves  to  be 
his  best  friends.  They  insisted  on  his  placing  him- 
self on  the  most  familiar  footing  in  regard  to  their 
house,  and  when  Little  Comedy  married  she  main- 
tained the  pleasant  intimacy  with  him  which  had 
begun  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  dinner-table.  The 
days  that  he  spent  at  the  Bunburys'  house  at  Bar- 
ton were  among  the  pleasantest  of  his  life. 

But,  fond  though  he  was  of  Mrs.  Bunbury,  her 
sister  Mary,  his  "Jessamy  Bride,"  drew  him  to  her 
by  a  deeper  and  warmer  affection.  He  had  felt 
from  the  first  hour  of  meeting  her  that  she  under- 
stood his  nature — that  in  her  he  had  at  last  found 
someone  who  could  give  him  the  sympathy  which 
he  sought.  More  than  once  she  had  proved  to  him 
that  she  recognised  the  greatness  of  his  nature — 
his  simplicity,  his  generosity,  the  tenderness  of  his 
heart  for  all  things  that  suffered,  his  trustfulness, 
that  caused  him  to  be  so  frequently  imposed  upon, 
his  intolerance  of  hypocrisy  and  false  sentiment, 
though  false  sentiment  was  the  note  of  the  most 
successful  productions  of  the  day.  Above  all,  he 
felt  that  she  recognised  his  true  attitude  in  relation 


Sessams  Bribe.  73 

to  English  literature.  If  he  was  compelled  to  work 
in  uncongenial  channels  in  order  to  earn  his  daily 
bread,  he  himself  never  forgot  what  he  owed  to 
English  literature.  How  nobly  he  discharged  this 
debt  his  "Traveller,"  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield," 
"The  Deserted  Village,"  and  "The  Good  Natured 
Man"  testified  at  intervals.  He  felt  that  he  was 
the  truest  poet — the  sincerest  dramatist,  of  the  period, 
and  he  never  allowed  the  work  which  he  was 
compelled  to  do  for  the  booksellers  to  turn  him 
aside  from  his  high  aims. 

It  was  because  Mary  Horneck  proved  to  him 
daily  that  she  understood  what  his  aims  were  that 
he  regarded  her  as  different  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  She  did  not  talk  to  him  of  sympathising 
with  him,  but  she  understood  him  and  sympathised 
with  him. 

As  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  now  asking  himself 
what  he  should  think  of  her,  he  recalled  every  day 
that  he  had  passed  in  her  company,  from  the  time 
of  their  first  meeting  at  Reynolds's  house  until  he 
had  accompanied  her  and  her  mother  and  sister  on 
the  tour  through  France.  He  remembered  how,  the 
previous  year,  she  had  stirred  his  heart  on  return- 
ing from  a  long  visit  to  her  native  Devonshire  by 
a  clasp  of  the  hand  and  a  look  of  gratitude,  as  she 
spoke  the  name  of  the  book  which  he  had  sent  to 
her  with  a  letter.  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  was 
the  book,  and  she  had  said — 

"  You  can  never  know  what  it  has  been  to  me — 
what  it  has  done  for  me." 


74  'Gbe  Jessams  3Bribe, 

Her  eyes  had  at  that  time  been  full  of  tears  of 
gratitude — of  affection,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice 
and  the  sight  of  her  liquid  eyes  had  overcome  him. 
He  knew  there  was  a  bond  between  them  that  would 
not  be  easily  severed. 

But  there  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke 
the  words  of  Olivia's  song. 

What  was  he  to  think  of  her? 

One  moment  she  had  been  overflowing  with  girlish 
merriment,  and  then,  on  glancing  across  the  hall, 
her  face  had  become  pale  and  her  mood  had  changed 
from  one  of  merriment  to  one  of  despair — the 
despair  of  a  bird  that  finds  itself  in  the  net  of  the 
fowler. 

What  was  he  to  think  of  her? 

He  would  not  wrong  her  by  a  single  thought. 
He  thought  no  longer  of  her,  but  of  the  man  whose 
sudden  appearance  before  her  eyes  had,  he  felt  cer- 
tain, brought  about  her  change  of  mood. 

It  was  his  certainty  of  feeling  on  this  matter  that 
had  caused  him  to  guard  her  jealously  from  the  ap- 
proach of  that  man,  and  when  he  saw  him  going 
toward  the  coach,  to  prevent  his  further  advance  by 
the  readiest  means  in  his  power.  He  had  no  time 
to  elaborate  any  scheme  to  keep  the  man  away  from 
Mary  Horneck,  and  he  had  been  forced  to  adopt 
the  most  rudimentary  scheme  to  carry  out  his  pur- 
pose. 

Well,  he  reflected  upon  the  fact  that  if  the  scheme 
was  rudimentary  it  had  proved  extremely  effective. 
He  had  kept  the  man  apart  from  the  girls,  and  he 


Jessams  Brffce*  75 

only  regretted  that  the  man  had  been  so  easily  led  to 
regard  the  occurrence  as  an  accident.  He  would  have 
dearly  liked  to  run  the  man  through  some  vital  part. 

What  was  that  man  to  Mary  Horneck  that  she 
should  be  in  terror  at  the  very  sight  of  him?  That 
was  the  question  which  presented  itself  to  him,  and 
his  too  vivid  imagination  had  no  difficulty  in  sug- 
gesting a  number  of  answers  to  it,  but  through  all 
he  kept  his  word  to  her:  he  thought  no  ill  of  her. 
He  could  not  entertain  a  thought  of  her  that  was 
not  wholly  good.  He  felt  that  her  concern  was  on 
account  of  someone  else  who  might  be  in  the  power 
of  that  man.  He  knew  how  generous  she  was — 
how  sympathetic.  He  had  told  her  some  of  his 
troubles,  and  though  he  did  so  lightly,  as  was  his 
custom,  she  had  been  deeply  affected  on  hearing  of 
them.  Might  it  not  then  be  that  the  trouble  which 
affected  her  was  not  her  own,  but  another's? 

Before  he  went  to  bed  he  had  brought  himself 
to  take  this  view  of  the  matter,  and  he  felt  much 
easier  in  his  mind. 

Only  he  experienced  a  twinge  of  regret  when  he 
reflected  that  the  fellow  whose  appearance  had  deprived 
Mary  Horneck  of  an  evening's  pleasure  had  escaped 
with  no  greater  inconvenience  than  would  be  the  result 
of  an  ordinary  shaking.  His  contempt  for  the  man 
increased  as  he  recalled  how  he  had  declined  to 
prolong  the  quarrel.  If  he  had  been  anything  of  a 
man  he  would  have  perceived  that  he  was  insulted, 
not  by  accident  but  design,  and  would  have  been 
ready  to  fight. 


76  Ube  Sessams  Bribe* 

Whatever  might  be  the  nature  of  Mary  Horneck's 
trouble,  the  killing  of  the  man  would  be  a  step  in 
the  right  direction. 

It  was  not  until  his  servant,  John  Eyles,  had  awakened 
him  in  the  morning  that  he  recollected  receiving  a  letter 
from  Colman  which  contained  some  unpleasant  news. 
He  could  not  at  first  remenberthe  details  of  the  news, 
but  he  was  certain  that  on  receiving  it  he  had  had  a 
definite  idea  that  it  was  unpleasant.  When  he  now 
read  Colman's  letter  for  the  second  time  he  found  that 
his  recollection  of  his  first  impression  was  not  at 
fault.  It  was  just  his  luck :  no  man  was  in  the  habit 
of  writing  more  joyous  letters  or  receiving  more 
depressing  ones  than  Goldsmith. 

He  hurried  off  to  the  theatre  and  found  Colman 
in  his  most  disagreeable  mood.  The  actor  and 
actress  who  had  resigned  their  parts  were  just 
those  to  whom  he  was  looking,  Colman  declared, 
to  pull  the  play  through.  He  could  not,  however, 
blame  them,  he  frankly  admitted.  They  were,  he 
said,  dependent  for  a  livelihood  upon  their  association 
with  successes  on  the  stage,  and  it  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  prejudicial  to  their  best  interests  to 
be  connected  with  a  failure. 

This  was  too  much  even  for  the  long-suffering 
Goldsmith. 

"Is  it  not  somewhat  premature  to  talk  of  the 
failure  of  a  play  that  has  not  yet  been  produced, 
Mr.  Colman?"  he  said. 

"It  might  be  in  respect  to  most  plays,  Sir," 
replied  Colman;  "but  in  regard  to  this  particular 


ZTbe  Sessams  Bribe*  77 

play,  I  don't  think  that  one  need  be  afraid  to  anti- 
cipate by  a  week  or  two  the  verdict  of  the  play- 
goers. Two  things  in  this  world  are  inevitable, Sir : 
death  and  the  damning  of  your  comedy." 

"I  shall  try  to  bear  both  with  fortitude,"  said 
Goldsmith  quietly,  though  he  was  inwardly  very 
indignant  with  the  manager  for  his  gratuitous  pre- 
dictions of  failure — predictions  which  from  the  first 
his  attitude  in  regard  to  the  play  had  contributed 
to  realise.  "  I  should  like  to  have  a  talk  with  Mrs. 
Abington  and  Woodward,"  he  added. 

"  They  are  in  the  Green  Room, "  said  the  mana- 
ger. "  I  must  say  that  I  was  in  hope,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, that  your  critical  judgment  of  your  own  work 
would  enable  you  to  see  your  way  to  withdraw  it. " 
"I  decline  to  withdraw  it,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith. 
"I  have  been  a  manager  now  for  some  years," 
said  Colman,  "  and  speaking  from  the  experience 
which  I  have  gained  at  this  theatre,  I  say  without 
hesitation  that  I  never  had  a  piece  offered  to  me 
which  promised  so  complete  a  disaster  as  this,  Sir. 
Why,  'tis  like  no  other  comedy  that  was  ever  wrote." 

"  That  is  a  feature  which  I  think  the  playgoers 
will  not  be  slow  to  appreciate,"  said  Goldsmith. 
"  Good  Lord!  Mr.  Colman,  cannot  you  see  that 
what  the  people  want  nowadays  is  a  novelty  ?  " 

"Ay,  Sir;  but  there  are  novelties  and  novelties, 
and  this  novelty  of  yours  is  not  to  their  taste.  'Tis 
not  a  comedy  of  the  pothouse  that's  the  novelty 
genteel  people  want  in  these  days ;  and  mark  my 
words,  Sir,  the  bringing  on  of  that  vulgar  young 


78 

boor — what's  the  fellow's  name? — Lumpkin,  in  his 
pothouse,  and  the  unworthy  sneers  against  the  refine- 
ment and  sensibility  of  the  period — the  fellow  who 
talks  of  his  bear  only  dancing  to  the  genteelest  of 
tunes — all  this,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  I  pledge  you  my 
word  and  reputation  as  a  manager,  will  bring  about 
an  early  fall  of  the  curtain." 

"  An  early  fall  of  the  curtain  ?  * 

"Even  so,  Sir;  for  the  people  in  the  house  will  not 
permit  another  scene  beyond  that  of  your  pothouse 
to  be  set." 

"Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Colman,  that  the  Three 
Pigeons  is  an  hostelry,  not  a  pothouse." 

"  The  playgoers  will  damn  it  if  it  were  e'en  a 
bishop's  palace." 

"  Which  you  think  most  secure  against  such  a 
fate.  Nay,  Sir,  let  us  not  apply  the  doctrine  of 
predestination  to  a  comedy.  Men  have  gone  mad 
through  believing  that  they  had  no  chance  of  being 
saved  from  the  Pit.  Pray  let  not  us  take  so  gloomy 
a  view  of  the  hereafter  of  our  play." 

"  Of  your  play,  Sir,  by  your  leave.  I  have  no 
mind  to  accept  even  a  share  of  its  paternity,  though 
I  know  that  I  cannot  escape  blame  for  having  any- 
thing to  do  with  its  production." 

"  If  you  are  so  anxious  to  decline  the  responsi- 
bilities of  a  father  in  respect  to  it,  Sir,  I  must  beg 
that  you  will  not  feel  called  upon  to  act  with  the 
cruelty  of  a  step-father  towards  it." 

Goldsmith  bowed  in  his  pleasantest  manner  as  he  left 
the  manager's  office  and  went  to  the  Green  Room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  attitude  of  Colman  in  regard  to  the  comedy 
was  quite  in  keeping  with  the  traditions  of  the  stage 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  nor  was  it  so  contrary 
to  the  traditions  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  Colman, 
like  the  rest  of  his  profession — not  even  excepting 
Garrick — possessed  only  a  small  amount  of  know- 
ledge as  to  what  playgoers  desired  to  have  pre- 
sented to  them.  Whatever  successes  he  achieved  were 
certainly  not  due  to  his  own  acumen.  He  had  no 
idea  that  audiences  had  grown  tired  of  stilted  blank 
verse  tragedies  and  comedies  constructed  on  the 
most  conventional  lines,  with  plentiful  allusions  to 
heathen  deities,  but  a  plentiful  lack  of  human  nature. 
Such  plays  had  succeeded  in  his  hands  previously, 
and  he  could  see  no  reason  why  he  should  substitute 
for  them  anything  more  natural.  He  had  no  idea 
that  playgoers  were  ready  to  hail  with  pleasure  a 
comedy  founded  upon  scenes  of  everyday  life,  not 
upon  the  spurious  sentimentality  of  an  artificial  age. 
He  had  produced  "  The  Good  Natured  Man"  some 
years  before,  and  had  made  money  by  the  trans- 
action. But  the  shrieks  of  the  shallow  critics  who 
had  condemned  the  introduction  of  the  low  life 

79 


80  Ube  Jessams  3Brf&e. 

personages  into  that  play  were  still  ringing  in  his 
ears ;  so,  when  he  found  that  the  leading  character- 
istics of  these  personages  were  not  only  introduced, 
but  actually  intensified  in  the  new  comedy,  which 
the  author  had  named  provisionally  "The  Mistakes 
of  a  Night,"  he  at  first  declined  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  it.  But,  fortunately,  Goldsmith  had  in- 
fluential friends — friends  who,  like  Dr.  Johnson  and 
Bishop  Percy,  had  recognised  his  genius  when  he 
was  living  in  a  garret  and  before  he  had  written 
anything  beyond  a  few  desultory  essays — and  they 
brought  all  their  influence  to  bear  upon  the  Covent 
Garden  manager.  He  accepted  the  comedy,  but 
laid  it  aside  for  several  months,  and  only  grudgingly, 
at  last,  consented  to  put  it  in  rehearsal. 

Daily,  when  Goldsmith  attended  the  rehearsals, 
the  manager  did  his  best  to  depreciate  the  piece, 
shaking  his  head  over  some  scenes,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  over  others,  and  asking  the  author  if  he 
actually  meant  to  allow  certain  portions  of  the  dialogue 
to  be  spoken  as  he  had  written  them.  This  attitude 
would  have  discouraged  a  man  less  certain  of  his 
position  than  Goldsmith.  It  did  not  discourage  him, 
however,  but  its  effect  was  soon  perceptible  upon 
the  members  of  the  company.  They  rehearsed  in 
a  half-hearted  way,  and  accepted  Goldsmith's  sugges- 
tions with  demur. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  Gentleman  Smith,  who  had 
been  cast  for  Young  Marlow,  threw  up  the  part, 
and  Colman  inquired  of  Goldsmith  if  he  was  serious 
in  his  intention  to  continue  rehearsing  the  piece. 


Jessams  Bribe*  81 

In  a  moment  Goldsmith  assured  him  that  he  meant 
to  perform  his  part  of  the  contract  with  the  manager, 
and  that  he  would  tolerate  no  backing  out  of  that 
same  contract  by  the  manager.  At  his  friend 
Shuter's  suggestion,  the  part  was  handed  over  to 
Lee  Lewes. 

After  this,  it  might  at  least  have  been  expected 
that  Colman  would  make  the  best  of  what  he  believed 
to  be  a  bad  matter,  and  give  the  play  every  chance 
of  success.  On  the  contrary,  however,  he  was  stupid 
even  for  the  manager  of  a  theatre,  and  was  at  the 
pains  to  decry  the  play  upon  every  possible  occasion. 
Having  predicted  failure  for  it,  he  seemed  deter- 
mined to  do  his  best  to  cause  his  prophecies  to  be 
realised.  At  rehearsal  he  provoked  Goldsmith  almost 
beyond  endurance  by  his  sneers,  and  actually  en- 
couraged the  members  of  his  own  company  in  their 
frivolous  complaints  regarding  their  dialogue.  He 
spoke  the  truth  to  Goldsmith  when  he  said  he  was 
not  surprised  that  Woodward  and  Mrs.  Abington 
had  thrown  up  their  parts:  he  would  have  been 
greatly  surprised  if  they  had  continued  rehearsing. 

When  the  unfortunate  author  now  entered  the 
Green  Room,  the  buzz  of  conversation  which  had 
been  audible  outside  ceased  in  an  instant.  He 
knew  that  he  had  formed  the  subject  of  the  con- 
versation, and  he  could  not  doubt  what  was  its 
nature.  For  a  moment  he  was  tempted  to  turn 
round  and  go  back  to  Colman  in  order  to  tell  him 
that  he  would  withdraw  the  play.  The  temptation 
lasted  but  a  moment,  however:  the  spirit  of  determin- 

6 


82  ftbe  JessantE 

.ation  which  had  carried  him  through  many  difficulties 
— that  spirit  which  Reynolds  appreciated  and  had 
embodied  in  his  portrait — came  to  his  aid.  He 
walked  boldly  into  the  Green  Room  and  shook 
hands  with  both  Woodward  and  Mrs.  Abington. 

rt  I  am  greatly  mortified  at  the  news  which  I 
have  just  had  from  Mr.  Colman, "  he  said ;  "  but  I 
am  sure  that  you  have  not  taken  this  serious  step 
without  due  consideration,  so  I  need  say  no  more 
about  it.  Mr.  Colman  will  be  unable  to  attend  this 
rehearsal,  but  he  is  under  an  agreement  with  me 
to  produce  my  comedy  within  a  certain  period,  and 
he  will  therefore  sanction  any  step  I  may  take  on 
his  behalf.  Mr.  Quick  will,  I  hope,  honour  me  by 
reading  the  part  of  Tony  Lumpkin  and  Mrs. 
Bulkley  that  of  Miss  Hardcastle,  so  that  there  need 
be  no  delay  in  the  rehearsal." 

The  members  of  the  company  were  somewhat 
startled  by  the  tone  adopted  by  the  man  who  had 
previously  been  anything  but  fluent  in  his  speech, 
and  who  had  submitted  with  patience  to  the  sneers 
of  the  manager.  They  now  began  to  perceive  some- 
thing of  the  character  of  the  man  whose  life  had 
been  a  fierce  struggle  with  adversity,  but  who  even 
in  his  wretched  garret  knew  what  was  due  to  him- 
self and  to  his  art,  and  who  did  not  hesitate  to  kick 
downstairs  the  emissary  from  the  Government  that 
offered  him  employment  as  a  libeller. 

"Sir,"  cried  the  impulsive  Mrs.  Bulkley,  putting 
out  her  hand  to  him — "Sir,  you  are  not  only  a 
genius,  you  are  a  man  as  well,  and  it  will  not  be 


ZTbe  JessantE  Bribe,  83 

my  fault  if  this  comedy  of  yours  does  not  turn  out 
a  success.  You  have  been  badly  treated,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, and  you  have  borne  your  ill-treatment  nobly. 
For  myself,  Sir,  I  say  that  I  shall  be  proud  to 
appear  in  your  piece." 

"Madam,"  said  Goldsmith,  "you  overwhelm  me 
with  your  kindness.  As  for  ill-treatment,  I  have 
nothing  to  complain  of  so  far  as  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  the  company  are  concerned,  and  any- 
one who  ventures  to  assert  that  I  bear  ill-will  toward 
Mr.  Woodward  and  Mrs.  Abington  I  shall  regard 
as  having  put  an  affront  upon  me.  Before  a  fort- 
night has  passed  I  know  that  they  will  be  overcome 
by  chagrin  at  their  rejection  of  the  opportunity  that 
was  offered  them  of  being  associated  with  the  suc- 
cess of  this  play ;  for  it  will  be  a  success,  in  spite  of 
the  untoward  circumstances  incidental  to  its  birth. " 

He  bowed  several  times  round  the  company,  and 
he  did  it  so  awkwardly  that  he  immediately  gained 
the  sympathy  and  goodwill  of  all  the  actors:  they 
reflected  how  much  better  they  could  do  it,  and 
that,  of  course,  caused  them  to  feel  well  disposed 
towards  Goldsmith. 

"You  mean  to  give  the  comedy  another  name, 
Sir,  I  think,"  said  Shuter,  who  was  cast  for  the  part 
of  old  Hardcastle. 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  a  name  will  be  forth- 
coming," said  Goldsmith.  "Lord,  Sir,  I  am  too 
good  a  Christian  not  to  know  that  if  an  accident 
were  to  happen  to  my  bantling  before  it  is  christened 
it  would  be  damned  to  a  certainty." 


84  Ube  Jessamg 

The  rehearsal  this  day  was  the  most  promising 
that  had  yet  taken  place.  Colman  did  not  put  in 
an  appearance,  consequently  the  disheartening  influ- 
ence of  his  presence  was  not  felt.  The  broadly 
comical  scenes  were  acted  with  some  spirit,  and 
though  it  was  quite  apparent  to  Goldsmith  that  none 
of  the  company  believed  that  the  play  would  be 
a  success,  yet  the  members  did  not  work,  as  they 
had  worked  hitherto,  on  the  assumption  that  its 
failure  was  inevitable. 

On  the  whole,  he  left  the  theatre  with  a  lighter 
heart  than  he  had  had  since  the  first  rehearsal.  It 
was  not  until  he  returned  to  his  chambers  to  dress 
for  the  evening  that  he  recollected  he  had  not  yet 
arrived  at  a  wholly  satisfactory  solution  of  the 
question  which  had  kept  him  awake  during  the 
greater  part  of  the  night. 

The  words  that  Mary  Horneck  had  spoken  and 
the  look  there  was  in  her  eyes  at  the  same  moment 
had  yet  to  be  explained. 

He  seated  himself  at  his  desk  with  his  hand  to 
his  head,  his  elbow  resting  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
placed  ready  for  his  pen.  After  half-an-hour's  thought 
his  hand  went  mechanically  to  his  tray  of  pens. 
Picking  one  up  with  a  sigh  he  began  to  write. 

Verse  after  verse  appeared  upon  the  paper — the 
love-song  of  a  man  who  feels  that  love  is  shut  out 
from  his  life  for  evermore,  but  whose  only  consola- 
tion in  life  is  love. 

After  an  hour's  fluent  writing  he  laid  down  the 
pen  and  once  again  rested  his  head  on  his  hand. 


3e0sam2  Bvfoe*  85 

He  had  not  the  courage  to  read  what  he  had  written. 
His  desk  was  full  of  such  verses,  written  with  un- 
affected sincerity  when  everyone  around  him  was 
engaged  in  composing  verses  which  were  regarded 
worthy  of  admiration  only  in  proportion  as  they 
were  artificial. 

He  wondered,  as  he  sat  there,  what  would  be  the 
result  of  his  sending  to  Mary  Horneck  one  of  those 
poems  which  his  heart  had  sung  to  her.  Would 
she  be  shocked  at  his  presumption  in  venturing  to 
love  her?  Would  his  delightful  relations  with  her 
and  her  family  be  changed  when  it  became  known 
that  he  had  not  been  satisfied  with  the  friendship 
which  he  had  enjoyed  for  some  years,  but  had  hoped 
for  a  response  to  his  deeper  feeling? 

His  heart  sank  as  he  asked  himself  the  question. 

"  How  is  it  that  I  seem  ridiculous  as  a  lover  even 
to  myself?  "  he  muttered.  "  Why  has  God  laid  upon 
me  the  curse  of  being  a  poet?  A  poet  is  the  chroni- 
cler of  the  loves  of  others,  but  it  is  thought  mad- 
ness should  he  himself  look  for  the  consolation  of 
love.  It  is  the  irony  of  life  that  the  man  who  is 
most  capable  of  deep  feeling  should  be  forced  to 
live  in  loneliness.  How  the  world  would  pity  a 
great  painter  who  was  struck  blind — a  great  orator 
struck  dumb !  But  the  poet  shut  out  from  love  re- 
ceives no  pity — no  pity  on  earth — no  pity  in  heaven." 

He  bowed  his  head  down  to  his  hands,  and  re- 
mained in  that  attitude  for  an  hour.  Then  he  sud- 
denly sprang  to  his  feet.  He  caught  up  the  paper 
which  he  had  just  covered  with  verses,  and  was  in 


86  Ube 

the  act  of  tearing  it.  He  did  not  tear  the  sheet 
quite  across,  however;  it  fell  from  his  hand  to  the 
desk  and  lay  there,  a  slight  current  of  air  from  a 
window  making  the  torn  edge  rise  and  fall  as  though 
it  lay  upon  the  beating  heart  of  a  woman  whose 
lover  was  beside  her — that  was  what  the  quivering 
motion  suggested  to  the  poet  who  watched  it. 

"  And  I  would  have  torn  it  in  pieces  and  made 
a  ruin  of  it !  "  he  said.  "  Alas !  alas !  for  the  poor 
torn,  fluttering  heart ! n 

He  dressed  himself  and  went  out,  but  to  none 
of  his  accustomed  haunts,  where  he  would  have  been 
certain  to  meet  with  some  of  the  distinguished  men 
who  were  rejoiced  to  be  regarded  as  his  friends. 
In  his  mood  he  knew  that  friendship  could  afford 
him  no  solace. 

He  knew  that  to  offer  a  man  friendship  when 
love  is  in  his  heart  is  like  giving  a  loaf  of  bread 
to  one  who  is  dying  of  thirst. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FOR  the  next  two  days  Goldsmith  was  occupied 
making  such  changes  in  his  play  as  were  suggested 
to  him  in  the  course  of  the  rehearsals.  The  altera- 
tions were  not  radical,  but  he  felt  that  they  would 
be  improvements,  and  his  judgment  was  rarely  at 
fault.  Moreover,  he  was  quick  to  perceive  in  what 
direction  the  strong  points  and  the  weak  points  of 
the  various  members  of  the  company  lay,  and  he 
had  no  hesitation  in  altering  the  dialogue  so  as  to 
give  them  a  better  chance  of  displaying  their  gifts. 
But  not  a  line  of  what  Colman  called  the  "  pothouse 
scene"  would  he  change,  not  a  word  of  the  scene 
where  the  farm  servants  are  being  trained  to  wait 
at  table  would  he  allow  to  be  omitted. 

Colman  declined  to  appear  upon  the  stage  during 
the  rehearsals.  He  seems  to  have  spent  all  his 
spare  time  walking  from  coffee-house  to  coffee-house 
talking  about  the  play,  its  vulgarity,  and  the  certainty 
of  the  fate  that  was  in  store  for  it.  It  would  have 
been  impossible,  had  he  not  adopted  this  remarkable 
course,  for  the  people  of  the  town  to  become  aware, 
as  they  certainly  did,  what  were  his  ideas  regarding 
the  comedy.  When  it  was  produced  with  extraor- 

8? 


88 


dinary  success,  the  papers  held  the  manager  up  to 
ridicule  daily  for  his  false  predictions,  and  every 
day  a  new  set  of  lampoons  came  from  the  coffee- 
house wits  on  the  same  subject. 

But  though  the  members  of  the  company  rehearsed 
the  play  loyally,  some  of  them  were  doubtful  about 
the  scene  at  the  Three  Pigeons,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  express  their  fears  to  Goldsmith.  They  wondered 
if  he  might  not  see  his  way  to  substitute  for  that 
scene  one  which  could  not  possibly  be  thought  offensive 
by  any  section  of  playgoers.  Was  it  not  a  pity, 
one  of  them  asked  him,  to  run  a  chance  of  failure 
when  it  might  be  so  easily  avoided? 

To  all  of  these  remonstrances  he  had  but  one 
answer:  the  play  must  stand  or  fall  by  the  scenes 
which  were  regarded  as  un  genteel.  He  had  written 
it,  he  said,  for  the  sake  of  expressing  his  convictions 
through  the  medium  of  these  particular  scenes,  and 
he  was  content  to  accept  the  verdict  of  the  play- 
goers on  the  point  in  question.  Why  he  had  brought 
on  those  scenes  so  early  in  the  play  was  that  the 
playgoers  might  know  not  to  expect  a  sentimental 
piece,  but  one  that  was  meant  to  introduce  a  natural 
school  of  comedy,  with  no  pretence  to  be  anything 
but  a  copy  of  the  manners  of  the  day  —  with  no  fine 
writing  in  the  dialogue,  but  only  the  broadest  and 
heartiest  fun. 

"If  the  scenes  are  ungenteel,  "  said  he,  "it  is 
because  nature  is  made  up  of  ungenteel  things. 
Your  modern  gentleman  is,  to  my  mind,  much  less 
interesting  than  your  ungenteel  person  ;  and  I  believe 


Sessamg  3Bi1De,  89 

that  Tony  Lumpkin,  when  admirably  represented,  as 
he  will  be  by  Mr.  Quick,  will  be  a  greater  favourite 
with  all  who  come  to  the  playhouse  than  the  finest 
gentleman  who  ever  uttered  an  artificial  sentiment 
to  fall  exquisitely  on  the  ear  of  a  boarding-school 
miss.  So,  by  my  faith!  I'll  not  interfere  with  his 
romping.  " 

He  was  fluent  and  decisive  on  this  point,  as  he 
was  on  every  other  point  on  which  he  had  made 
up  his  mind.  He  only  stammered  and  stuttered 
when  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  about  to  say, 
and  this  frequently  arose  from  his  over-sensitiveness 
in  regard  to  the  feelings  of  others — a  disability  which 
could  never  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
who  was,  in  consequence,  delightfully  fluent. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  rehearsal  of  the  play 
with  the  amended  cast,  he  went  to  Reynolds's  house 
in  Leicester  Square  to  dine.  He  knew  that  the 
Horneck  family  would  be  there,  and  he  looked 
forward  with  some  degree  of  apprehension  to  his 
meeting  with  Mary.  He  felt  that  she  might  think 
he  looked  for  some  explanation  of  her  strange  words 
spoken  when  he  was  by  her  side  at  the  Pantheon. 
But  he  wanted  no  explanation  from  her.  The  words 
still  lay  as  a  burden  upon  his  heart,  but  he  felt 
that  it  would  pain  her  to  attempt  an  explanation  of 
them,  and  he  was  quite  content  that  matters  should 
remain  as  they  were.  Whatever  the  words  meant, 
it  was  impossible  that  they  could  mean  anything  that 
might  cause  him  to  think  of  her  with  less  reverence 
and  affection. 


90  tlbe  Jessamp  Bribe* 

He  arrived  early  at  Reynolds's  house,  but  it  did 
not  take  him  long  to  find  out  that  he  was  not  the 
first  arrival.  From  the  large  drawing-room  there 
came  to  his  ears  the  sound  of  laughter — such  laughter 
as  caused  him  to  remark  to  the  servant, 

"I  perceive  that  Mr.  Garrick  is  already  in  the 
house,  Ralph." 

"  Mr.  Garrick  has  been  here  with  the  young 
ladies  for  the  past  half-hour,  Sir,"  replied  Ralph. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if,  on  enquiry,  it  were  found 
that  he  has  been  entertaining  them,"  said  Goldsmith. 

Ralph,  who  knew  perfectly  well  what  was  the 
exact  form  that  the  entertainment  assumed,  busied 
himself  hanging  up  the  visitor's  hat. 

The  fact  was  that,  for  the  previous  quarter  of  an 
hour,  Garrick  had  been  keeping  Mary  Horneck  and 
her  sister,  and  even  Miss  Reynolds,  in  fits  of 
laughter  by  his  burlesque  account  of  Goldsmith's 
interview  with  an  amanuensis  who  had  been  recom- 
mended to  him  with  a  view  of  saving  him  much 
manual  labour.  Goldsmith  had  told  him  the  story 
originally,  and  the  imagination  of  Garrick  was  quite 
equal  to  the  duty  of  supplying  all  the  details 
necessary  for  the  burlesque. 

He  pretended  to  be  the  amanuensis  entering 
the  room  in  which  Goldsmith  was  supposed  to 
be  seated  working  laboriously  at  his  "Animated 
Nature. "  "  Good  morning,  Sir,  good  morning,  * 
he  cried,  pretending  to  take  off  his  gloves  and 
shake  the  dust  off  them  with  the  most  perfect 
self-possession,  previous  to  laying  them  in  his 


Jessams  Bribe*  gi 

hat  on  a  chair.  "  Now  mind  you  don't  sit 
there,  Dr.  Goldsmith,"  he  continued,  raising  a 
warning  finger.  A  little  motion  of  his  body  and 
the  pert  amanuensis,  with  his  mincing  ways,  was 
transformed  into  the  awkward  Goldsmith,  shy  and 
self-conscious  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  hastening 
with  clumsy  politeness  to  get  him  a  chair,  and  of 
course,  dragging  forward  the  very  one  on  which 
the  man  had  placed  his  hat.  "  Now,  now,  now, 
what  are  you  about?  " — once  more  Garrick  was  the 
amanuensis.  "  Did  not  I  warn  you  to  be  careful 
about  that  chair,  Sir?  Eh?  I  only  told  you  not  to 
sit  in  it  ?  Sir,  that  excuse  is  a  mere  quibble — a 
mere  quibble.  This  must  not  occur  again,  or  I 
shall  be  forced  to  dismiss  you,  and,  where  will  you 
be  then,  my  good  Sir?  Now  to  business,  Doctor; 
but  first  you  will  tell  your  man  to  make  me  a  cup 
of  chocolate — with  milk,  Sir — plenty  of  milk,  and 
two  lumps  of  sugar — plantation  sugar,  Sir ;  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  am  a  patriot — none  of  your  foreign 
manufactures  for  me.  And  now  that  I  think  on't, 
your  laundress  would  do  well  to  wash  and  iron  my 
ruffles  for  me;  and  mind  you  tell  her  to  be  careful 
of  the  one  with  the  tear  in  it" — this  shouted  half- 
way out  of  the  door  through  which  he  had  shown 
Goldsmith  hurrying  with  the  rnffles  and  the  order 
for  the  chocolate. 

Then  came  the  monologue  of  the  amanuensis 
strolling  about  the  room,  passing  his  sneering  remarks 
at  the  furniture — opening  a  letter  which  had  just 
come  by  post  and  reading  it  sotto  voce.  It  was  sup- 


92  Ube  Jessamp  JSvt&e. 

posed  to  be  from  Filby,  the  tailor,  and  to  state  that 
the  field-marshal's  uniform  in  which  Dr.  Goldsmith 
meant  to  appear  at  the  next  masked  ball  at  the 
Haymarket  would  be  ready  in  a  few  days,  and  to  en- 
quire if  Dr.  Goldsmith  had  made  up  his  mind  as  to 
the  exact  orders  which  he  meant  to  wear,  ending 
with  a  compliment  upon  Dr.  Goldsmith's  good  taste 
and  discrimination  in  choosing  a  costume  which  was 
so  well  adapted  to  his  physique,  and  a  humble  sug- 
gestion that  it  should  be  worn  upon  the  occasion 
of  the  first  performance  of  the  new  comedy,  when 
the  writer  hoped  no  objection  would  be  raised  to 
the  hanging  of  a  board  in  front  of  the  author's  box 
with  "  Made  by  Filby "  printed  on  it. 

Garrick's  reading  of  the  imaginary  letter,  stum- 
bling over  certain  words — giving  an  odd  turn  and 
a  ludicrous  misreading  to  a  phrase  here  and  there, 
and  finally  his  turning  over  the  letter  and  mum- 
bling a  postscript  alluding  to  the  length  of  time 
that  had  passed  since  the  writer  had  received  a 
payment  on  account,  could  not  have  been  sur- 
passed. The  effect  of  the  comedy  upon  the  people 
in  the  room  was  immeasurably  heightened  by  the 
entrance  of  Goldsmith  in  the  flesh,  when  Garrick, 
as  the  amanuensis,  immediately  walked  to  him 
gravely  with  the  scrap  of  paper  which  had  done 
duty  as  the  letter  in  his  hand,  asking  him  if  what 
was  written  there  in  black  and  white  about  the 
field-marshal's  uniform  was  correct,  and  if  he  meant 
to  agree  to  Filby's  request  to  wear  it  on  the  first 
night  of  the  comedy. 


tlbe  5e6samp  asri&e.  93 

Goldsmith  perceived  that  Garrick  was  giving  an 
example  of  the  impromptu  entertainment  in  which 
he  delighted,  and  at  once  entered  into  the  spirit  of 
the  scene,  saying, 

"Why,  yes,  Sir;  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  more  credit  should  be  given  to  a  man  who 
has  brought  to  a  successful  issue  a  campaign  against 
the  prejudices  and  stupidities  of  the  manager  of  a 
playhouse  than  to  the  generalissimo  of  an  army  in 
the  field,  so  why  should  not  I  wear  a  field-mar- 
shal's uniform,  Sir?" 

The  laugh  was  against  Garrick,  which  pleased 
him  greatly,  for  he  knew  that  Goldsmith  would 
feel  that  he  was  sharing  in  the  entertainment,  and 
would  not  regard  it  as  a  burlesque  upon  himself 
personally.  In  an  instant,  however,  the  actor  had 
ceased  to  be  the  supercilious  amanuensis,  and  be- 
came David  Garrick,  crying, 

u  Nay,  Sir,  you  are  out  of  the  play  altogether. 
You  are  presuming  to  reply  to  your  amanuensis, 
which,  I  need  scarcely  tell  a  gentleman  of  your  ex- 
perience, is  a  preposterous  idea,  and  out  of  all  con- 
sistency with  nature." 

Goldsmith  had  shaken  hands  with  all  his  friends, 
and  being  quite  elated  at  the  success  of  his  reply 
to  the  brilliant  Garrick,  did  not  mind  much  what 
might  follow. 

At  what  did  actually  follow  Goldsmith  laughed 
as  heartily  as  anyone  in  the  room. 

"Come,  Sir,"  said  the  amanuensis,  "we  have  no 
time  to  waste  over  empty  civilities.  We  have  our 


94  Ube  Jessams 


*  Animated  Nature'  to  proceed  with;  we  cannot 
keep  the  world  waiting  any  longer ;  it  matters  not 
about  the  booksellers,  'tis  the  world  we  think  of. 
What  is  this?" — picking  up  an  imaginary  paper — 
"  'The  derivation  of  the  name  of  the  elephant  has 
taxed  the  ingeniousness  of  many  able  writers,  but 
there  can  be  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  anyone  who 
has  seen  that  noble  creature,  as  I  have,  in  its  na- 
tive woods,  careering  nimbly  from  branch  to  branch 
of  the  largest  trees  in  search  of  the  butterflies, 
which  form  its  sole  food,  that  the  name  elephant 
is  but  a  corruption  of  elegant,  the  movements  of 
the  animal  being  as  singularly  graceful  as  its  shape 
is  in  accordance  with  all  accepted  ideas  of  sym- 
metry.' Sir,  this  is  mighty  fine,  but  your  style 
lacks  animation.  A  writer  on  'Animated  Nature' 
should  be  himself  both  animated  and  natural,  as 
one  who  translates  Buffon  should  himself  be  a 
buffoon." 

In  this  strain  of  nonsense  Garrick  went  on  for 
the  next  ten  minutes,  leading  up  to  a  simulated  dis- 
pute between  Goldsmith  and  his  amanuensis  as  to 
whether  a  dog  lived  on  land  or  water.  The  dis- 
pute waxed  warmer  and  warmer,  until  at  last  blows 
were  exchanged  and  the  amanuensis  kicked  Gold- 
smith through  the  door  and  down  the  stairs.  The 
bumping  of  the  imaginary  man  from  step  to  step 
was  heard  in  the  drawing-room,  and  then  the  aman- 
uensis entered  smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands  as 
he  remarked, 

u  The  impertinent  fellow !     To  presume  to  dictate 


Sessamg  JSvifce.  95 

to  his  amanuensis!  Lord!  what's  the  world  coming 
to  when  a  common  literary  man  presumes  to  dictate 
to  his  amanuensis  ?  * 

Such  buffoonery  was  what  Garrick  loved.  At  Dr. 
Burney's  new  house,  round  the  corner  in  St.  Mar- 
tin's Street,  he  used  to  keep  the  household  in  roars 
of  laughter — as  one  delightful  member  of  the  house- 
hold has  recorded — over  his  burlesque  auctions  of 
books,  and  his  imitations  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

"  And  all  this, "  said  Goldsmith,  "  came  out  of  the 
paltry  story,  which  I  told  him,  of  how  I  hired  an 
amanuensis,  but  found  myself  dumb  the  moment  he 
sat  down  to  work,  so  that,  after  making  a  number 
of  excuses  which  I  knew  he  saw  through,  I  found 
it  to  my  advantage  to  give  the  man  a  guinea  and 
send  him  away." 


CHAPTER  XL 

GOLDSMITH  was  delighted  to  find  that  the  Jessamy 
Bride  seemed  free  from  care.  He  had  gone  to  Rey- 
nolds's  in  fear  and  trembling  lest  he  should  hear  that 
she  was  unable  to  join  the  party ;  but  now  he  found 
her  in  as  merry  a  mood  as  he  had  ever  known  her 
to  be  in.  He  was  seated  by  her  side  at  dinner, 
and  he  was  glad  to  find  that  there  was  upon  her 
no  trace  of  the  mysterious  mood  that  had  spoiled 
his  pleasure  at  the  Pantheon. 

She  had,  of  course,  heard  of  the  troubles  at  the 
playhouse,  and  she  told  him  that  nothing  would 
induce  her  ever  to  speak  to  Colman,  though  she 
and  Little  Comedy,  when  they  first  heard  of  the 
intention  of  the  manager  to  withdraw  the  piece,  had 
resolved  to  go  together  to  the  theatre  and  demand 
its  immediate  production  on  the  finest  scale  possible. 

"There's  still  great  need  for  someone  who  will 
be  able  to  influence  Colman  in  that  respect,"  said 
Goldsmith.  "  Only  to-day,  when  I  ventured  to  talk 
of  a  fresh  scene  being  painted,  he  told  me  that  it 
was  not  his  intention  to  proceed  to  such  expense 
for  a  piece  that  would  not  be  played  for  longer 

than  a  small  portion  of  one  evening." 

96 


3e0samp  Bribe.  97 

"  The  monster ! "  cried  the  girl.  "  I  should  like 
to  talk  to  him  as  I  feel  about  this.  What,  is  he 
mad  enough  to  expect  that  playgoers  will  tolerate 
his  wretched  old  scenery  in  a  new  comedy?  Oh, 
clearly  he  needs  someone  to  be  near  him  who  will 
speak  plainly  to  him  and  tell  him  how  contemptible 
he  is.  Your  friend  Dr.  Johnson  should  go  to  him. 
The  occasion  is  one  that  demands  the  powers  of  a 
man  who  has  a  whole  Dictionary  at  his  back — yes, 
Dr.  Johnson  should  go  to  him  and  threaten  that  if 
he  does  not  behave  handsomely  he  will,  in  his  next 
edition  of  the  Dictionary,  define  a  scoundrel  as  a 
playhouse  manager  who  keeps  an  author  in  suspense 
for  months,  and  then  produces  his  comedy  so  un- 
generously as  to  make  its  failure  a  certainty.  But, 
no,  your  play  will  be  the  greater  success  on  account 
of  its  having  to  overcome  all  the  obstacles  which 
Mr.  Colman  has  placed  in  its  way." 

"  I  know,  dear  child,  that  if  it  depended  on  your 
goodwill  it  would  be  the  greatest  success  of  the 
century,"  said  he. 

"And  so  it  will  be — oh,  it  must  be!  Little  Co- 
medy and  I  will — oh,  we  shall  insist  on  the  play- 
goers liking  it!  We  shall  sit  in  front  of  a  box 
and  lead  all  the  applause,  and  we  will,  besides,  keep 
stern  eyes  fixed  upon  anyone  who  may  have  the 
bad  taste  to  decline  to  follow  us." 

"You  are  kindness  itself,  my  dear;  and,  mean- 
while, if  you  would  come  to  the  remaining  rehears- 
als, and  spend  all  your  spare  time  thinking  out  a 
suitable  name  for  the  play  you  would  be  conferring 

7 


g8  Ube  Sessamg 

an    additional    favour    upon    an    ill-treated    author." 

"  I  will  do  both,  and  it  will  be  strange  if  I  do 
not  succeed  in  at  least  one  of  the  two  enterprises — 
the  first  being  the  changing  of  the  mistakes  of  a 
manager  into  the  success  of  a  night,  and  the  second 
the  changing  of  the  'Mistakes  of  a  Night'  into  the 
success  of  a  manager — ay,  and  of  an  author  as 
well." 

"  Admirably  spoke !  "  cried  the  author.  "  I  have 
a  mind  to  let  the  name  '  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night ' 
stand,  you  have  made  such  a  pretty  play  upon  it." 

"  No,  no ;  that  is  not  the  kind  ~r  play  to  fill  the 
theatre,"  said  she.  "Oh,  do  not  be  afraid;  it  will 
be  very  stange  if  between  us  we  cannot  hit  upon 
a  title  that  will  deserve,  if  not  a  coronet,  at  least  a 
wreath  of  laurel." 

Sir  Joshua,  who  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the 
table  not  far  away,  had  put  up  his  ear-trumpet 
between  the  courses,  and  caught  a  word  or  two  of 
the  girl's  sentence. 

"  I  presume  that  you  are  still  discussing  the  great 
title  question,"  said  he.  "You  need  not  do  so. 
Have  I  not  given  you  my  assurance  that  'The 
Belle's  Stratagem'  is  the  best  name  that  the  play 
could  receive?" 

"  Nay,  that  title  Dr.  Goldsmith  holds  to  be  one  of 
the  'mistakes  of  a  Knight!'"  said  Mr.  Bunbury  in 
a  low  tone.  He  delighted  in  a  pun,  but  did  not 
like  too  many  people  to  hear  him  make  one. 

"'The  Belle's  Stratagem'  I  hold  to  be  a  good 
enough  title  until  we  get  a  better, "  said  Goldsmith. 


Sessams?  33rifce.  99 

*  I  have  confidence  in  the  ingenuity  of  Miss  Horneck 
to  discover  the  better  one." 

"  Nay,  I  protest  if  you  do  not  take  my  title  I 
shall  go  to  the  playhouse  and  damn  the  play,"  said 
Reynolds.  "  I  have  given  it  its  proper  name,  and 
if  it  appears  in  public  under  any  other  it  will  have 
earned  the  reprobation  of  all  honest  folk  who  detest 
.an  alias" 

"Then  that  name  shall  stand,"  said  Goldsmith. 
"I  give  you  my  word,  Sir  Joshua,  I  would  rather 
see  my  play  succeed  under  your  title  than  have  it 
damned  under  a  title  given  to  it  by  the  next  best 
man  to  you  in  England." 

"That  is  very  well  said  indeed,"  remarked  Sir 
Joshua.  "  It  gives  evidence  of  a  certain  generosity 
of  feeling  on  your  part  which  all  should  respect." 

Miss  Kauffman,  who  sat  at  Sir  Joshua's  right, 
smiled  a  trifle  vaguely,  for  she  had  not  quite  under- 
stood the  drift  of  Goldsmith's  phrase,  but  from  the 
other  end  of  the  table  there  came  quite  an  outburst 
of  laughter.  Garrick  sat  there  with  Mrs.  Bunbury 
and  Baretti,  to  whom  he  was  telling  an  imaginary 
story  of  Quid  Grouse  in  the  gun-room. 

Dr.  Burney,  who  sat  at  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
had  ventured  to  question  the  likelihood  of  an  audi- 
ence's apprehending  the  humour  of  the  story  at 
which  Diggory  had  only  hinted.  He  wondered  if 
the  story  should  not  be  told  for  the  benefit  of  the 
playgoers. 

A  gentleman  whom  Bunbury  had  brought  to 
dinner — his  name  was  Colonel  Gwyn,  and  it  was 


ioo  nbe  Sessam    Bribe* 


known  that  he  was  a  great  admirer  of  Mary  Horneck 
—  took  up  the  question  quite  seriously. 

"  For  my  part,  "  he  said,  "  I  admit  frankly  that  I 
have  never  heard  the  story  of  Grouse  in  the  gun-room.  " 

"Is  it  possible,  Sir?"  cried  Garrick.  "What, 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  not  familiar  with  the 
reply  of  Ould  Grouse  to  the  young  woman  who 
asked  him  how  he  found  his  way  into  the  gun-room 
when  the  door  was  locked  —  that  about  every  gun 
having  a  lock  and  so  forth?" 

"No,  Sir,"  cried  Colonel  Gwyn.  "I  had  no  idea 
that  the  story  was  a  familiar  one.  It  seems  interest- 
ing too." 

"  Oh,  'tis  amazingly  interesting/  said  Garrick. 
"  But  you  are  an  army  man,  Colonel  Gwyn  ;  you 
have  heard  it  frequently  told  over  the  mess-table." 

u  I  protest,  Sir,  "  said  Colonel  Gwyn,  "  I  know  so 
little  about  it  that  I  fancied  Ould  Grouse  was  the 
name  of  a  dog  —  I  have  myself  known  of  sporting 
dogs  called  Grouse." 

"  Oh,  Colonel,  you  surprise  me,"  cried  Garrick. 
"  Ould  Grouse  a  dog!  Pray  do  not  hint  so  much 
to  Dr.  Goldsmith.  He  is  a  very  sensitive  man  and 
would  feel  greatly  hurt  by  such  a  suggestion.  I 
believe  that  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  an  intimate  friend 
of  Ould  Grouse  and  felt  his  death  severely." 

"Then  he  is  dead?"  said  Gwyn.  "That,  Sir, 
gives  a  melancholy  interest  to  the  narrative." 

"  A  particularly  pathetic  interest,  Sir,  "  said  Garrick, 
shaking  his  head.  "  I  was  not  among  his  intimates, 
Colonel  Gwyn,  but  when  I  reflect  that  that  dear  simple- 


minded  old  soul  is  gone  from  us — that  the  gun-room 
door  is  now  open,  but  that  within  there  is  silence 
— no  sound  of  the  dear  old  feet  that  were  wont  to 
patter  and  potter — you  will  pardon  my  emotion, 

Madam "      He   turned    with  streaming  eyes  to 

Miss  Reynolds,  who  forthwith  became  sympathetically 
affected,  her  voice  breaking  as  she  endeavoured  to 
assure  Garrick  that  his  emotion,  so  far  from  requiring 
an  apology,  did  him  honour.  Bunbury,  who  was 
ready  to  roar,  could  not  do  so  now  without  seeming 
to  laugh  at  the  feeling  of  his  hostess,  and  his  wife 
had  too  high  an  appreciation  of  comedy  not  to  be 
able  to  keep  her  face  perfectly  grave,  while  a  sob 
or  two  that  he  seemed  quite  unable  to  suppress  came 
from  the  napkin  which  Garrick  held  up  to  his  face. 
Baretti  said  something  in  Italian  to  Dr.  Burney 
across  the  table,  about  the  melancholy  nature  of  the 
party  and  then  Garrick  dropped  his  napkin,  saying, 

u  'Tis  selfish  to  repine,  and  he  himself — dear  old 
soul! — would  be  the  last  to  countenance  a  show  of 
melancholy;  for,  as  his  remarks  in  the  gun-room 
testify,  Colonel  Gwyn,  he  had  a  fine  sense  of  humour. 
I  fancy  I  see  him,  the  broad  smile  lighting  up  his 
homely  features,  as  he  delivered  that  sly  thrust 
at  his  questioner,  for  it  is  perfectly  well  known, 
Colonel,  that  so  far  as  poaching  was  concerned  the 
other  man  had  no  particular  character  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood." 

"  Oh,  Grouse  was  a  poacher,  then  ? "  said  the 
Colonel. 

"  Well,    if  the  truth   must  be  told— but  no,   the 


ITbe  Jessamg 

man  is  dead  and  gone  now,"  cried  Garrick,  "and 
it  is  more  generous  only  to  remember,  as  we  all 
do,  the  nimbleness  of  his  wit — the  genial  mirth 
which  ran  through  the  gun-room  after  that  famous 
sally  of  his.  It  seems  that  honest  homely  fun  is 
dying  out  in  England;  the  country  stands  in  need 
of  an  Ould  Grouse  or  two  just  now,  and  let  us 
hope  that  when  the  story  of  that  quiet,  yet  tho- 
roughly jovial,  remark  of  his  in  the  gun-room  comes 
to  be  told  in  the  comedy,  there  will  be  a  revival  of 
the  good  old  days  when  men  were  not  afraid  to 
joke,  Sir,  and— 

"  But  so  far  as  I  can  gather  from  what  Mrs. 
Bunbury,  who  heard  the  comedy  read,  has  told  me, 
the  story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room  is  never 
actually  narrated,  but  only  hinted  at,"  said  Gwyn. 

"That  makes  little  matter,  Sir,"  said  Garrick. 
"  The  untold  story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room 
will  be  more  heartily  laughed  at  during  the  next 
year  or  two  than  the  best  story  of  which  every 
detail  is  given." 

"  At  any  rate,  Colonel  Gwyn,"  said  Mrs.  Bunbury, 
"  after  the  pains  which  Mr.  Garrick  has  taken  to- 
acquaint  you  with  the  amplest  particulars  of  the 
story  you  cannot  in  future  profess  to  be  unacquainted 
with  it." 

Colonel  Gwyn  looked  puzzled. 

"I  protest,  Madam,"  said  he,  "that  up  to  the 
present — ah !  I  fear  that  the  very  familiarity  of  Mr. 
Garrick  with  the  story  has  caused  him  to  be  led  to 
take  too  much  for  granted.  I  do  not  question  the 


Sessams  JSribe,  103 

humour,  mind  you — I  fancy  that  I  am  as  quick  as 
most  men  to  see  a  joke,  but" 

This  was  too  much  for  Bunbury  and  Burney. 
They  both  roared  with  laughter,  which  increased  in 
volume  as  the  puzzled  look  upon  Colonel  Gwyn's 
face  was  taken  up  by  Garrick,  as  he  glanced  first 
£t  Burney  and  then  at  Little  Comedy's  husband. 
Poor  Miss  Reynolds,  who  could  never  quite  make 
out  what  was  going  on  around  her  in  that  strange 
household  where  she  had  been  thrown  by  an  ironical 
fate,  looked  gravely  at  the  ultra-grave  Garrick,  and 
ihen  smiled  artificially  at  Dr.  Burney  with  a  view 
of  assuring  him  that  she  understood  perfectly  how 
he  came  to  be  merry. 

"Colonel  Gwyn,"  said  Garrick,  " these  gentlemen 
seem  to  have  their  own  reasons  for  merriment,  but 
I  think  you  and  I  can  better  discriminate  when 
to  laugh  and  when  to  refrain  from  laughter.  And 
yet — ah,  I  perceive  they  are  recalling  the  story  of 
Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room,  and  that  sure  enough 
would  convulse  an  Egyptian  mummy  or  a  statue  of 
Nestor;  and  the  funny  part  of  the  business  is  yet 
to  come,  for  up  to  the  present  I  don't  believe  that 
I  told  you  that  the  man  had  actually  been  married 
for  some  years." 

He  laughed  so  heartily  that  Colonel  Gwyn  could 
not  refrain  from  joining  in,  though  his  laughter  was 
a  good  deal  less  hearty  than  that  of  any  of  the 
others  who  had  enjoyed  Garrick's  whimsical  fun. 

When  the  men  were  left  alone  at  the  table,  there 
was  some  little  embarrassment  owing  to  the  defi- 


104 

ciency  of  glass,  for  Sir  Joshua,  who  was  hospitable 
to  a  fault,  keeping  an  open  house  and  dining  his 
friends  every  evening,  could  never  be  persuaded  to 
replace  the  glass  which  chanced  to  be  broken. 
Gar  rick  made  an  excuse  of  the  shortness  of  port- 
glasses  at  his  end  of  the  table  to  move  up  beside 
Goldsmith,  whom  he  cheered  by  telling  him  that 
he  had  already  given  a  lesson  to  Woodward  regarding 
the  speaking  of  the  prologue  which  he,  Garrick, 
had  written  for  the  comedy.  He  said  he  believed 
Woodward  would  repeat  the  lines  very  effectively. 
When  Goldsmith  mentioned  that  Colman  declined 
to  have  a  single  scene  painted  for  the  production, 
both  Sir  Joshua  and  Garrick  were  indignant. 

"  You  would  have  done  \vell  to  leave  the  piece 
in  my  hands,  Noll,"  said  the  latter,  alluding  to  the 
circumstance  of  Goldsmith's  having  sent  the  play  to 
him  on  Colman's  first  refusal  to  produce  it. 

"  Ah,  Davy,  my  friend,"  Goldsmith  replied,  u  I 
feel  more  at  my  ease  in  reflecting  that  in  another 
week  I  shall  know  the  worst — or  the  best.  If  the 
play  had  remained  with  you  I  should  feel  like  a 
condemned  criminal  for  the  next  year  or  two.^ 

In  the  drawing-room  that  evening  Garrick  and 
Goldsmith  got  up  the  entertainment  which  was  pos- 
sibly the  most  diverting  one  ever  seen  in  a  room. 

Goldsmith  sat  on  Garrick's  knees  with  a  table-cloth 
draT,vn  over  his  head  and  body,  leaving  his  arms 
only  exposed.  Garrick  then  began  reciting  long 
sentimental  soliloquies  from  certain  plays,  which 
Goldsmith  was  supposed  to  illustrate  by  his  gestures. 


3e5sam£  JSrifce.  105 

The  form  of  the  entertainment  has  survived,  and 
sometimes  by  chance  it  becomes  humorous.  But 
with  Garrick  repeating  the  lines  and  thrilling  his 
audience  by  his  marvellous  change  of  expression  as 
no  audience  has  since  been  thrilled,  and  with  Gold- 
smith burlesquing  with  inappropriately  extravagant 
and  wholly  amusing  gestures  the  passionate  de- 
liverances, it  can  easily  be  believed  that  Sir  Joshua's 
guests  were  convulsed. 

After  some  time  of  this  division  of  labour,  the  po- 
sition of  the  two  playmates  was  reversed.  It  was 
Garrick  who  sat  on  Goldsmith's  knees  and  did  the 
gesticulating,  while  the  poet  attempted  to  deliver  his 
lines  after  the  manner  of  the  player.  The  effect 
was  even  more  ludicrous  than  that  of  the  previous 
combination ;  and  then,  in  the  middle  of  an  affect- 
ing passage  from  Addison's  "  Cato, "  Goldsmith  be- 
gan to  sing  the  song  which  he  had  been  compelled 
to  omit  from  the  part  of  Miss  Hardcastle,  owing 
to  Mrs.  Bulkley's  not  being  a  singer.  Of  course 
Garrick's  gestures  during  the  delivery  of  the  song 
were  marvellously  ingenious,  and  an  additional  ele- 
ment of  attraction  was  introduced  by  Dr.  Burney, 
who  hastily  seated  himself  at  the  pianoforte  and  in- 
terwove a  medley  accompaniment  introducing  all  the 
airs  then  popular,  but  without  prejudice  to  the  ac- 
companiment. 

Reynolds  stood  by  the  side  of  his  friend  Miss 
Kauffman  and  when  this  marvellous  fooling  had 
come  to  an  end,  except  for  the  extra  diversion  caused 
by  Garrick's  declining  to  leave  Goldsmith's  knees — 


io6  Ube  Sessamp 

he  begged  the  lady  to  favour  the  company  with  an 
Italian  song  which  she  was  accustomed  to  sing  to 
the  accompaniment  of  a  guitar.  But  Miss  Angelica 
shook  her  head. 

"  Pray  add  your  entreaties  to  mine,  Miss  Horneck," 
said  Sir  Joshua  to  the  Jessamy  Bride.  "  Entreat  our 
Angel  of  Art  to  give  us  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
her  sing." 

Miss  Horneck  rose,  and  made  an  elaborate  curt- 
sey before  the  smiling  Angelica. 

"  Oh,  Madame  Angel,  live  for  ever !  "  she  cried. 
"  Will  your  Majesty  condescend  to  let  us  hear  your 
angelic  voice?  You  have  already  deigned  to  cap- 
tivate our  souls  by  the  exercise  of  one  art ;  will  you 
now  stoop  to  conquer  our  savage  hearts  by  the 
exercise  of  another?" 

A  sudden  cry  startled  the  company,  and  at  the 
same  instant  Garrick  was  thrown  on  his  hands  and 
knees  on  the  floor  by  the  act  of  Goldsmith's  spring- 
ing to  his  feet. 

"By  the  Lord,  I've  got  it!"  shouted  Goldsmith. 
"  The  Jessamy  Bride  has  given  it  to  me,  as  I  knew 
she  would — the  title  of  my  comedy — she  has  just 
said  it:  'She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Asa  matter  of  course,  Colman  objected  to  the  new 
title  when  Goldsmith  communicated  it  to  him  the 
next  day ;  but  the  latter  'was  firm  on  this  particu- 
lar point.  He  had  given  the  play  its  name,  he  said, 
and  he  would  not  alter  it  now  on  any  considera- 
tion. 

Colman  once  again  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The 
production  of  the  play  gave  him  so  much  practice 
at  shrugging,  Goldsmith  expressed  his  regret  at  not 
being  able  to  introduce  the  part  of  a  Frenchman,  which 
he  said  he  believed  the  manager  would  play  to  per- 
fection. 

But  when  Johnson,  who  attended  the  rehearsal 
with  Miss  Reynolds,  the  whole  Horneck  family, 
Cradock,  and  Murphy,  asserted,  as  he  did  with  his 
customary  emphasis,  that  no  better  title  than  "She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  "  could  be  found  for  the  comedy, 
Colman  made  no  further  objections,  and  the  rehearsal 
was  proceeded  with. 

"Nay,  Sir,"  cried  Johnson,  when  Goldsmith  was 
leaving  his  party  in  a  box  in  order  to  go  upon  the 
stage — "Nay,  Sir,  you  shall  not  desert  us.  You 
must  stay  by  us  to  let  us  know  when  the  jests  are 


io8  Ube  SessamE  Jfirifce, 


spoken,  so  that  we  may  be  fully  qualified  to  laugh 
at  the  right  moments  when  the  theatre  is  filled. 
Why,  Goldy,  you  would  not  leave  us  to  our  own 
resources  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  the  Lieutenant  Cook  of  the  comedy, 
Dr.  Johnson,"  said  Miss  Horneck  —  Lieutenant  Cook 
and  his  discoveries  constituted  the  chief  topics  of  the 
hour.  "  I  believe  that  I  know  so  much  of  the  dialogue 
as  will  enable  me  to  pilot  you,  not  merely  to  the 
Otaheite  of  a  jest,  but  to  a  whole  archipelago  of  wit." 

"  Otaheite  is  a  name  of  good  omen,  "  said  Cradock. 
"  It  is  suggestive  of  palms,  and  *  palmam  qui  meruit 
ferat.'  " 

"Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "you  should  know  better 
than  to  quote  Latin  in  the  presence  of  ladies.  Though 
your  remark  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  I  expected  it 
would  be,  yet  let  me  tell  you,  Sir,  that  unless  the 
wit  in  the  comedy  is  a  good  deal  livelier  than  yours, 
it  will  have  a  poor  chance  with  the  playgoers." 

"  Oh,  Sir,  Dr.  Goldsmith's  wit  is  greatly  superior 
to  mine,"  laughed  Cradock.  "Otherwise  it  would 
be  my  comedy  that  would  be  in  rehearsal  and  Dr. 
Goldsmith  would  be  merely  on  a  level  with  us  who 
constitute  his  critics." 

Goldsmith  had  gone  on  the  stage  and  the  rehearsal 
had  begun,  so  that  Johnson  was  enabled,  by  pretend- 
ing to  give  all  his  attention  to  the  opening  dialogue, 
to  hide  his  lack  of  an  effective  reply  to  Cradock  for 
his  insolence  in  suggesting  that  they  were  both  on 
the  same  level  as  critics. 

Before  Shuter,  as  Old  Hardcastle,  had  more  than 


tlbe  Sessamp  Bribe.  109 

begun  to  drill  his  servants,  the  mighty  laughter  of 
Dr.  Johnson  was  shaking  the  box.  Every  outburst 
was  like  the  exploding  of  a  bomb,  or,  as  Cradock 
put  it,  the  broadside  coming  from  the  carronade  of 
a  three-decker.  He  had  laughed  and  applauded 
during  the  scene  at  the  Three  Pigeons — especially 
the  satirical  sallies  directed  against  the  sentimental- 
ists— but  it  was  the  drilling  of  the  servants  that 
excited  him  most,  and  he  inquired  of  Miss  Horneck, 

"Pray  what  is  the  story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the 
gun-room,  my  dear?" 

When  the  members  of  the  company  learned  that 
it  was  the  great  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  who  was  roar- 
ing with  laughter  in  the  box,  they  were  as  much 
amazed  as  they  were  encouraged.  Colman,  who 
had  come  upon  the  stage  out  of  compliment  to  John- 
son, feeling  that  his  position  as  an  authority  regarding 
the  elements  of  diversion  in  a  play  was  being  under- 
mined in  the  estimation  of  his  company,  remarked, 

"  Your  friend  Dr.  Johnson  will  be  a  friend  indeed 
if  he  comes  in  as  generous  a  mood  to  the  first 
representation.  I  only  hope  that  the  playgoers  will 
not  resent  his  attempt  to  instruct  them  on  the  sub- 
ject of  your  wit." 

"  I  don't  think  that  there  is  anyone  alive  who 
will  venture  to  resent  the  instruction  of  Dr.  John- 
son," said  Goldsmith  quietly. 

The  result  of  this  rehearsal  and  of  the  three 
rehearsals  that  followed  it  during  the  week,  was 
more  than  encouraging  to  the  actors,  and  it  became 
understood  that  Woodward  and  Gentleman  Smith 


no  ZTbe  3essam£  Bribe* 

were  ready  to  admit  their  regret  at  having  relin- 
quished the  parts  for  which  they  had  been  originally 
cast.  The  former  had  asked  to  be  permitted  to 
speak  the  Prologue,  which  Garrick  had  written,  and 
upon  which,  as  he  had  told  Goldsmith,  he  had 
already  given  a  hint  or  two  to  Woodward. 

The  difficulty  of  the  Epilogue,  however,  still 
remained.  The  one  which  Murphy  had  written  for 
Mrs.  Bulkley  was  objected  to  by  Miss  Catley,  who 
threatened  to  leave  the  company  if  Mrs.  Bulkley, 
who  had  been  merely  thrust  forward  to  take  Mrs. 
Abington's  place,  were  entrusted  with  the  Epilogue ; 
and,  when  Cradock  wrote  another  for  Miss  Catley, 
Mrs.  Bulkley  declared  that  if  Miss  Catley  were 
allowed  the  distinction  which  she  herself  had  a  right 
to  claim,  she  would  leave  the  theatre.  Goldsmith's 
ingenuity  suggested  the  writing  of  an  Epilogue  in 
which  both  the  ladies  were  presented  in  their  true 
characters  as  quarrelling  on  the  subject ;  but  Colman 
placed  his  veto  upon  this  idea  and  also  upon  another 
simple  Epilogue  which  the  author  had  written.  Only 
on  the  day  preceding  the  first  performance  did 
Ooldsmith  produce  the  Epilogue  which  was  eventu- 
ally spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley. 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  pity  to  waste  so  much 
time  discussing  an  Epilogue  which  will  never  be 
spoke,"  sneered  Colman  when  the  last  difficulties 
had  been  smoothed  over. 

Goldsmith  walked  away  without  another  word, 
and  joined  his  party,  consisting  of  Johnson,  Rey- 
nolds, Miss  Reynolds,  the  Bunburys,  and  Mary 


3e8sam£  Bribe.  1 1 1 

Horneck.  Now  that  he  had  done  all  his  work 
connected  with  the  production  of  the  play— when 
he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  be  overcome  by  the 
niggardly  behaviour  of  the  manager  in  declining  to 
spend  a  single  penny  either  upon  the  dresses  or  the 
scenery,  that  parting  sneer  of  Colman's  almost  caused 
him  to  break  down. 

Mary  Horneck  perceived  this,  and  hastened  to  say 
something  kind  to  him.  She  knew  so  well  what 
would  be  truly  encouraging  to  him  that  she  did 
not  hesitate  for  a  moment. 

"I  am  glad  I  am  not  going  to  the  theatre  to- 
night," she  said;  "my  dress  would  be  ruined." 

He  tried  to  smile  as  he  asked  her  for  an 
explanation. 

"  Why,  surely  you  heard  the  way  the  cleaners 
were  laughing  at  the  humour  of  the  play,"  she 
cried.  "  Oh,  yes ;  all  the  cleaners  dropped  their  dusters, 
and  stood  around  the  boxes  in  fits  of  laughter.  I 
overheard  one  of  the  candle-snuffers  say  that 
no  play  he  had  seen  rehearsed  for  years  con- 
tained such  wit  as  yours.  I  also  overheard  an- 
other man  cursing  Mr.  Colman  for  a  curmud- 
geon." 

"  You  did  ?  Thank  God  for  that ;  'tis  a  great 
responsibility  off  my  mind,"  said  Goldsmith.  "Oh, 
my  dear  Jessamy  Bride,  I  know  how  kind  you  are, 
and  I  only  hope  that  your  god-child  will  turn  out 
a  credit  to  me." 

"  It  is  not  merely  your  credit  that  is  involved  in 
the  success  of  this  play,  Sir,"  said  Johnson.  "The 


H2  ftbe  3essam    Bribe* 


credit  of  your  friends  who  insisted  on  Colman's 
taking  the  play  is  also  at  stake." 

"And  above  all,"  said  Reynolds  pleasantly,  "the 
play  must  be  a  success  in  order  to  put  Colman  in 
the  wrong." 

"  That  is  the  best  reason  that  could  be  advanced 
why  its  success  is  important  to  us  all,"  said  Mary. 
"  It  would  never  do  for  Colman  to  be  in  the  right. 
Oh,  we  need  live  in  no  trepidation;  all  our  credits 
will  be  saved  by  Monday  night." 

"  I  wonder  if  any  unworthy  man  ever  had  so 
many  worthy  friends,"  said  Goldsmith.  "I  am 
overcome  by  their  kindness,  and  overwhelmed  with 
a  sense  of  my  own  unworthiness." 

"You  will  have  another  thousand  friends  by 
Monday  night,  Sir,  "  cried  Johnson.  "  Your  true 
friend,  Sir,  is  the  friend  who  pays  for  his  seat  to 
hear  your  play." 

"I  always  held  that  the  best  definition  of  a  true 
friend  is  the  man  who,  when  you  are  in  the  .hands 
of  bailiffs,  comes  to  see  you,  but  takes  care  to  send 
a  guinea  in  advance,"  said  Goldsmith,  and  every- 
one present  knew  that  he  alluded  to  the  occasion 
upon  which  he  had  been  befriended  by  Johnson  on 
the  day  that  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  was  sold. 

"And  now,"  said  Reynolds,  "I  have  to  prove 
how  certain  we  are  of  the  future  of  your  piece  by 
asking  you  to  join  us  at  dinner  on  Monday  previous 
to  the  performance." 

"  Commonplace  people  would  invite  you  to  supper, 
Sir,  to  celebrate  the  success  of  the  play,"  said 


TTbe  3essam£  Bribe*  113 

Johnson.  aTo  proffer  such  an  invitation  would  be 
to  admit  that  we  were  only  convinced  of  your  worth 
after  the  public  had  attested  to  it  in  the  most  practical 
way.  But  we,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  who  know  your  worth, 
and  have  known  it  all  these  years,  wish  to  show  that 
our  esteem  remains  independent  of  the  verdict  of 
the  public.  On  Monday  night,  Sir,  you  will  find  a 
thousand  people  who  will  esteem  it  an  honour  to 
have  you  to  sup  with  them;  but  on  Monday  after- 
noon you  will  dine  with  us." 

"  You  not  only  mean  better  than  any  other  man, 
Sir,  you  express  what  you  mean  better,"  said  Gold- 
smith. "  A  compliment  is  doubly  a  compliment 
coming  from  Dr.  Johnson." 

He  was  quite  overcome,  and,  observing  this,  Rey- 
nolds and  Mary  Horneck  walked  away  together, 
leaving  him  to  compose  himself  under  the  shelter 
of  a  somewhat  protracted  analysis  by  Dr.  Johnson 
of  the  character  of  Young  Marlow.  In  the  course 
of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Goldsmith  had  sufficiently 
recovered  to  be  able  to  perceive  for  the  first  time 
how  remarkable  a  character  he  had  created. 

On  Monday  George  Steevens  called  for  Gold- 
smith to  accompany  him  to  the  St.  James's  coffee- 
house, where  the  dinner  was  to  take  place.  He 
found  the  author  giving  the  finishing  touches  to  his 
toilet.  His  coat  was  a  gala  one,  but  it  was  not 
new — as  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  two  years  old,  as 
was  also  his  waistcoat.  Filby's  bills  (unpaid,  alas!) 
prevent  one  from  making  any  mistake  on  this 
point. 

8 


H4  'Gfte  Sessams  Bribe* 

"  Heavens ! "  cried  the  visitor.  "  Have  you  forgot 
that  you  cannot  wear  colours  ?  * 

"Why  not?"  asked  Goldsmith.  "Because Wood- 
ward is  to  appear  in  mourning  to  speak  the  Prologue, 
is  that  any  reason  why  the  author  of  the  comedy 
should  also  be  in  black  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Steevens,  "  that  is  not  the  reason.  How 
is  it  possible  that  you  forget  the  Court  is  in  mourn- 
ing for  the  King  of  Sardinia?  That  coat  of  yours 
is  a  splendid  one,  I  allow,  but  if  you  were  to  appear 
in  it  in  front  of  your  box  a  very  bad  impression 
would  be  produced.  I  suppose  you  hope  that  the 
King  will  command  a  performance?  " 

Goldsmith's  face  fell.  He  looked  at  the  re- 
flection of  the  garments  in  a  mirror  and  sighed. 
He  had  a  great  weakness  for  colour  in  dress.  At 
last  he  took  off  the  coat  and  gave  another  fond  look 
at  it  before  throwing  it  over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  It  was  an  inspiration  on  your  part  to  come  for 
me,  my  dear  friend, "  said  he.  "  I  would  not  for 
a  good  deal  have  made  such  a  mistake." 

He  reappeared  in  a  few  moments  in  a  suit  of 
sober  grey,  and  drove  with  his  friend  to  the  coffee- 
house, where  the  party,  consisting  of  Johnson,  Rey- 
nolds, Edmund  and  Richard  Burke,  and  Caleb 
Whitefoord,  had  already  assembled. 

It  soon  became  plain  that  Goldsmith  was  extremely 
nervous.  He  shook  hands  twice  with  Richard  Burke 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  that  the  King  of 
Sardinia  was  dead,  adding  that  it  was  a  constant 
matter  for  regret  with  him  that  he  had  not  visited 


TTbe  3essams  jBrtoe,  115 

Sardinia  when  on  his  travels.  He  expressed  a  hope 
that  the  death  of  the  King  of  Sardinia  would  not 
have  so  depressing  an  effect  upon  playgoers  generally 
as  to  prejudice  their  enjoyment  of  his  comedy. 

Edmund  Burke,  understanding  his  mood,  assured 
him  gravely  that  he  did  not  think  one  should  be 
apprehensive  on  this  score,  adding  that  it  would  be 
quite  possible  to  overestimate  the  poignancy  of  the 
grief  which  the  frequenters  of  the  pit  were  likely 
to  feel  at  so  melancholy  but,  after  all,  so  inevitable 
an  occurrence  as  the  decease  of  a  potentate  whose 
name  they  had  probably  never  heard. 

Goldsmith  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  and  said  he 
would  try  and  hope  for  the  best,  but  still. . . . 

Then  he  hastened  to  Steevens,  who  was  laughing 
heartily  at  a  pun  of  Whitefoord's,  and  said  he  was 
certain  that  neither  of  them  could  have  heard  that 
the  King  of  Sardinia  was  dead,  or  they  would 
moderate  their  merriment. 

The  dinner  was  a  dismal  failure,  so  far  as  the 
guest  of  the  party  was  concerned.  He  was  unable 
to  swallow  a  morsel,  so  parched  had  his  throat  become 
through  sheer  nervousness,  and  he  could  not  be 
induced  to  partake  of  more  than  a  single  glass  of 
wine.  He  was  evermore  glancing  at  the  clock  and 
expressing  a  hope  that  the  dinner  would  be  over 
in  good  time  to  allow  of  their  driving  comfortably 
to  the  theatre. 

Dr.  Johnson  was  at  first  greatly  concerned  on 
learning  from  Reynolds  that  Goldsmith  was  eating 
nothing;  but  when  Goldsmith,  in  his  nervousness, 


n6  Ube 

began  to  boast  of  the  fine  dinners  of  which  he  had 
partaken  at  Lord  Clare's  house  and  of  the  splendour 
of  the  banquets  which  took  place  daily  in  the  com- 
mon hall  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  Johnson  gave 
all  his  attention  to  his  own  plate,  and  addressed  no 
further  word  to  him — not  even  to  remind  him,  as 
he  described  the  glories  of  Trinity  College  to  his 
friend  Burke,  that  Burke  had  been  at  the  college 
with  him. 

While  there  was  still  plenty  of  time  to  spare  even 
for  walking  to  the  theatre,  Goldsmith  left  the  room 
hastily,  explaining  elaborately  that  he  had  forgotten 
to  brush  his  hat  before  leaving  his  chambers,  and 
he  meant  to  have  the  omission  repaired  without 
delay. 

He  never  returned. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  party  remained  in  the  room  for  some  time, 
and  when  at  last  a  waiter  from  the  bar  was  sent 
for  and  requested  to  tell  Dr.  Goldsmith,  who  was 
having  his  hat  brushed,  that  his  party  were  ready 
to  leave  the  house,  the  man  stated  that  Dr.  Gold- 
smith had  left  some  time,  hurrying  in  the  direction 
of  Pall  Mall. 

"Psha!  Sir,"  said  Johnson  to  Burke,  "Dr.  Gold- 
smith is  little  better  than  a  fool."  Johnson  did  not 
know  what  such  nervousness  as  Goldsmith's  was. 

"Yes,"  said  Burke,  "Dr.  Goldsmith  is,  I  suppose, 
the  greatest  fool  that  ever  wrote  the  best  poem  of 
a  century,  the  best  novel  of  a  century,  and  let  us 
hope  that,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  hours,  I  may  be 
able  to  say  the  best  comedy  of  a  century." 

"  I  suppose  we  may  take  it  for  granted  that  he 
has  gone  to  the  playhouse  ?  "  said  Richard  Burke. 

"Is  it  not  wise  to  take  anything  for  granted  so 
far  as  Goldsmith  is  concerned,"  said  Steevens.  "I 
think  that  the  best  course  we  can  adopt  is  for  some 
of  us  to  go  to  the  playhouse  without  delay.  The 
play  must  be  looked  after;  but  for  myself  I  mean 
to  look  after  the  author.  Gentlemen,  Oliver  Gold- 

"7 


smith  needs  to  be  looked  after  carefully.  No  one 
knows  what  a  burden  he  has  been  forced  to  bear 
during  the  past  month." 

"  You  think  it  is  actually  possible  that  he  has  not 
preceded  us  to  the  playhouse,  Sir,"  said  Johnson. 

"If  I  know  anything  of  him,  Sir,"  said  Steevens, 
"  the  playhouse  is  just  the  place  which  he  would 
most  persistently  avoid." 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  Johnson  said  in 
his  weightiest  manner, 

"  Sir,  we  are  all  his  friends ;  we  hold  you  respon- 
sible for  his  safety." 

"  That  is  very  kind  of  you,  Sir, "  replied  Steevens. 
"  But  you  may  rest  assured  that  I  will  do  my  best 
to  find  him,  wherever  he  may  be." 

While  the  rest  of  the  party  set  out  for  Covent 
Garden  Theatre,  Steevens  hurried  off  in  the  opposite 
direction.  He  felt  that  he  understood  Goldsmith's 
mood.  He  believed  that  he  would  come  upon  him 
sitting  alone  in  some  little-frequented  coffee-house 
brooding  over  the  probable  failure  of  his  play.  The 
cheerful  optimism  of  the  man,  which  enabled  him 
to  hold  out  against  Colman  and  his  sneers,  would, 
he  was  convinced,  suffer  a  relapse  when  there  was 
no  urgent  reason  for  its  exercise,  and  his  naturally 
sanguine  temperament  would  at  this  critical  hour  of 
his  life  give  place  to  a  brooding  melancholy,  making 
it  impossible  for  him  to  put  in  an  appearance  at 
the  theatre,  and  driving  him  far  from  his  friends. 
Steevens  actually  made  up  his  mind  that  if  he  failed 
to  find  Goldsmith  during  the  next  hour  or  two,  he 


Sessams  $ribe.  119 

would  seek  him  at  his  cottage  on  the  Edgeware  Road. 

He  went  on  foot  from  coffee-house  to  coffee-house — 
from  Jack's  in  Dean  Street  to  the  Bell  at  the  corner  of 
John  Street  and  Pall  Mall — but  he  failed  to  discover  his 
friend  in  one  of  them.  An  hour  and  a  half  he  spent  in 
this  way;  and  all  this  time  roars  of  laughter  from 
every  part  of  the  playhouse — except  the  one  box 
that  held  Cumberland  and  his  friends — were  greet- 
ing the  brilliant  dialogue,  the  natural  characterisa- 
tion, and  the  admirably  contrived  situation  in  the 
best  comedy  that  a  century  of  brilliant  authors  had 
witnessed. 

The  scene  comes  before  one  with  all  the  vividness 
that  many  able  pens  have  imparted  to  a  description 
of  its  details.  We  see  the  enormous  figure  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  leaning  far  out  of  the  box  nearest  the  stage 
with  a  hand  behind  his  ear,  so  as  to  lose  no  word 
spoken  on  the  stage;  and  as  phrase  after  phrase, 
sparkling  with  wit,  quivering  with  humour,  and 
vivified  by  numbers  of  allusions  to  the  events  of 
the  hour,  is  spoken,  he  seems  to  shake  the  theatre 
with  his  laughter. 

Reynolds  is  in  the  opposite  corner,  his  ear-trum- 
pet resting  on  the  ledge  of  the  box,  his  face  smiling 
thoughtfully;  and  between  these  two  notable  figures 
Miss  Reynolds  is  seated  bolt  upright,  and  looking 
rather  frightened  as  the  people  in  the  pit  glance 
up  now  and  again  at  the  box. 

Baretti  is  in  the  next  box  with  Angelica  Kauff- 
man,  Dr.  Burney,  and  little  Miss  Fanny  Burney, 
destined  in  a  year  or  two  to  become  for  a  time  the- 


120  ube  Sessamg  Bribe* 

most  notable  woman  in  England.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  house  Lord  Clare  occupies  a  box  with 
his  charming  torn-boy  daughter,  who  is  convulsed 
with  laughter  as  she  hears  reference  made  in  the 
dialogue  to  the  trick  which  she  once  played  upon 
the  wig  of  her  dear  friend  the  author.  General 
Oglethorpe,  who  is  beside  her,  holds  up  his  finger 
in  mock  reproof,  and  Lord  Camden,  standing  behind 
his  chair,  looks  as  if  he  regretted  having  lost  the 
opportunity  of  continuing  his  acquaintance  with  an 
author  whom  everyone  is  so  highly  honouring  at 
the  moment,  including  one  of  the  Royal  Dukes, 
whose  secret  marriages  brought  about  the  Act  to 
which  allusion  was  made  in  the  comedy. 

Cumberland  and  his  friends  are  in  a  lower  box, 
"looking  glum,"  as  one  witness  asserts,  though  a 
good  many  years  later  Cumberland  boasted  of 
having  contributed  in  so  marked  a  way  to  the 
applause  as  to  call  for  the  resentment  of  the  pit. 

In  the  next  box  Hugh  Kelly,  whose  most  noted 
success  at  Drury  Lane  a  few  years  previously 
eclipsed  Goldsmith's  "  Good-Natured  Man "  at  the 
other  house,  sits  by  the  side  of  Macpherson,  the 
rhapsodist  who  invented  "  Ossian. "  He  glares  at 
Dr.  Johnson,  who  had  no  hesitation  in  calling  him 
an  impostor. 

The  Burkes,  Edmund  and  Richard,  are  in  a  box 
with  Mrs.  Horneck  and  her  younger  daughter,  who 
follows  breathlessly  the  words  with  which  she  has 
for  long  been  familiar,  and  at  every  shout  of  laughter 
that  comes  from  the  pit  she  is  moved  almost  to 


'Cbe  Jessams  IBrifce.  121 

tears.  She  is  quite  unaware  of  the  fact  that  Colonel 
Gwyn,  sitting  alone  in  another  part  of  the  house, 
has  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her — earnestly,  affectionately. 
Her  brother  and  his  fiancee  are  in  a  box  with  the 
Bunburys;  and  in  the  most  important  in  the  house 
Mrs.  Thrale  sits  well  forward,  so  that  all  eyes  may 
be  gratified  by  beholding  her,  though  it  does  not 
so  much  matter  about  her  husband,  who  once  thought 
that  the  fact  of  his  being  the  proprietor  of  a  concern 
whose  operations  represented  the  potentialities  of 
wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice  entitled  him 
to  play  upon  the  mother  of  the  Gunnings  when  she 
first  came  to  London  the  most  contemptible  hoax 
-ever  recorded  to  the  eternal  discredit  of  a  man. 
The  Duchess  of  Argyll,  mindful  of  that  trick  which 
the  cleverness  of  her  mother  turned  to  so  good 
account,  does  not  condescend  to  notice  from  her 
box,  where  she  sits  with  Lady  Betty  Hamilton, 
either  the  brewer  or  his  pushing  wife,  though  she 
is  acquainted  with  old  General  Paoli,  whom  the 
latter  is  patronising  between  the  acts. 

What  a  play!     What  spectators! 

We  listen  to  the  one  year  by  year  with  the  same 
delight  that  it  brought  to  those  who  heard  it  this  night  for 
the  first  time ;  and  we  look  with  delight  at  the  faces 
of  the  notable  spectators  which  the  brush  of  the 
little  man  with  the  ear-trumpet  in  Johnson's  box  has 
made  immortal. 

Those  two  men  in  that  box  were  the  means  of  con- 
ferring immortality  upon  their  century.  Incom- 
parable Johnson,  who  chose  Boswell  to  be  his  biogra- 


122  ftbe  3essam£ 

pher !  Incomparable  Reynolds,  who,  on  innumerable 
canvases,  handed  down  to  the  next  century  all  the 
grace  and  distinction  of  his  own ! 

And  all  this  time  Oliver  Goldsmith  is  pacing  with 
bent  head  and  hands  nervously  clasped  behind  him, 
backward  and  forward,  the  broad  walk  in  St.  James's 
Park. 

Steevens  came  upon  him  there  after  spending  nearly 
two  hours  searching  for  him. 

"Don't  speak,  man,  for  God's  sake,"  cried  Oliver. 
"  'Tis  not  so  dark  but  that  I  can  see  disaster  im- 
printed on  your  face.  You  come  to  tell  me  that  the 
comedy  is  ended — that  the  curtain  was  obliged  to- 
be  rung  down  in  the  middle  of  an  act.  You  come 
to  tell  me  that  my  comedy  of  life  is  ended." 

"Not  I,"  said  Steevens.  "  I  have  not  been  at  the 
playhouse  yet.  Why,  man,  what  can  be  the  mat- 
ter with  you?  Why  did  you  leave  us  in  the  lurch 
at  the  coffee-house?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  speak  of, "  said  Gold- 
smith. "  But  I  beg  of  you  to  hasten  to  the  play- 
house and  carry  me  the  news  of  the  play — don't  fear 
to  tell  me  the  worst:  I  have  been  in  the  world  of 
letters  for  nearly  twenty  years:  I  am  not  easily  dis- 
mayed. " 

"  My  dear  friend, "  said  Steevens,  "  I  have  no  in- 
tention of  going  to  the  playhouse  unless  you  are  in 
my  company — I  promised  so  much  to  Dr.  Johnson. 
What,  man,  have  you  no  consideration  for  your 
friends,  leaving  yourself  out  of  the  question  ?  Have 
you  no  consideration  for  your  art,  Sir  ?  " 


Sessamp  Bribe. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

u  I  mean  that  perhaps  while  you  are  walking  here 
some  question  may  arise  on  the  stage  that  you  and 
you  only  can  decide — are  you  willing  to  allow  the 
future  of  your  comedy  to  depend  upon  the  decision 
of  Colman,  who  is  not  the  man  to  let  pass  a  chance 
of  proving  himself  to  be  a  true  prophet?  Come, 
Sir,  you  have  shown  yourself  to  be  a  man  and  a 
great  man,  too,  before  to-night.  Why  should 
your  courage  fail  you  now  when  I  am  convinced 
you  are  on  the  eve  of  achieving  a  splendid 
success  ?  " 

"  It  shall  not — it  shall  not !  "  cried  Goldsmith  after 
a  short  pause.  "I'll  not  give  in  should  the  worst 
come  to  the  worst.  I  feel  that  I  have  something 
of  a  man  in  me  still.  The  years  that  I  have  spent 
in  this  battle  have  not  crushed  me  into  the  earth. 
I'll  go  with  you,  my  friend— I'll  go  with  you. 
Heaven  grant  that  I  may  yet  be  in  time  to  avert 
disaster. " 

They  hurried  together  to  Charing  Cross,  where  a 
hackney-coach  was  obtainable.  All  the  time  it  was 
lumbering  along  the  uneven  streets  to  Covent  Gar- 
den, Goldsmith  was  talking  excitedly  about  the  like- 
lihood of  the  play  being  wrecked  through  Colman's 
taking  advantage  of  his  absence  to  insist  on  a  scene 
being  omitted — or,  perhaps,  a  whole  act ;  and  nothing 
that  Steevens  could  say  to  comfort  him  had  any 
effect. 

When  the  vehicle  turned  the  corner  into  Covent 
Garden  he  craned  his  head  out  of  the  window  and 


124  Ube  Jessams  3 

declared  that  the  people  were  leaving  the  playhouse 
— that  his  worst  fears  were  realised. 

"  Nonsense !  "  cried  Steevens,  who  had  put  his 
head  out  of  the  other  window.  "  The  people  you 
see  are  only  the  footmen  and  linkmen  incidental  to 
any  performance.  What,  man,  would  the  coachmen 
beside  us  be  dozing  on  their  boxes  if  they  were 
waiting  to  be  called?  No,  my  friend,  the  comedy 
has  yet  to  be  damned." 

When  they  got  out  of  the  coach  Goldsmith  has- 
tened round  to  the  stage  door,  looking  into  the  faces 
of  the  people  who  were  lounging  around,  as  if  to 
see  in  each  of  them  the  fate  of  his  play  written. 
He  reached  the  back  of  the  stage  and  made  for 
where  Colman  was  standing,  just  as  Quick,  in  the 
part  of  Tony  Lumpkin,  was  telling  Mrs.  Hardcastle 
that  he  had  driven  her  forty  miles  from  her  own 
house  when  all  the  time  she  was  within  twenty 
yards  of  it.  In  a  moment  he  perceived  that  the 
lights  were  far  too  strong;  unless  Mrs.  Hardcastle 
was  blind  she  could  not  have  failed  to  recognise 
the  familiar  features  of  the  scene.  The  next  mo- 
ment there  came  a  hiss — a  solitary  hiss  from  the 
boxes. 

"What's  that,  Mr.  Colman ?"  whispered  the  ex- 
cited author. 

«  Psha !  Sir,"  said  Colman  brutally.  "  Why  trouble 
yourself  about  a  squib  when  we  have  all  been  sit- 
ting on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder  these  two  hours  ?  " 

"  That's  a  lie, "  said  Shuter,  who  was  in  the  act 
of  going  on  the  stage  as  Mr.  Hardcastle.  "  'Tis  a 


"That's  a  lie,"  said  Shuter,  who  was  in  the  act  of  going  on  the  stage  as 

Mr.  Hardcastle.  [/>.  124. 


tlbe  3essam£  Bribe*  125 

lie,    Dr.  Goldsmith.     The  success  of  your  play  was 
assured  from  the  first." 

"  By  God!  Mr.  Colman,  if  it  is  a  lie  I'll  never 
look  on  you  as  a  friend  while  I  live!"  said  Gold- 
smith. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


IT  was  a  lie,  and  surely  the  most  cruel  and  most 
objectless  lie  ever  uttered.  Goldsmith  was  soon 
made  aware  of  this.  The  laughter  that  followed 
Tony  Lumpkin's  pretending  to  his  mother  that  Mr. 
Hardcastle  was  a  highwayman  was  not  the  laugh 
of  playgoers  who  have  endured  four  acts  of  a  dull 
play ;  it  was  the  laugh  of  people  who  have  been  in 
a  good  humour  for  over  two  hours;  and  Goldsmith 
knew  it.  He  perceived  from  their  laughter  that  the 
people  in  every  part  of  the  house  were  following 
the  comedy  with  extraordinary  interest.  Every  point 
in  the  dialogue  was  effective — the  exquisite  compli- 
cations, the  broad  fun,  the  innumerable  touches  of 
nature — all  were  appreciated  by  an  audience  whose 
expression  of  gratification  fell  little  short  of  rapture. 

When  the  scene  was  being  shifted  Colman  left 
the  stage  and  did  not  return  to  it  until  it  was  his 
duty  to  come  forward  after  the  Epilogue  was  spoken 
by  Mrs.  Bulkley  and  announce  the  date  of  the 
author's  night. 

As  soon  as  the  manager  had  disappeared  Gold- 
smith had  a  chance  of  speaking  to  several  of  the 

actors   at   intervals  as  they  made  their  exits,   and 

126 


TTbe  3es5am£  Bribe*  127 

from  them  he  learned  the  whole  truth  regarding 
the  play :  from  the  first  scene  to  the  one  which  was 
being  represented,  the  performance  had  been  a  suc- 
cession of  triumphs,  not  only  for  the  author,  but 
for  every  member  of  the  company  concerned  in  the 
production.  With  old  dresses  and  scenery  familiar 
to  all  frequenters  of  the  playhouse,  the  extraordi- 
nary success  of  the  comedy  was  beyond  all  ques- 
tion. The  allusion  to  the  offensive  terms  of  the 
Royal  Marriage  Act  was  especially  relished  by  the 
audience,  several  of  the  occupants  of  the  pit  rising 
to  their  feet  and  cheering  for  some  time — so  much 
Goldsmith  learned  little  by  little  at  intervals  from 
the  actors. 

"I  swore  never  to  look  on  Colman  as  my  friend 
again,  and  I'll  keep  my  word;  he  has  treated  me 
cruelly — more  cruelly  than  he  has  any  idea  of," 
said  Goldsmith  to  Lee  Lewes.  "  But  as  for  you, 
Mr.  Lewes,  I'll  do  anything  that  is  in  my  power 
for  you  in  the  future.  My  poor  play  owes  much 
to  you,  Sir." 

*  Faith  then,  Sir,"  cried  Lewes,  a  I'll  keep  you 
to  your  word.  My  benefit  will  take  place  in  a 
short  time;  I'll  ask  you  for  a  Prologue,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith." 

"  You  shall  have  the  best  Prologue  I  ever  wrote, " 
said  Goldsmith. 

And  so  he  had. 

When  the  house  was  still  cheering  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  Epilogue,  Goldsmith,  overcome  with 
emotion,  hurried  into  the  Green  Room.  Mrs.  Abing- 


128  TTbe  Jessamp 

ton  was  the  first  person  whom  he  met.  She  held 
down  her  head,  and  affected  a  guilty  look  as  she 
glanced  at  him  sideways  through  half-closed  eyes. 

a  Dr.  Goldsmith, n  she  said  in  a  tone  modulated 
to  a  point  of  humility,  "  I  hope  in  your  hour  of 
triumph  you  will  be  generous  to  those  who  were 
foolish  enough  to  doubt  the  greatness  of  your  work. 
Oh,  Sir,  I  pray  of  you  not  to  increase  by  your 
taunts  the  humiliation  which  I  feel  at  having  re- 
signed my  part  in  your  comedy.  Believe  me,  I  have 
been  punished  sufficiently  during  the  past  two  hours 
by  hearing  the  words,  which  I  might  have  spoken, 
applauded  so  rapturously  coming  from  another." 

"  Taunts,  my  dear  Madam ;  who  speaks  of  taunts?  * 
said  he.  "  Nay,  I  have  a  part  in  my  mind  for  you 
already — that  is  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  ac- 
cept it." 

"  Oh,  Sir,  you  are  generosity  itself!  *  cried  the 
actress,  offering  him  both  her  hands.  "  I  shall  not 
fail  to  remind  you  of  your  promise,  Dr.  Goldsmith. " 

And  now  the  Green  Room  was  being  crowded 
by  the  members  of  the  company  and  the  distin- 
guished friends  of  the  author,  who  were  desirous 
of  congratulating  him.  Dr.  Johnson's  voice  filled 
the  room  as  his  laughter  had  filled  the  theatre. 

"  We  perceived  the  reason  of  your  extraordinary 
and  unusual  modesty,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  before  your 
play  was  many  minutes  on  the  stage,"  said  he. 
"  You  dog,  you  took  as  your  example  the  Italians 
who,  on  the  eve  of  Lent,  indulge  in  a  carnival, 
celebrating  their  farewell  to  flesh  by  a  feast.  On 


Ube  Sessamg  ffiribe,  129 

the  same  analogy  you  had  a  glut  of  modesty  pre- 
vious to  bidding  modesty  good-bye  for  ever;  for 
to-night's  performance  will  surely  make  you  a  cox- 
comb. " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,  Sir, "  said  Goldsmith. 

"No,  you  don't  hope  it,  Sir,"  cried  Johnson. 
"  You  are  thinking  at  this  moment  how  much  bet- 
ter you  are  than  your  betters — I  see  it  on  your 
face,  you  rascal." 

"  And  he  has  a  right  to  think  so, "  said  Mrs.  Bun- 
bury.  "  Come,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  speak  up,  say  some- 
thing insulting  to  your  betters." 

"  Certainly,  Madam, "  said  Goldsmith.  a  Where  are 
they?" 

"Well  said!"  cried  Edmund  Burke. 

"Nay,  Sir,"  said  Johnson.  "Dr.  Goldsmith's  satire 
is  not  strong  enough.  We  expected  something 
more  violent.  Tis  like  landing  one  in  one's  back 
garden  when  one  has  looked  for  Crackscull  Com- 


mon." 


His  mighty  laughter  echoed  through  the  room 
and  made  the  pictures  shake  on  the  walls. 

Mary  Horneck  had  not  spoken.  She  had  merely 
given  her  friend  her  hand.  She  knew  that  he  would 
understand  her  unuttered  congratulations,  and  she 
was  not  mistaken. 

For  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  an 
exchange  of  graceful  wit  and  gracious  compliment 
between  the  various  persons  of  distinction  in  the 
Green  Room.  Mrs.  Thrale,  with  her  usual  discri- 
mination, conceived  the  moment  to  be  an  opportune 

9 


one  for  putting  on  what  she  fondly  imagined  was 
an  Irish  brogue,  in  rallying  Goldsmith  upon  some 
of  the  points  in  his  comedy.  Miss  Kauffman  and 
Signer  Baretti  spoke  Italian  into  Reynolds's  ear- 
trumpet,  and  Edmund  Burke  talked  wittily  in  the 
background  with  the  Bunburys. 

So  crowded  the  room  was,  no  one  seemed  to 
notice  how  an  officer  in  uniform  had  stolen  up  to 
the  side  of  Mary  Horneck  where  she  stood  behind 
Mr.  Thrale  and  General  Oglethorpe,  and  had  with- 
drawn her  into  a  corner,  saying  a  whispered  word 
to  her.  No  one  seemed  to  observe  the  action,  though 
it  was  noticed  by  Goldsmith.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  girl,  and  perceived  that,  while  the  man 
was  speaking  to  her,  her  eyes  were  turned  upon 
the  floor  and  her  left  hand  was  pressed  against  her 
heart. 

He  kept  looking  at  her  all  the  time  that  Mrs. 
Thrale  was  rattling  out  her  inanities,  too  anxious 
to  see  what  effect  she  was  producing  upon  the 
people  within  ear-shot  to  notice  that  the  man  whom 
she  was  addressing  was  paying  no  attention  to  her. 

When  the  others  as  well  ceased  to  pay  any 
attention  to  her,  she  thought  it  advisable  to  bring 
her  prattle  to  a  close. 

"Psha!  Dr.  Goldsmith, "  she  cried.  "We  have 
given  you  our  ears  for  more  than  two  hours,  and 
yet  you  refuse  to  listen  to  us  for  as  many  minutes." 

"I  protest,  Madam,  that  I  have  been  absorbed," 
said  Goldsmith.  "  Yes,  you  were  remarking  that— 

"  That   an  Irishman,   when  he  achieves  a  sudden 


3Bctt>e,  131 

success,  can  only  be  compared  to  a  boy  who  has 
robbed  an  orchard,"  said  the  lady. 

"  True — very  true,  Madam, "  said  he.  He  saw 
Mary  Horneck's  hands  clasp  involuntarily  for  a 
moment  as  she  spoke  to  the  man  who  stood  smiling 
beside  her.  She  was  not  smiling. 

"  Yes,  'tis  true ;  but  why  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Thrale, 
taking  care  that  her  voice  did  not  appeal  to  Gold- 
smith only. 

"Ah,  yes;  that's  just  it — why?"  said  he.  Mary 
Horneck  had  turned  away  from  the  officer,  and  was 
coming  slowly  back  to  where  her  sister  and  Henry 
Bunbury  were  standing. 

«  Why  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Thrale  shrilly.  «  Why  ?  Why 
is  an  Irishman  who  has  become  suddenly  successful 
like  a  boy  who  has  robbed  an  orchard?  Why, 
because  his  booty  so  distends  his  body  that  any  one 
can  perceive  he  has  got  in  his  pockets  what  he  is 
not  entitled  to," 

She  looked  around  for  appreciation,  but  failed  to 
find  it.  She  certainly  did  not  perceive  any  appre- 
ciation of  her  pleasantry  on  the  face  of  the  success- 
ful Irishman  before  her.  He  was  not  watching 
Mary  now.  All  his  attention  was  given  to  the  man 
to  whom  she  had  been  talking,  and  who  had  gone 
to  the  side  of  Mrs.  Abington,  where  he  remained 
chatting  with  even  more  animation  than  was  usual 
for  one  to  assume  in  the  Green  Room. 

"You  will  join  us  at  supper,  Dr.  Goldsmith?" 
said  Mr.  Thrale. 

"Nay,    Sir"    cried    Bunbury     "mine  is  a  prior! 


132  Ube  3essam£  Bribe* 

claim.      Dr.    Goldsmith  agreed  some   days   ago   to 
honour  my  wife  with  his  company  to-night." 

"What  did  I  say,  Goldy?"  cried  Johnson.  "Was 
it  not  that,  after  the  presentation  of  the  comedy, 
you  would  receive  an  hundred  invitations?  " 

"  Well,  Sir,  I  have  only  received  two  since  my 
play  was  produced,  and  one  of  them  I  accepted 
some  days  ago,"  said  the  Irishman,  and  Mrs.  Thrale 
hoped  she  would  be  able  to  remember  the  bull  in 
order  to  record  it  as  conclusive  evidence  of  Gold- 
smith's awkwardness  of  speech. 

But  Burke,  who  knew  the  exact  nature  of  the 
Irish  bull,  only  smiled.  He  laughed,  however,  when 
Goldsmith,  assuming  the  puzzled  expression  of  the 
Irishman  who  adds  to  the  humour  of  his  bull  by 
pretending  that  it  is  involuntary,  stumbled  carefully 
in  his  words,  simulating  a  man  anxious  to  explain 
away  a  mistake  that  he  has  made.  Goldsmith 
excelled  at  this  form  of  humour  but  too  well;  hence, 
while  the  pages  of  every  book  that  refers  to  him 
are  crowded  with  his  brilliant  sayings,  the  writers 
quote  Garrick's  lines  in  proof — proof  positive— 
that  he  "talked  like  poor  Poll."  He  is  the  first 
man  on  record  who  has  been  condemned  solely 
because  of  the  exigencies  of  rhyme,  and  that,  too, 
in  the  doggerel  couplet  of  the  most  unscrupulous 
jester  of  the  century. 

Mary  Horneck  seems  to  have  been  the  only  one 
who  understood  him  thoroughly.  She  has  left  her 
appreciation  of  his  humour  on  record.  The  expres- 
sion which  she  perceived  upon  his  face  immediately 


133 

after  he  had  given  utterance  to  some  delightful 
witticism — which  the  recording  demons  around  him 
delighted  to  turn  against  himself — was  the  expres- 
sion which  makes  itself  apparent  in  Reynolds's  portrait 
of  him.  The  man  who  "  talked  like  poor  Poll"  was 
the  man  who,  even  before  he  had  done  anything  in 
literature  except  a  few  insignificant  essays,  was 
visited  by  Bishop  Percy,  though  every  visit  entailed 
a  climb  up  a  rickety  staircase  and  a  seat  on  a  rickety 
stool  in  a  garret.  Perhaps,  however,  the  fastidious 
Percy  was  interested  in  ornithology  and  was  ready 
to  put  himself  to  great  inconvenience  in  order  to 
hear  parrot-talk. 

While  he  was  preparing  to  go  with  the  Bunburys, 
Goldsmith  noticed  that  the  man  who,  after  talking 
with  Mary  Horneck,  had  chatted  with  Mrs.  Abington, 
had  disappeared ;  and  when  the  party  whom  he  was 
accompanying  to  supper  had  left  the  room  he  remained 
for  a  few  moments  to  make  his  adieux  to  the  players. 
He  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Abington,  saying, 

"  Have  no  fear  that  I  shall  forget  my  promise, 
Madam." 

"I  shall  take  good  care  that  you  don't,  Sir," 
said  she. 

"Do  not  fancy  that  I  shall  neglect  my  own 
interests !  "  he  cried,  bowing  as  he  took  a  step  away 
from  her.  When  he  had  taken  another  step  he 
quickly  returned  to  her  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had 
struck  him.  "Why,  if  I  wasn't  going  away  without 
'asking  you  what  is  the  name  of  the  gentleman  in 
uniform  who  was  speaking  with  you  just  now," 


134  ^be  Sessamp 


said    he.     "I    fancy    I   have   met  him   somewhere, 
and  one  doesn't  want  to  be  rude." 

"  His  name  is  Jackson,"  she  replied.  "  Yes,  Captain 
Jackson,  though  the  Lord  only  knows  what  he  is 
captain  of." 

"I  have  been  mistaken:  I  know  no  one  of  that 
name,"  said  Goldsmith.  a'Tis  as  well  I  made  sure; 
one  may  affront  a  gentleman  as  easily  by  professing 
to  have  met  him  as  by  forgetting  that  one  has 
done  so." 

When  he  got  outside,  he  found  that  Mary  Hor- 
neck  had  been  so  greatly  affected  by  the  heat  of 
the  playhouse  and  the  excitement  of  the  occasion 
that  she  had  thought  it  prudent  to  go  away  with 
the  Reynoldses  in  their  coach — her  mother  had 
preceded  her  by  nearly  half  an  hour. 

The  Bunburys  found  that  apparently  the  excite- 
ment of  the  evening  had  produced  a  similar  effect 
upon  their  guest.  Although  he  admitted  having 
eaten  no  dinner — Johnson  and  his  friends  had  been 
by  no  means  reticent  on  the  subject  of  the  dinner 
—he  was  without  an  appetite  for  the  delightful  little 
supper  which  awaited  him  at  Mrs.  Bunbury's.  It 
was  in  vain,  too,  that  his  hostess  showed  herself  to 
be  in  high  spirits,  and  endeavoured  to  rally  him 
after  her  own  delightful  fashion.  He  remained 
almost  speechless  the  whole  evening. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "I  perceive  clearly  that  your 
Little  Comedy  has  been  quite  obscured  by  your 
great  comedy.  But  wait  until  we  get  you  down 
with  us  at  Barton;  you  will  find  the  first  time  we 


tlbc  Jessams  JBrtfce*  135 

play  loo  together  that  a  little  comedy  may  become 
a  great  tragedy." 

Bunbury  declared  that  he  was  as  poor  company 
during  the  supper  as  if  his  play  had  been  a  mor- 
tifying failure  instead  of  a  triumphant  success,  and 
Goldsmith  admitted  that  this  was  true,  taking  his 
departure  as  soon  as  he  could  without  being  rude. 

He  walked  slowly  through  the  empty  streets  to 
his  chambers  in  Brick  Court.  But  it  was  almost 
daylight  before  he  went  to  bed. 

All  his  life  he  had  been  looking  forward  to  this 
night — the  night  that  should  put  the  seal  upon  his 
reputation,  that  should  give  him  an  incontestable 
place  at  the  head  of  the  imaginative  writers  of  his 
period.  And  yet,  now  that  the  fame  for  which  he 
had  struggled  with  destiny  was  within  his  grasp, 
he  felt  more  miserable  than  he  had  ever  felt  in 
his  garret. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


WHAT  did  it  all  mean? 

That  was  the  question  which  was  on  his  mind 
when  he  awoke.  It  did  not  refer  to  the  reception 
given  to  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  *  which  had 
placed  him  in  the  position  he  had  longed  for;  it  had 
reference  solely  to  the  strange  incident  which  had 
occurred  in  the  Green  Room. 

The  way  Mrs.  Abington  had  referred  to  the  man 
with  whom  Mary  had  been  speaking  was  sufficient 
to  let  him  know  that  he  was  not  a  man  of  repu- 
tation— he  certainly  had  not  seemed  to  Goldsmith 
to  be  a  man  of  reputation  either  when  he  had  seen 
him  at  the  Pantheon  or  in  the  Green  Room.  He 
had  worn  an  impudent  and  forward  manner  which, 
in  spite  of  his  glaring  good  looks,  that  might  pos- 
sibly make  him  acceptable  in  the  eyes  of  such  generous 
ladies  as  Mrs.  Abington,  Mrs.  Bulkley,  or  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington,  showed  that  he  was  a  person  of  no  position 
in  society.  This  conclusion,  to  which  Goldsmith  had 
come,  was  confirmed  by  the  fact  that  no  persons  of  any 
distinction  who  had  been  present  at  the  Pantheon  or  the 
playhouse  had  shown  that  they  were  acquainted  with 

him — no  one  person  save  only  Mary  Horneck. 

136  " 


Jessams  ffiri&e.  137 

Mary  Horneck  had  by  her  act  bracketed  herself 
with  Mrs.  Abington  and  Mrs.  Bulkley. 

This  he  felt  to  be  a  very  terrible  thing.  A  month 
ago  it  would  have  been  incredible  to  him  that  such 
a  thing  could  be.  Mary  Horneck  had  invariably 
shunned  in  society  those  persons — women  as  well 
as  men — who  had  shown  themselves  to  be  wanting 
in  modesty.  She  had  always  detested  the  man 
— he  was  popular  enough  at  that  period — who 
allowed  innuendoes  to  do  duty  for  wit ;  and  she  had 
also  detested  the  woman — she  is  popular  enough 
now — who  laughed  at  and  made  light  of  the 
innuendoes,  bordering  upon  impropriety,  of  such 
a  man. 

And  yet  she  had  by  her  own  act  placed  herself 
on  a  level  with  the  least  fastidious  of  the  persons 
for  whom  she  had  always  professed  a  contempt. 
The  Duchess  of  Argyll  and  Lady  Ancaster  had,  to 
be  sure,  shaken  hands  with  the  two  actresses;  but 
the  first  named  at  least  had  done  so  for  her  own 
ends,  and  had  got  pretty  well  sneered  at  in  conse- 
quence. Mary  Horneck  stood  in  a  very  different 
position  from  that  occupied  by  the  Duchess.  While 
not  deficient  in  charity,  she  had  declined  to  follow 
the  lead  of  any  leader  of  fashion  in  this  matter,  and 
had  held  aloof  from  the  actresses. 

And  yet  he  had  seen  her  in  secret  conversation 
with  a  man  at  whom  one  of  these  same  actresses 
had  not  hesitated  to  sneer  as  an  impostor — a  man 
who  was  clearly  unacquainted  with  any  other  member 
of  her  family. 


138  Ube  Jessams 


What  could  this  curious  incident  mean? 

The  letters  which  had  come  from  various  friends  con- 
gratulating him  upon  the  success  of  the  comedy  lay  un- 
heeded by  him  by  the  side  of  those  which  had  arrived — 
not  a  post  had  been  missed — from  persons  who  pro- 
fessed the  most  disinterested  friendship  for  him ,  and  were 
anxious  to  borrow  from  him  a  trifle  until  they  also  had 
made  their  successes.  Men  whom  he  had  rescued  from 
starvation,  from  despair,  from  suicide,  and  who  had, 
consequently,  been  living  on  him  ever  since,  begged 
that  he  would  continue  his  contributions  on  a  more 
liberal  scale  now  that  he  had  in  so  marked  a  way 
improved  his  own  position.  But  for  the  first  time, 
their  letters  lay  unread  and  unanswered.  (Three  days 
actually  passed  before  he  sent  his  guineas  flying  to 
the  deserving  and  the  undeserving  alike.  That  was 
how  he  contrived  to  get  rid  of  the  thousands  of 
pounds  which  he  had  earned  since  leaving  his 
garret.) 

His  man-servant  had  never  before  seen  him  so 
depressed  as  he  was  when  he  left  his  chambers. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  Mary,  and 
tell  her  that  he  had  seen  what  no  one  else  either 
in  the  Pantheon  or  in  the  Green  Room  had  seemed 
to  notice  in  regard  to  that  man  whose  name  he  had 
learned  was  Captain  Jackson — he  would  tell  her 
and  leave  it  to  her  to  explain  what  appeared  to  him 
more  than  mysterious.  If  anyone  had  told  him  in 
respect  to  another  girl  all  that  he  had  noticed,  he 
would  have  said  that  such  a  matter  required  no 
explanation:  he  had  heard  of  the  intrigues  of  young 


Ube  Jessams  JBdfce.  139 

girls  with  men  of  the  stamp  of  that  Captain  Jackson. 
With  regard  to  Mary  Horneck,  however,  the  matter 
was  not  so  easily  explained.  The  shrug  and  the 
raising  of  the  eyebrows  were  singularly  inappropriate 
to  the  consideration  of  any  incident  in  which  she 
was  concerned. 

He  found  before  he  had  gone  far  from  his  chambers 
that  the  news  of  the  success  of  the  comedy  had 
reached  his  neighbours.  He  was  met  by  several  of 
the  students  of  the  Temple,  with  whom  he  had 
placed  himself  on  terms  of  the  pleasantest  familiarity, 
and  they  all  greeted  him  with  a  cordiality  the 
sincerity  of  which  was  apparent  on  their  beaming 
faces.  Among  them  was  one  youth  named  Grattan, 
who  being  an  Irishman,  had  early  found  a  friend 
in  Goldsmith.  He  talked  years  afterwards  of  this 
early  friendship  of  his. 

Then  the  head  porter,  Ginger,  for  whom  Gold- 
smith had  always  a  pleasant  word,  and  whose  wife 
was  his  laundress  (not  wholly  above  suspicion  as 
regards  her  honesty),  stammered  his  congratulations, 
and  received  the  crown  which  he  knew  was  certain ; 
and  Goldsmith  began  to  be  sure  of  what  he  had  always 
suspected — that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  friendliness 
in  the  world  for  men  who  have  become  successful. 

Long  before  he  had  arrived  at  the  house  of  the 
Hornecks  he  was  feeling  that  he  would  be  the 
happiest  man  in  London  or  the  most  miserable  before 
another  hour  had  passed. 

He  was  fortunate  enough  to  find,  on  arriving  at 
the  house,  that  Mary  was  alone.  Mrs.  Horneck 


140  ftfoe  JessamE  Bribe. 


and  her  son  had  gone  out  together  in  the  coach 
some  time  before,  the  servant  said,  admitting  him, 
for  he  was  on  terms  of  such  intimacy  with  the 
family  that  the  man  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
inquire  if  Miss  Horneck  would  see  him.  The  man 
was  grinning  from  ear  to  ear  as  he  admitted  the 
visitor. 

"  I  hope,  Doctor,  that  I  know  my  business  better 
than  Diggory, "  he  said,  his  grin  expanding  genially. 

u  Ah !  so  you  were  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  the 
gallery  ?  "  said  Goldsmith.  "  You  had  my  destiny 
in  your  keeping  for  two  hours?" 

"  I  thought  I'd  ha'  dropped,  Sir,  when  it  came  to 
Diggory  at  the  table — and  Mr.  Mario w's  man,  Sir 
—as  drunk  as  a  lord.  'I  don't  know  what  more 
you  want  unless  you'd  have  had  him  soused  in  a 
beer  barrel,'  says  he  quite  cool-like  and  satisfied — 
and  it  was  the  gentleman's  own  private  house,  after  all. 
Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!  Didn't  Sir  Joshua's  Ralph  laugh 
till  he  thought  our  neighbours  would  think  it  undig- 
nified-like,  and  then  sent  us  off  worse  than  ever  by 
trying  to  look  solemn.  Only  some  fools  about  us 
said  the  drunk  servant  was  ungenteel;  but  young 
Mr.  Northcote — Sir  Joshua's  young  man,  Sir — he 
up  and  says  that  nature  isn't  always  genteel,  and 
that  nature  was  above  gentility,  and  so  forth — I 
beg  your  pardon,  Doctor,  what  was  I  thinking  of? 
Why,  Sir,  Diggory  himself  couldn't  ha'  done  worse 
than  me — talking  so  familiar-like,  instead  of  showing 
you  up." 

"Nay,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith,   "the  patron  has  the 


Jessams  Binfce, 

privilege  of  addressing  his  humble  servant  at  what 
length  he  please.  You  are  one  of  my  patrons, 
George;  but  strike  me  dumb,  Sir!  I'll  be  patronised 
by  you  no  longer;  and,  to  put  a  stop  to  your  airs, 
I'll  give  you  half-a-dozen  tickets  for  my  benefit,  and 
that  will  turn  the  tables  on  you,  my  fine  fellow/ 

"  Oh,  Doctor,  you  are  too  kind,  Sir,"  whispered 
the  man,  for  he  had  led  the  way  to  the  drawing- 
room  door.  "  I  hope  I've  not  been  too  bold,  Sir. 
If  I  told  them  in  the  kitchen  about  forgetting  my- 
self they'd  dub  me  Diggory  without  more  ado. 
There'll  be  Diggorys  enough  in  the  servants'  halls 
this  year,  Sir." 

In  another  moment  Goldsmith  was  in  the  presence 
cf  Mary  Horneck. 

She  was  seated  on  a  low  chair  at  the  window. 
He  could  not  fail  to  notice  that  she  looked  ill, 
though  it  was  not  until  she  had  risen,  trying  to 
smile,  that  he  saw  how  very  ill  she  was.  Her  face, 
which  he  had  scarcely  ever  seen  otherwise  than 
bright,  had  a  worn  appearance,  her  eyes  were  sunken 
through  much  weeping,  and  there  was  a  frightened 
look  in  them  that  touched  him  deeply. 

"You  will  believe  me  when  I  say  how  sorry  I 
was  not  to  be  able  to  do  honour  last  night  to  the 
one  whom  I  honour  most  of  all  men,"  she  said, 
giving  him  her  hand.  "  But  it  was  impossible — oh, 
quite  impossible,  for  me  to  sup  even  with  my  sister 
and  you.  Ah,  it  was  pitiful!  considering  how  I 
had  been  looking  forward  to  your  night  of  triumph, 
my  dear  friend." 


142  Ube  Sessams 

"It  was  pitiful,  indeed,  dear  child,"  said  he.  "I 
was  looking  forward  to  that  night  also — I  don't 
know  for  how  many  years — all  my  life,  it  seems 
to  me." 

"  Never  mind !  *  she  cried,  with  a  feeble  attempt 
at  brightness.  "  Never  mind!  your  night  of  triumph 
came  and  no  one  can  take  it  away  from  you  now : 
everyone  in  the  town  is  talking  of  your  comedy 
and  its  success." 

"  There  is  no  one  to  whom  success  is  sweeter 
than  it  is  to  me,"  said  Goldsmith.  "But  you  know 
me  too  well,  my  Jessamy  Bride,  to  think  for  a  single 
moment  that  I  could  enjoy  my  success  when  my 
dearest  friend  was  miserable." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand  once 
more.  "  I  know  it,  and  knowing  it  last  night  only 
made  me  feel  more  miserable." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mary  ?  "  he  asked  her  after 
a  pause.  "  Once  before  I  begged  of  you  to  tell  me 
if  you  could.  I  say  again  that  perhaps  I  may  be 
able  to  help  you  out  of  your  trouble,  though  I  know 
that  I  am  not  a  man  of  many  resources." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you, "  she  said  slowly,  but  with 
great  emphasis.  "There  are  some  sorrows  that  a 
woman  must  bear  alone.  It  is  Heaven's  decree  that 
a  woman's  sorrow  is  only  doubled  when  she  tries 
to  share  it  with  another — either  with  a  sister  or 
with  a  brother — even  so  good  a  friend  as  Oliver 
Goldsmith." 

"That  such  should  be  your  thought  shows  how 
deep  is  your  misery,"  said  he.  "I  cannot  believe 


3essam£  Bribe,  143 

that  it  could  be  increased  by  your  confiding  its 
origin  to  me." 

"  Ah,  I  see  everything  but  too  plainly, "  she  cried, 
throwing  herself  down  on  her  chair  once  more  and 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  Why,  all  my  misery 
comes  from  the  possibility  of  someone  knowing 
whence  it  arises.  Oh,  I  have  said  too  much,"  she 
cried  piteously.  She  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and 
was  standing  looking  with  eager  eyes  into  his. 
"Pray,  forget  what  I  have  said,  my  friend.  The 
truth  is  that  I  do  not  know  what  I  say;  oh,  pray 
go  away! — go  away  and  leave  me  alone  with  my 
sorrow — it  is  my  own — no  one  has  a  right  to  it 
but  myself." 

There  was  actually  a  note  of  jealousy  in  her 
voice,  and  there  came  a  little  flash  from  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke. 

"No,  I  will  not  go  away  from  you,  my  poor 
child,"  said  he.  "You  shall  tell  me  first  what  that 
man  to  whom  I  saw  you  speak  in  the  Green  Room 
last  night  has  to  do  with  your  sorrow." 

She  did  not  give  any  visible  start  when  he  had 
spoken.  There  was  a  curious  look  of  cunning  in 
her  eyes— a  look  that  made  him  shudder,  so 
foreign  was  it  to  her  nature,  which  was  ingenuous 
to  a  fault. 

"A  man?  Did  I  speak  to  a  man?"  she  said 
slowly,  affecting  an  endeavour  to  recall  a  half-for- 
gotten incident  of  no  importance.  "Oh,  yes,  I 
suppose  I  spoke  to  quite  a  number  of  men  in  the 
Green  Room.  How  crowded  it  was!  And  it  be- 


H4  TO>e  Sessams  Bribe* 

came  so  heated!  Ah,  how  terrible  the  actresses 
looked  in  their  paint! — almost  as  terrible  as  a  lady 
of  quality !  * 

"Poor  child!"  said  he.  "My  heart  bleeds  for 
you.  In  striving  to  hide  everything  from  me  you 

have  told  me  all — all  except Listen  to  me,  Mary. 

Nothing  that  I  can  hear — nothing  that  you  can  tell 
me — will  cause  me  to  think  the  least  that  is  ill  of 
you;  but  I  have  seen  enough  to  make  me  aware 
that  that  man — Captain  Jackson,  he  calls  himself ' 

*  How  did  you  find  out  his  name? "  she  said  in 
a  whisper.  "I  did  not  tell  you  his  name  even  at 
the  Pantheon." 

"  No,  you  did  not ;  but  yet  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
finding  it  out.  Tell  me  why  it  is  that  you  should 
be  afraid  of  that  man?  Do  you  not  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  he  is  a  rascal  ?  Good  heavens !  Mary, 
could  you  fail  to  see  rascal  written  on  his  counte- 
nance for  all  men  and  women  to  read  ?  " 

"  He  is  worse  than  you  or  anyone  can  imagine, 
and  yet " 

u  How  has  he  got  you  in  his  power — that  is  what 
you  are  going  to  tell  me." 

"  No,  no ;  that  is  impossible.  You  do  not  know 
what  you  ask.  You  do  not  know  me,  or  you  would 
not  ask  me  to  tell  you." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  think,  child  ?  " 

"  Think  the  worst — the  worst  that  your  kind  heart 
can  think — only  leave  me — leave  me.  God  may 
prove  less  unkind  than  He  seems  to  me.  I  may 
soon  die.  'The  only  way  her  guilt  to  cover.'" 


JS 
to 

3 


ZTbe  Jessams  Bribe.  145 

"I  cannot  leave  you,  and  I  say  again  that  I  re- 
fuse to  believe  anything  ill  of  you.  Do  you  really 
think  that  it  is  possible  for  me  to  have  written  so 
much  as  I  have  written  about  men  and  women 
without  being  able  to  know  when  a  woman  is  al- 
together good — a  man  altogether  bad?  I  know  you, 
my  dear,  and  I  have  seen  him.  Why  should  you 
be  afraid  of  him?  Think  of  the  friends  you  have." 

a  It  is  the  thought  of  them  that  frightens  me.  I 
have  friends  now,  but  if  they  knew  all  that  that 
man  can  tell,  they  would  fly  from  me  with  loathing. 
Oh!  when  I  think  of  it  all,  I  abhor  myself.  Oh,  fool, 
fool,  fool!  Was  ever  woman  such  a  fool  before?" 

"For  God's  sake,  child,  don't  talk  in  that  strain." 

"It  is  the  only  strain  in  which  I  can  talk.  It  is 
the  cry  of  a  wretch  who  stands  on  the  brink  of  a 
precipice  and  knows  that  hands  are  being  thrust 
out  behind  to  push  her  over." 

She  tottered  forward  with  wild  eyes,  under  the 
influence  of  her  own  thought.  He  caught  her  and 
supported  her  in  his  arms. 

"That  shows  you,  my  poor  girl,  that  if  there  are 
unkind  hands  behind  you,  there  are  still  some  hands 
that  are  ready  to  keep  your  feet  from  slipping. 
There  are  hands  that  will  hold  you  back  from  that 
precipice,  or  else  those  who  hold  them  out  to  you 
will  go  over  the  brink  with  you.  Ah,  my  dear, 
dear  girl,  nothing  can  happen  to  make  you  despair. 
In  another  year — perhaps  in  another  month — you  will 
wonder  how  you  could  ever  have  taken  so  gloomy 
a  view  of  the  present  hour." 

10 


146  Ube  Seasamp 

A  gleam  of  hope  came  into  her  eyes.  Only  for 
an  instant  it  remained  there,  however.  Then  she 
shook  her  head,  saying, 

-Alas!  Alas!" 

She  seated  herself  once  more,  but  he  retained 
her  hand  in  one  of  his  own,  laying  his  other  caress- 
ingly on  her  head. 

"  You  are  surely  the  sweetest  girl  that  ever  lived," 
said  he.  "You  fill  with  your  sweetness  the  world 
through  which  I  walk.  I  do  not  say  that  it  would  be 
a  happiness  for  me  to  die  for  you,  for  you  know  that  if 
my  dying  could  save  you  from  your  trouble  I  would 
not  shrink  from  it.  What  I  do  say  is  that  I  should 
like  to  live  for  you — to  live  to  see  happiness  once 
again  brought  to  you.  And  yet  you  will  tell  me 
nothing — you  will  not  give  me  a  chance  of  helping 
you." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I  dare  not— I  dare  not,"  she  said.  "I  dare  not 
run  the  chance  of  forfeiting  your  regard  for  ever." 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

He  felt  her  fingers  press  his  own  for  a  moment; 
then  he  dropped  her  hand  and  walked  toward  the 
door.  Suddenly,  however,  he  returned  to  her. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I  will  seek  no  more  to  learn 
your  secret ;  I  will  only  beg  of  you  to  promise  me 
that  you  will  not  meet  that  man  again — that  you 
will  hold  no  communication  with  him.  If  you  were 
to  be  seen  in  the  company  of  such  a  man — talking 
to  him  as  I  saw  you  last  night — what  would  people 
think  ?  The  world  is  always  ready  to  put  the  worst 


147 

possible  construction  upon  anything  unusual  that  it 
sees.  You  will  promise  me,  my  dear  ?  * 

"  Alas !  alas !  "  she  cried  piteously.  u  I  cannot  make 
you  a  promise.  You  will  not  do  me  the  injustice  to 
believe  that  I  spoke  to  him  of  my  own  free  will  ?  * 

"What,  you  would  have  me  believe  that  he  pos- 
sesses sufficient  power  over  you  to  make  you  do 
his  bidding?  Great  God!  that  can  never  be!" 

"  That  is  what  I  have  said  to  myself  day  by  day ; 
he  cannot  possess  that  power  over  me — he  cannot 
be  such  a  monster  as  to ....  oh,  I  cannot  speak  to 
you  more!  Leave  me — leave  me!  I  have  been  a 
fool  and  I  must  pay  the  penalty  of  my  folly. " 

Before  he  would  make  a  reply,  the  door  was  opened 
and  Mrs.  Bunbury  danced  into  the  room,  her  mother 
following  more  sedately  and  with  a  word  of  re- 
monstrance. 

"  Nonsense,  dear  mamma, "  cried  Little  Comedy. 
"What  Mary  needs  is  someone  who  will  raise  her 
spirits — Dr.  Goldsmith,  for  instance.  He  has,  I  am 
sure,  laughed  her  out  of  her  whimsies.  Have  you 
succeeded,  Doctor?  Nay,  you  don't  look  like  it,  nor 
does  she,  poor  thing !  I  felt  certain  that  you  would 
be  in  the  act  of  reading  a  new  comedy  to  her,  but 
I  protest  it  would  seem  as  if  it  was  a  tragedy  that 
engrossed  your  attention.  He  doesn't  look  parti- 
cularly like  our  agreeable  Rattle  at  the  present 
moment,  does  he,  mamma?  And  it  was  the  same 
at  supper  last  night.  It  might  have  been  fancied 
that  he  was  celebrating  a  great  failure  instead  of  a 
wonderful  success." 


148 


Ube 


Bribe* 


For  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  the  lively  girl 
chatted  away,  imitating  the  various  actors  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  comedy,  and  giving  the  author 
some  account  of  what  the  friends  whom  she  had  met 
that  day  said  of  the  piece.  He  had  never  before 
felt  the  wearisomeness  of  a  perpetually  sparkling 
nature.  Her  laughter  grated  upon  his  ears;  her 
gaiety  was  out  of  tune  with  his  mood.  He  took 
leave  of  the  family  at  the  first  breathing  space  that 
the  girl  permitted  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

GOLDSMITH  felt  that  the  result  of  his  interview  with 
Mary  was  to  render  more  mysterious  than  ever  the 
question  which  he  had  hoped  to  solve. 

He  wondered  if  he  was  more  clumsy  of  appre- 
hension than  other  men,  as  he  had  come  away  from 
her  without  learning  her  secret.  He  was  shrewd 
enough  to  know  that  the  majority  of  men  to  whom 
he  might  give  a  detailed  account  of  his  interview 
with  the  girl — a  detailed  account  of  his  observation 
of  her  upon  the  appearance  of  Captain  Jackson, 
first  at  the  Pantheon,  then  in  the  Green  Room  of 
Covent  Garden — would  have  no  trouble  whatever 
in  accounting  for  her  behaviour  upon  both  occasions. 
He  could  see  the  shrugs  of  the  cynical,  the  head- 
shakings  of  those  who  professed  to  be  vastly 
grieved. 

Ah,  they  did  not  know  this  one  girl.  They  were 
ready  to  lump  all  womankind  together  and  to  sup- 
pose that  it  would  be  impossible  for  one  woman 
to  be  swayed  by  other  impulses  than  were  common 
to  womankind  generally. 

But  he   knew   this  girl,    and   he  felt  that  it  was 

impossible   to   believe   that  she   was  otherwise  than 

149 


150 

good.  Nothing  would  force  him  to  think  anything 
of  evil  regarding  her. 

"  She  is  not  as  others, "  was  the  phrase  that  was 
in  his  mind — the  thought  that  was  in  his  heart. 

He  did  not  pause  to  reflect  upon  the  strangeness 
of  the  circumstance  that  when  a  man  wishes  to  think 
the  best  of  a  woman,  he  says  she  is  not  as  other 
women  are. 

He  did  not  know  enough  of  men  and  women  to 
be  aware  of  the  fact  that  when  a  man  makes  up 
his  mind  that  a  woman  is  altogether  different  from 
other  women,  he  loves  that  woman. 

He  felt  greatly  grieved  to  think  that  he  had  been 
unable  to  search  out  the  heart  of  her  mystery;  but 
the  more  he  recalled  of  the  incidents  that  had  oc- 
curred upon  the  two  occasions  when  that  man  Jack- 
son had  been  in  the  same  apartment  as  Mary  Hor- 
neck,  the  more  convinced  he  became  that  the  kill- 
ing of  that  man  would  tend  to  a  happy  solution  of 
the  question  which  was  puzzling  him. 

After  giving  this  subject  all  his  thought  for  the 
next  day  or  two,  he  went  to  his  friend  Baretti,  and 
presented  him  with  tickets  for  one  of  the  author's 
nights  for  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer."  Baretti  was 
a  well-known  personage  in  the  best  literary  society 
in  London,  having  consolidated  his  reputation  by 
the  publication  of  his  English  and  Italian  Dictionary. 
He  had  been  Johnson's  friend  since  his  first  exile 
from  Italy,  and  it  was  through  his  influence  Baretti, 
on  the  formation  of  the  Royal  Academy,  had  been 
appointed  Secretary  for  Foreign  Correspondence.  To 


Jessams  Bribe.  151 

Johnson  also  he  owed  the  more  remunerative  appoint- 
ment of  Italian  tutor  at  the  Thrales'.  He  had  fre- 
quently dined  with  Goldsmith  at  his  chambers. 

Baretti  expressed  himself  grateful  for  the  tickets, 
and  complimented  the  author  of  the  play  upon  his 
success. 

"  If  one  may  measure  the  success  of  a  play  by 
the  amount  of  envy  it  creates  in  the  breasts  of  others, 
yours  is  a  huge  triumph,"  said  the  Italian. 

"  Yes, "  said  Goldsmith  quickly,   "  that  is  just  what 
I  wish   to  have   a  word  with  you  about     The  fac* 
is,    Baretti,   I   am   not   so   good   a  swordsman  as 
should  be." 

"  What, "  cried  Baretti,  smiling  as  he  looked  at 
the  man  before  him,  who  had  certainly  not  the  phy- 
sique of  the  ideal  swordsman.  "  What,  do  you  mean 
to  fight  your  detractors?  Take  my  advice,  my  friend, 
let  the  pen  be  your  weapon  if  such  is  your  inten- 
tion. If  you  are  attacked  with  the  pen  you  should 
reply  with  the  same  weapon,  and  with  it  you  may 
be  pretty  certain  of  victory." 

"Ah,  yes;  but  there  are  cases — well,  one  never 
knows  what  may  happen,  and  a  man  in  my  position 
should  be  prepared  for  any  emergency.  I  can  do 
a  little  sword  play — enough  to  enable  me  to  face  a 
moderately  good  antagonist.  A  pair  of  coxcombs  in- 
sulted me  a  few  days  ago  and  I  retorted  in  a  way  that 
I  fancy  might  be  thought  effective  by  some  people." 

"  How  did  you  retort?  " 

"  Well,  I  warned  the  passers-by  that  the  pair 
were  pick-pockets  disguised  as  gentlemen." 


"Bacchus!     An   effective  retort!     And  then 

a  Then  I  turned  down  a  side  street  and  half  drew 
my  sword;  but,  after  making  a  feint  of  following 
me,  they  gave  themselves  over  to  a  bout  of  swear- 
ing and  went  on.  What  I  wish  is  to  be  directed 
by  you  to  any  compatriot  of  yours  who  would  give 
me  lessons  in  fencing.  Do  you  know  of  any  first- 
rate  master  of  the  art  in  London?1* 

The  Italian  could  not  avoid  laughing,  Goldsmith 
spoke  so  seriously. 

"You  would  like  to  find  a  maestro  who  would 
be  capable  of  turning  you  into  a  first-rate  swordsman 
within  the  space  of  a  week?" 

"Nay,  Sir,  I  am  not  unreasonable:  I  would  give 
him  a  fortnight." 

"Better  make  it  five  years." 

"  Five  years  ?  " 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  pray  of  you  not  to  make  me 
your  first  victim  if  I  express  to  you  my  opinion 
that  you  are  not  the  sort  of  man  who  can  be  made 
a  good  swordsman.  You  were  born,  not  made,  a 
poet,  and  let  me  tell  you  that  a  man  must  be  a 
born  swordsman  if  he  is  to  take  a  front  place  among 
swordsmen.  I  am  in  the  same  situation  as  yourself:  I 
am  so  short-sighted  I  could  make  no  stand  against 
an  antagonist.  No,  Sir,  I  shall  never  kill  a  man." 

He  laughed  as  men  laugh  who  do  not  understand 
what  fate  has  in  store  for  them. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  have  some  lessons, " 
said  Goldsmith,  "  and  I  know  there  are  no  better 
teachers  than  your  countrymen,  Baretti." 


3e0sams  ffirffce.  153 

"  Psha !  "  said  Baretti.  "  There  are  clever  fencers 
in  Italy,  just  as  there  are  in  England.  But  if  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  to  have  an  Italian  teacher, 
I  shall  find  out  one  for  you  and  send  him  to  your 
chambers.  If  you  are  wise,  however,  you  will  stick 
to  your  pen,  which  you  wield  with  such  dexterity, 
and  leave  the  more  dangerous  weapon  to  others  of 
coarser  fibre  than  yourself." 

"  There  are  times  when  it  is  necessary  for  the 
most  pacific  of  men — nay,  even  an  Irishman — to 
show  himself  adroit  with  a  sword,"  said  Goldsmith; 
u  and  so  I  shall  be  for  ever  grateful  to  you  for  your 
services  towards  this  end." 

He  was  about  to  walk  away  when  a  thought 
seemed  to  strike  him. 

"  You  will  add  to  my  debt  to  you  if  you  allow 
this  matter  to  go  no  further  than  ourselves.  You 
can  understand  that  I  have  no  particular  wish  to 
place  myself  at  the  mercy  of  Dr.  Johnson  or  Gar- 
rick,"  said  he.  "  I  fancy  I  can  see  Garrick's  mimicry 
of  a  meeting  between  me  and  a  fencing-master." 

"I  shall  keep  it  a  secret,"  laughed  Baretti;  "but 
mind,  Sir,  when  you  run  your  first  man  through 
the  vitals  you  need  not  ask  me  to  attend  the  Court 
as  a  witness  to  your  pacific  character." 

(When  the  two  did  appear  in  Court  it  was  Gold- 
smith that  had  been  called  as  a  witness  on  behalf 
of  Baretti,  who  stood  in  the  dock  charged  with  the 
murder  of  a  man.) 

He  felt  very  much  better  after  leaving  Baretti. 
He  felt  that  he  had  taken  at  least  one  step  on  behalf 


154  'Gbe  Jessamp  Bribe* 

of  Mary  Horneck.  He  knew  his  own  nature 
imperfectly  as  to  fancy  that  if  he  were  to  engage  in 
a  duel  with  Captain  Jackson  and  disarm  him  he  would 
not  hesitate  to  run  him  through  a  vital  part. 

He  returned  to  his  chambers  and  found  awaiting 
him  a  number  of  papers  containing  some  flattering 
notices  of  his  comedy,  and  lampoons  upon  Colman 
for  his  persistent  ill-treatment  of  the  play.  In  fact, 
the  topic  of  the  town  was  Colman's  want  of  judgment 
in  regard  to  this  matter,  and  so  strongly  did  the 
critics  and  the  lampooners,  malicious  as  well  as 
genial,  express  themselves,  that  the  manager  found 
life  in  London  unbearable.  He  posted  off  to  Bath, 
but  only  to  find  that  his  tormentors  had  taken  good 
care  that  his  reputation  should  precede  him  thither. 
His  chastisement  with  whips  in  London  was  mild 
in  comparison  with  his  chastisement  with  scorpions  at 
Bath;  and  now  Goldsmith  found  waiting  for  him  a 
letter  from  the  unfortunate  man  imploring  the  poet 
to  intercede  for  him,  and  get  the  lampooners  to  refrain 
from  molesting  him  further. 

If  Goldsmith  had  been  in  a  mood  to  appreciate 
a  triumph  he  would  have  enjoyed  reading  this  letter 
from  the  man  who  had  given  him  so  many  months 
of  pain.  He  was  not,  however,  in  such  a  mood. 
He  looked  for  his  triumph  in  another  direction. 

After  dressing  he  went  to  the  Mitre  for  dinner, 
and  found  in  the  tavern  several  of  his  friends. 
Cradock  had  run  up  from  the  country,  and  with 
him  was  Whitefoord  and  Richard  Burke. 

He    was   rather   chilled   at   his  reception   by  the 


Sessams  3Br.toe.  155 

party.  They  were  all  clearly  ill  at  ease  in  his 
presence  for  some  reason  of  which  he  was  unaware ; 
and  when  he  began  to  talk  of  the  criticisms  which 
his  play  had  received,  the  uneasiness  of  his  friends 
became  more  apparent. 

He  could  stand  this  unaccountable  behaviour  no 
longer,  and  inquired  what  was  the  reason  of  their 
treating  him  so  coldly. 

"  You  were  talking  about  me  just  before  I  entered," 
said  he :  "  I  always  know  on  entering  a  room  if  my 
friends  have  been  talking  about  me.  Now,  may  I 
ask  what  this  admirable  party  were  saying  regarding 
me?  Tell  it  to  me  in  your  own  way.  I  don't 
charge  you  to  be  frank  with  me.  Frankness  I  hold  to 
be  an  excellent  cloak  for  one's  real  opinion.  Tell 
me  all  that  you  can  tell — as  simply  as  you  can — 
without  prejudice  to  your  own  reputation  for  oratory, 
Richard.  What  is  the  matter,  Sir?" 

Richard  Burke  usually  was  the  merriest  of  the 
company,  and  the  most  fluent.  But  now  he  looked 
down,  and  the  tone  was  far  from  persuasive  in 
which  he  said — 

"  You  may  trust  that — whatever  may  be  spoken,  or 
written,  about  you,  Goldsmith — we  are  your  unalter- 
able friends." 

"Psha,  Sir!"  cried  Goldsmith,  "don't  I  know 
that  already?  Were  you  not  all  my  friends  in  my 
day  of  adversity,  and  do  you  expect  me  suddenly 
to  overthrow  all  my  ideas  of  friendship  by  assuming 
that  now  that  I  have  bettered  my  position  in  the 
world  my  friends  will  be  less  friendly  ?  " 


156  ftbe  Jessams 

"  Goldsmith, "  said  Steevens,  "  we  received  a  copy 
of  the  London  Packet  half  an  hour  before  you 
entered.  We  were  discussing  the  most  infamous 
attack  that  has  ever  been  made  upon  a  distinguished 
man  of  letters  which  it  contains." 

"  At  the  risk  of  being  thought  a  conceited  puppy, 
Sir,  I  suppose  I  may  assume  that  the  distinguished 
man  of  letters  which  the  article  refers  to  is  none 
other  than  myself,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"It  is  a  foul  and  scurrilous  slander  upon  you, 
Sir,"  said  Steevens.  "  It  is  the  most  contemptible 
thing  ever  penned  by  that  scoundrel  Kenrick." 

"  Do  not  annoy  yourselves  on  my  account,  gen- 
tlemen, "  said  Goldsmith.  "  You  know  how  little  I 
think  of  anything  that  Kenrick  may  write  of  me. 
Once  I  made  him  eat  his  words,  and  the  fit  of 
indigestion  that  operation  caused  him  is  still  manifest 
in  all  he  writes  about  me.  I  tell  you  that  it  is  out 
of  the  power  of  that  cur  to  cause  me  any  inconve- 
nience. Where  is  the  Packet?  " 

"  There  is  no  gain  in  reading  such  contemptible 
stuff, "  said  Cradock.  "  Take  my  advice,  Goldsmith, 
do  not  seek  to  become  aware  of  the  precise  nature 
of  that  scoundrel's  slanders." 

"  Nay,  to  shirk  them  would  be  to  suggest  that 
they  have  the  power  to  sting  me,"  replied  Gold- 
smith. "  And  so,  Sir,  let  me  have  the  Packet^  and 
you  shall  see  me  read  the  article  without  blenching. 
I  tell  you,  Mr.  Cradock,  no  man  of  letters  is  deserv- 
ing of  an  eulogy  who  is  scared  by  a  detraction." 

u  Nay,     Goldsmith,    but    one    does    not    examine 


Jessams  Buifce.  157 

under  a  magnifying  glass  the  garbage  that  a  creature 
of  the  kennel  flings  at  one,"  said  Steevens. 

*  Come,  Sirs,  I  insist, "  cried  Goldsmith.  "  Why 
do  I  waste  time  with  you?"  he  added,  turning 
round  and  going  to  the  door  of  the  room.  "  I  waste 
time  here  when  I  can  read  the  Packet  in  the  bar." 

"  Hold,  Sir,"  said  Burke.  "  Here  is  the  thing.  If 
you  will  read  it,  you  would  do  well  to  read  it  where 
you  will  find  a  dozen  hands  stretched  forth  to  you 
in  affection  and  sympathy.  Oliver  Goldsmith,  this 
is  the  paper  and  here  are  our  hands.  We  look  on 
you  as  the  greatest  of  English  writers — the  truest 
of  English  poets — the  best  of  Englishmen." 

"  You  overwhelm  me,  Sir.  After  this,  what  does 
it  matter  if  Kenrick  flings  himself  upon  me?" 

He  took  the  Packet.  It  opened  automatically 
where  an  imaginary  letter  to  himself  signed  "Tom 
Tickle,"  appeared. 

He  held  it  up  to  the  light;  a  smile  was  at  first 
on  his  features ;  he  had  nerved  himself  to  the  ordeal. 
His  friends  would  not  find  that  he  shrank  from  it 
— he  even  smiled,  after  a  manner,  as  he  read  the 
thing;  but  suddenly  his  jaw  fell,  his  face  became 
pale.  In  another  second  he  had  crushed  the  paper 
between  his  hands.  He  crushed  it  and  tore  it,  and 
then  flung  it  on  the  floor  and  trampled  on  it.  He 
walked  to  and  fro  in  the  room  with  bent  head. 
Then  he  did  a  strange  thing:  he  removed  his  sword 
and  placed  it  in  a  corner,  as  if  he  were  going  to 
dine,  and,  without  a  word  to  any  of  his  friends,  left 
the  room,  carrying  with  him  his  cane  only. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

KENRICK'S  article  in  the  London  Packet  remains 
to  this  day  as  the  vilest  example  of  scurrility  pub- 
lished under  the  form  of  criticism.  All  the  venom 
that  can  be  engendered  by  envy  and  malice  appears 
in  every  line  of  it.  It  contains  no  suggestion  of 
literary  criticism;  it  contains  no  clever  phrase.  It 
is  the  shriek  of  a  vulgar  wretch  dominated  by  the 
demon  of  jealousy.  The  note  of  the  Gadarene  herd 
.sounds  through  it,  strident  and  strenuous.  It  exists 
as  the  worst  outcome  of  the  period  when  every 
garret  scribbler  emulated  "  Junius, "  both  as  regards 
style  and  method,  but  only  succeeded  in  producing 
the  shriek  of  a  wild-cat,  instead  of  the  thunder  of 
the  unknown  master  of  vituperation. 

Goldsmith  read  the  first  part  of  the  scurrility  with- 
out feeling  hurt;  but  when  he  came  to  that  vile 
passage — "  For  hours  the  great  Goldsmith  will  stand 
arranging  his  grotesque  orang-outang  figure  in  a 

pier-glass.     Was    but   the  lovely  H k  as  much 

enamoured,  you  would  not  sigh,  my  gentle  swain" 
— his  hands  tore  the  paper  in  fury. 

He  had  received  abuse  in  the  past  without  being 
affected  by  it.  He  did  not  know  much  about  natural 

158 


Jessams  Bribe*  159 

history,  but  he  knew  enough  to  make  him  aware 
of  the  fact  that  the  skunk  tribe  cannot  change  their 
nature.  He  did  not  mind  any  attack  that  might  be 
made  upon  himself,  but  to  have  the  name  that  he 
most  cherished  of  all  names  associated  with  his  in 
an  insult  that  seemed  to  him  diabolical  in  the  man- 
ner of  its  delivery,  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 
He  felt  as  if  a  foul  creature  had  crept  behind  him 
and  had  struck  from  thence  the  one  who  had  been 
kindest  to  him  of  all  the  people  in  the  world. 

There  was  the  horrible  thing  printed  for  all  eyes 
in  the  town  to  read.  There  was  the  thing  that  had 
in  a  moment  raised  a  barrier  between  him  and  the 
girl  who  was  all  in  all  to  him.  How  could  he  look 
Mary  Horneck  in  the  face  again?  How  could  he 
ever  meet  any  member  of  the  family  to  whom  he 
had  been  the  means  of  causing  so  much  pain  as 
the  Hornecks  would  undoubtedly  feel  when  they 
read  that  vile  thing?  He  felt  that  he  himself  was 
to  blame  for  the  appearance  of  that  insult  upon  the 
girl.  He  felt  that  if  the  attack  had  not  been  made 
upon  him  she  would  certainly  have  escaped.  Yes, 
that  blow  had  been  struck  by  a  hand  that  stretched 
over  him  to  her. 

His  first  impulse  had  sent  his  hand  to  his  sword. 
He  had  shown  himself  upon  several  occasions  to 
be  a  brave  man ;  but  instead  of  drawing  his  sword 
he  had  taken  it  off  and  had  placed  it  out  of  the 
reach  of  his  hands. 

And  this  was  the  man  who,  a  few  hours  earlier 
in  the  day,  had  been  assuming  that  if  a  certain  man 


160  Ube  Jessam    Bribe* 


were  in  his  power  he  would  not  shrink  from  running 
him  through  the  body  with  his  sword. 

On  leaving  the  Mitre  he  did  not  seek  anyone 
with  whom  he  might  take  counsel  as  to  what  course 
it  would  be  wise  for  him  to  pursue.  He  knew  that 
he  had  adopted  a  wise  course  when  he  had  placed 
his  sword  in  a  corner;  he  felt  he  did  not  require 
any  further  counsel.  His  mind  was  made  up  as  to 
what  he  should  do,  and  all  that  he  now  feared  was 
that  some  circumstance  might  prevent  his  realising 
his  intention. 

He  grasped  his  cane  firmly,  and  walked  excitedly 
to  the  shop  of  Evans,  the  publisher  of  the  London 
Packet.  He  arrived  almost  breathless  at  the  place  — 
it  was  in  Little  Queen  Street  —  and  entered  the  shop 
demanding  to  see  Kenrick,  who,  he  knew,  was 
employed  on  the  premises.  Evans,  the  publisher, 
being  in  a  room  the  door  of  which  was  open,  and 
hearing  a  stranger's  voice  speaking  in  a  high  tone, 
came  out  to  the  shop.  Goldsmith  met  him,  asking 
to  see  Kenrick;  and  Evans  denied  that  he  was  in 
the  house. 

"  I  require  you  to  tell  me  if  Kenrick  is  the  writer 
of  that  article  upon  me  which  appeared  in  the 
Packet  of  to-day.  My  name  is  Goldsmith!  w  said 
the  visitor. 

The  shopkeeper  smiled. 

"  Does  anything  appear  about  you  in  the  Packet, 
Sir?  "  he  said,  over-emphasising  the  tone  of  complete 
ignorance  and  inquiry. 

"You   are   the   publisher   of  the  foul  thing,  you, 


Ube  SessantE  Bribe*  161 

rascal !  "  cried  Goldsmith,  stung  by  the  supercilious 
smile  of  the  man ;  u  you  are  the  publisher  of  this 
gross  outrage  upon  an  innocent  lady,  and,  as  the 
ruffian  who  wrote  it  struck  at  her  through  me,  so 
I  strike  at  him  through  you." 

He  rushed  at  the  man,  seized  him  by  the  throat, 
and  struck  at  him  with  his  cane.  The  bookseller 
shouted  for  help  while  he  struggled  with  his  oppo- 
nent, and  Kenrick  himself,  who  had  been  within  the 
shelter  of  a  small  wooden  partitioned  office  from 
the  moment  of  Goldsmith's  entrance,  and  had,  con- 
sequently, overheard  every  word  of  the  recrimination 
and  all  the  noise  of  the  scuffle  that  followed,  ran 
to  the  help  of  his  paymaster.  It  was  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  his  cowardly  nature  to  hold  back  from  the 
cane  of  Evans's  assailant.  He  did  so,  and,  looking 
round  for  a  missile  to  fling  at  Goldsmith,  he  caught 
up  a  heavy  lamp  that  stood  on  a  table  and  hurled 
it  at  his  enemy's  head.  Missing  this  mark,  however, 
it  struck  Evans  on  the  chest  and  knocked  him  down. 
Goldsmith  falling  over  him.  This  Kenrick  perceived 
to  be  his  chance.  He  lifted  one  of  the  small  shop- 
chairs  and  rushed  forward  to  brain  the  man  whom 
he  had  libelled;  but,  before  he  could  carry  out  his 
purpose,  a  man  ran  into  the  shop  from  the  street, 
and,  flinging  him  and  the  chair  into  a  corner,  caught 
Goldsmith,  who  had  risen,  by  the  shoulder  and  hurried 
him  into  a  hackney-coach,  which  drove  away. 

The  man  was  Captain  Higgins.  When  Goldsmith 
had  failed  to  return  to  the  room  in  the  Mitre  where 
he  had  left  his  sword,  his  friends  became  uneasy 

ii 


1 62  Ube  Jessams  Bribe* 

regarding  him,  and  Higgins,  suspecting  his  purpose 
in  leaving  the  tavern,  had  hastened  to  Evans's, 
hoping  to  be  in  time  to  prevent  the  assault  which  he 
felt  certain  Goldsmith  intended  to  commit  upon  the 
person  of  Kenrick. 

He  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Temple 
and  took  advantage  of  the  occasion  to  lecture  the 
excited  man  upon  the  impropriety  of  his  conduct. 
A  lecture  on  the  disgrace  attached  to  a  public  fight, 
when  delivered  in  a  broad  Irish  brogue,  can  rarely 
be  effective,  and  Captain  Higgins's  counsel  of  peace 
only  called  for  Goldsmith's  ridicule. 

"Don't  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  have  done  or 
what  I  ought  to  have  abstained  from  doing,"  cried 
the  still  breathless  man.  "  I  did  what  my  manhood 
prompted  me  to  do,  and  that  is  just  what  you  would 
have  done  yourself,  my  friend.  God  knows  I  didn't 
mean  to  harm  Evans — it  was  that  reptile  Kenrick 
whom  I  meant  to  flail;  but  when  Evans  undertook 
to  shelter  him,  what  was  left  to  me,  I  ask  you, 
Sir?" 

"You  were  a  fool,  Oliver,"  said  his  countryman ; 
"you  made  a  great  mistake.  Can't  you  see  that 
you  should  never  go  about  such  things  single-handed? 
You  should  have  brought  with  you  a  full-sized 
friend  who  would  not  hesitate  to  use  his  fists  in  the 
interests  of  fair  play.  Why  the  devil,  Sir,  didn't 
you  give  me  a  hint  of  what  was  on  your  mind  when 
you  left  the  tavern?  " 

"  Because  I  didn't  know  myself  what  was  on  my 
mind,"  replied  Goldsmith.  "  And,  besides,"  he  added, 


3essam£  Bribe,  163 

"  I'm  not  the  man  to  carry  bruisers  about  with  me  to 
engage  in  my  quarrels.  I  don't  regret  what  I  have 
done  to-day.  I  have  taught  the  reptiles  a  lesson, 
even  though  I  have  to  pay  for  it.  Kenrick  won't 
attack  me  again  so  long  as  I  am  alive." 

He  was  right.  It  was  when  he  was  lying  in  his 
coffin,  yet  unburied,  that  Kenrick  made  his  next 
attack  upon  him  in  that  scurrility  of  phrase  of  which 
he  was  a  master. 

When  this  curious  exponent  of  the  advantages  of 
peace  had  left  him  at  Brick  Court,  and  his  few 
incidental  bruises  were  attended  to  by  John  Eyles, 
poor  Oliver's  despondency  returned  to  him.  He  did 
not  feel  very  like  one  who  has  got  the  better  of 
another  in  a  quarrel,  though  he  knew  that  he  had 
done  all  that  he  said  he  had  done :  he  had  taught 
his  enemies  a  lesson. 

But  then  he  began  to  think  about  Mary  Horneck, 
who  had  been  so  grossly  insulted  simply  because 
of  her  kindness  to  him.  He  felt  that  if  she  had 
been  less  gracious  to  him — if  she  had  treated  him 
as  Mrs.  Thrale,  for  example,  had  been  accustomed 
to  treat  him — regarding  him  and  his  defects  merely 
as  excuses  for  displaying  her  own  wit,  she  would 
have  escaped  all  mention  by  Kenrick.  Yes,  he  still 
felt  that  he  was  the  cause  of  her  being  insulted, 
and  he  would  never  forgive  himself  for  it. 

But  what  did  it  matter  whether  he  forgave  himself 
or  not?  It  was  the  forgiveness  of  Mary  Horneck 
and  her  friends  that  he  had  good  reason  to  think 
about. 


i 64  Ube  Jessams 

The  longer  he  considered  this  point  the  more 
convinced  he  became  that  he  had  forfeited  for  ever 
the  friendship  which  he  had  enjoyed  for  several 
years,  and  which  had  been  a  dear  consolation  to 
him  in  his  hours  of  despondency.  A  barrier  had 
been  raised  between  himself  and  the  Hornecks  that 
could  not  be  surmounted. 

He  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  wrote  a  letter  to 
Mary,  asking  her  forgiveness  for  the  insult  for  which 
he  said  he  felt  himself  to  be  responsible.  He  could 
not,  he  added,  expect  that  in  the  future  it  would 
be  allowed  to  him  to  remain  on  the  same  terms  of 
intimacy  with  her  and  her  family  as  had  been  per- 
mitted to  him  in  the  past. 

Suddenly  he  recollected  the  unknown  trouble 
which  had  been  upon  the  girl  when  he  had  last 
seen  her.  She  was  not  yet  free  from  that  secret 
sorrow  which  he  had  hoped  it  might  be  in  his  power 
to  dispel.  He  and  he  only  had  seen  Captain 
Jackson  speaking  to  her  in  the  Green  Room  at 
Co  vent  Garden,  and  he  only  had  good  reason  to 
believe  that  her  sorrow  had  originated  with  that 
man.  In  these  circumstances  he  asked  himself 
if  he  was  justified  in  leaving  her  to  fight  her  battle 
alone.  She  had  not  asked  him  to  be  her  cham- 
pion, and  he  felt  that  if  she  had  done  so,  it  was  a 
very  poor  champion  that  he  would  have  made;  but 
still  he  knew  more  of  her  grief  than  anyone  else, 
and  he  believed  he  might  be  able  to  help  her. 

He  tore  up  the  letter  which  he  had  written 
to  her. 


Tlbe  Jessams  Bribe.  165 

"  I  will  not  leave  her, "  he  cried.  "  Whatevei 
may  happen — whatever  blame  people  who  do  not 
understand  may  say  I  have  earned,  I  will  not  leave 
her  until  she  has  been  freed  from  whatever  distress 
she  is  in." 

He  had  scarcely  seated  himself  when  his  servant 
announced  Captain  Horneck. 

For  an  instant  Goldsmith  was  in  trepidation.  Mary 
Horneck's  brother  had  no  reason  to  visit  him  ex- 
cept as  he  himself  had  visited  Evans  and  Kenrick. 
But  with  the  sound  of  Captain  Horneck's  voice  his 
trepidation  passed  away. 

"  Ha,  my  little  hero !  "  Horneck  cried  before  he 
had  quite  crossed  the  threshold.  "  What  is  this  that 
is  the  talk  of  the  town?  Good  Lord!  what  are 
things  coming  to  when  the  men  of  letters  have  taken 
to  beating  the  booksellers  ?  " 

"  You  have  heard  of  it  ?  "  said  Oliver.  "  You  have 
heard  of  the  quarrel,  but  you  cannot  have  heard  of 
the  reason  for  it !  " 

"What,  there  is  something  behind  the  London 
Packet  after  all  ?  "  cried  Captain  Horneck. 

"  Something  behind  it — something  behind  that 
slander — the  mention  of  your  sister's  name,  Sir? 
What  should  be  behind  it,  Sir?" 

u  My  dear  old  Nolly,  do  you  fancy  that  the  friend- 
ship which  exists  between  my  family  and  you  is 
too  weak  to  withstand  such  a  strain  as  this — a  strain 
put  upon  it  by  a  vulgar  scoundrel,  whose  malice  so 
far  as  you  are  concerned  is  as  well  known  as  his 
envy  of  your  success  ?  " 


1 66  tlbe  Sessams 

Goldsmith  stared  at  him  for  some  moments  and 
then  at  the  hand  which  he  was  holding  out.  He 
seemed  to  be  making  an  effort  to  speak,  but  the 
words  never  came.  Suddenly  he  caught  Captain 
Horneck's  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  held  it  for 
a  moment;  but  then,  quite  overcome,  he  dropped 
it  and  burying  his  face  in  his  hands  he  burst 
into  tears. 

Horneck  watched  him  for  some  time,  and  was 
himself  almost  equally  affected. 

"  Come,  come,  old  friend,"  he  said  at  last,  placing 
his  hand  affectionately  on  Goldsmith's  shoulder. 
"Come,  come;  this  will  not  do.  There  is  nothing 
to  be  so  concerned  about.  What,  man!  are  you  so 
little  aware  of  your  own  position  in  the  world  as  to 
fancy  that  the  Horneck  family  regard  your  friendship 
for  them  as  otherwise  than  an  honour?  Good  heavens  I 
Dr.  Goldsmith,  don't  you  perceive  that  we  are 
making  a  bold  bid  for  immortality  through  our  names 
being  associated  with  yours?  Who  in  a  hundred 
years — in  fifty  years — would  know  anything  of  the 
Horneck  family  if  it  were  not  for  their  association 
with  you?  The  name  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  will 
live  so  long  as  there  is  life  in  English  letters,  and 
when  your  name  is  spoken  the  name  of  your  friends 
the  Hornecks  will  not  be  forgotten." 

He  tried  to  comfort  his  unhappy  friend ;  but  though 
he  remained  at  his  chambers  for  half  an  hour,  he 
got  no  word  from  Oliver  Goldsmith. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  next  day  the  news  of  the  prompt  and  vigorous 
action  taken  by  Goldsmith  in  respect  of  the  scurrility 
of  Kenrick  had  spread  round  the  literary  circle  of 
which  Johnson  was  the  centre,  and  the  general 
feeling  was  one  of  regret  that  Kenrick  had  not 
received  the  beating  instead  of  Evans.  Naturally, 
Johnson,  who  had  threatened  two  writers  with  an  oak 
stick,  shook  his  head — and  his  body  as  well — in 
grave  disapproval  of  Goldsmith's  use  of  his  cane; 
but  Reynolds,  Garrick,  and  the  two  Burkes  were 
of  the  opinion  that  a  cane  had  never  been  more 
appropriately  used. 

What  Colman's  attitude  was  in  regard  to  the  man 
who  had  put  thousands  of  pounds  into  his  pocket 
may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that,  shortly  after- 
wards, he  accepted  and  produced  a  play  of  Kenrick's 
at  his  theatre,  which  was  more  decisively  damned 
than  any  play  ever  produced  under  Colman's  man- 
agement. 

Of  course,  the  act  of  an  author  in  resenting  the 
scurrility  of  a  man  who  had  delivered  his  stab  under 
the  cloak  of  criticism,  called  for  a  howl  of  indignation 

from  the  scores  of  hacks  who  existed  at  that  period 

167 


1 68  "Cbe  5essams 

— some  in  the  pay  of  the  Government,  others  in  that 
of  the  Opposition — solely  by  stabbing  men  of  repu- 
tation; for  the  literary  cut-throat,  in  the  person  of 
the  professional  libeller-critic,  and  the  literary  cut- 
purse,  in  the  form  of  the  professional  blackmailer, 
followed  as  well  as  preceded  Junius. 

The  howl  went  up  that  the  liberty  of  the  Press 
was  in  danger,  and  the  public,  who  took  then,  as 
they  do  now,  but  the  most  languid  interest  in  the 
quarrels  of  literature,  were  forced  to  become  the 
unwilling  audience.  When,  however,  Goldsmith 
published  his  letter  in  the  Daily  Advertiser — surely 
the  manliest  manifesto  ever  printed — the  howls  be- 
came attenuated,  and  shortly  afterwards  died  away. 
It  was  admitted,  even  by  Dr.  Johnson — and  so 
emphatically,  too,  that  his  biographer  could  not  avoid 
recording  his  judgment — that  Goldsmith  had  increased 
his  reputation  by  the  incident. 

(Boswell  paid  Goldsmith  the  highest  compliment 
in  his  power  on  account  of  this  letter,  for  he  fancied 
that  it  had  been  written  by  Johnson,  thereby  receiving 
another  rebuke  from  the  latter  to  gloat  over.) 

For  some  days  Goldsmith  had  many  visitors  at 
his  chambers,  including  Baretti,  who  remarked  that 
he  took  it  for  granted  that  he  need  not  now  search 
for  the  fencing-master,  as  his  quarrel  was  over. 
Goldsmith  allowed  him  to  go  away  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  had  foreseen  the  quarrel  when  he 
had  consulted  him  regarding  the  fencing-master. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  week,  when  Evans  had  been 
conciliated  by  the  friends  of  his  assailant,  Goldsmith, 


Bribe.  169 

on  returning  to  his  chambers  one  afternoon,  found 
Johnson  gravely  awaiting  his  arrival.  His  hearty 
welcome  was  not  responded  to  quite  so  heartily  by 
his  visitor. 

"Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  Johnson,  after  he  had  made 
some  of  those  grotesque  movements  with  which  his 
judicial  utterances  were  invariably  accompanied — "Dr. 
Goldsmith,  we  have  been  friends  for  a  good  many 
years,  Sir." 

"That  fact  constitutes  one  of  my  pleasantest 
reflections,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith.  He  spoke  with 
some  measure  of  hesitancy,  for  he  had  a  feeling 
that  his  friend  had  come  to  him  with  a  reproof. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  expected  him  to  come 
rather  sooner. 

"  If  our  friendship  were  not  such  as  it  is,  I  would 
not  have  come  to  you  to-day,  Sir,  to  tell  you  that 
you  have  been  a  fool,"  said  Johnson. 

"Yes,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith;  "you  were  right  in 
assuming  that  you  could  say  nothing  to  me  that 
would  offend  me;  I  know  that  I  have  been  a  fool 
—at  many  times — in  many  ways." 

"  I  suspected  that  you  were  a  fool  before  I  set 
out  to  come  hither,  Sir,  and  since  I  entered  this 
room  I  have  convinced  myself  of  the  accuracy  of 
my  suspicion." 

"  If  a  man  suspects  that  I  am  a  fool  before  seeing 
me,  Sir,  what  will  he  do  after  having  seen  me?" 
said  Goldsmith. 

"Dr.  Goldsmith,"  resumed  Johnson,  "it  was, 
believe  me,  Sir,  a  great  pain  to  me  to  find,  as  I 


170  Ube  Jessams  Bribe. 

did  in  this  room — on  that  desk — such  evidence  of 
your  folly  as  left  no  doubt  on  my  mind  in  this 
matter." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sir?  My  folly — evidence 
— on  that  desk?  Ah,  I  know  now  what  you  mean. 
Yes,  poor  Filby's  bill  for  my  last  coats  and  I 
suppose  for  a  few  others  that  have  long  ago  been 
worn  threadbare.  Alas,  Sir,  who  could  resist  Filby's 
flatteries?" 

"Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "you  gave  me  permission 
several  years  ago  to  read  any  manuscript  of  yours 
in  prose  or  verse  at  which  you  were  engaged." 

"And  the  result  of  your  so  honouring  me,  Dr. 
Johnson,  has  invariably  been  advantageous  to  my 
work.  What,  Sir,  have  I  ever  failed  in  respect  for 
your  criticisms?  Have  I  ever  failed  to  make  a 
change  that  you  suggested  ?  " 

"It  was  in  consideration  of  that  permission,  Dr. 
Goldsmith,  that  while  waiting  for  you  here  to-day, 
I  read  several  pages  in  your  handwriting,"  said 
Johnson  sternly. 

Goldsmith  glanced  at  his  desk. 

"  I  forget  now  what  work  was  last  under  my 
hand,"  said  he;  "but  whatever  it  was,  Sir 

"I  have  it  here,  Sir,"  said  Johnson,  and  Goldsmith 
for  the  first  time  noticed  that  he  held  in  one  of 
his  hands  a  roll  of  manuscript.  Johnson  laid  it 
solemnly  on  the  table,  and  in  a  moment  Goldsmith 
perceived  that  it  consisted  of  a  number  of  the  poems 
which  he  had  written  to  the  Jessamy  Bride,  but 
which  he  had  not  dared  to  send  to  her.  He  had 


Tlbe  Jessamp  Bribe*  171 

had  them  before  him  on  the  desk  that  day  while 
he  asked  himself  what  would  be  the  result  of  sending 
them  to  her. 

He  was  considerably  disturbed  when  he  discovered 
what  it  was  that  his  friend  had  been  reading  in  his 
absence,  and  his  attempt  to  treat  the  matter  lightly 
only  made  his  confusion  appear  the  greater. 

"Oh,  those  verses,  Sir,"  he  stammered;  "they  are 
poor  things.  You  will,  I  fear,  find  them  too  obvi- 
ously defective  to  merit  criticism;  they  resemble 
my  oldest  coat,  Sir,  which  I  designed  to  have 
repaired  for  my  man,  but  Filby  returned  it  with  the 
remark  that  it  was  not  worth  the  cost  of  repairing. 
If  you  were  to  become  a  critic  of  those  trifles n 

"  They  are  trifles,  Goldsmith,  for  they  represent 
the  trifling  of  a  man  of  determination  with  his  own 
future — with  his  own  happiness  and  the  happiness 
of  others." 

"I  protest,  Sir,  I  scarcely  understand " 

"  Your  confusion,  Sir,  shows  that  you  do  under- 
stand." 

"Nay,  Sir,  you  do  not  suppose  that  the  lines 
which  a  poet  writes  in  the  character  of  a  lover 
should  be  accepted  as  damning  evidence  that  his 
own  heart  speaks." 

"  Goldsmith,  I  am  not  the  man  to  be  deceived  by 
any  literary  work  that  may  come  under  my  notice. 
I  have  read  those  verses  of  yours :  Sir,  your  heart 
throbs  in  every  line." 

"Nay,  Sir,  you  would  make  me  believe  that  my 
poor  attempts  to  realise  the  feelings  of  one  who 


172  Ube  5essam£ 

has  experienced  the  tender  passion  are  more  happy 
than  I  fancied." 

"  Sir,  this  dissimulation  is  unworthy  of  you. 

"  Sir,  I  protest  that  I — that  is No,  I  shall  protest 

nothing.  You  have  spoken  the  truth,  Sir;  any 
dissimulation  is  unworthy  of  me.  I  wrote  those 
verses  out  of  my  own  heart — God  knows  if  they 
are  the  first  that  came  from  my  heart — I  own  it. 
Why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  own  it?" 

"  My  poor  friend,  you  have  been  Fortune's 
plaything  all  your  life ;  but  I  did  not  think  that  she 
was  reserving  such  a  blow  as  this  for  you." 

"A  blow,  Sir?  Nay,  I  cannot  regard  as  a  blow 
that  which  has  been  the  sweetest — the  only  consolation 
of  a  life  that  has  known  but  few  consolations." 

u  Sir,  this  will  not  do.  A  man  has  the  right  to 
make  himself  as  miserable  as  he  pleases,  but  he  has 
no  right  to  make  others  miserable.  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
you  have  ill-repaid  the  friendship  which  Miss  Horneck 
and  her  family  have  extended  to  you." 

"I  have  done  nothing  for  which  my  conscience 
reproaches  me,  Dr.  Johnson.  What,  Sir,  if  I  have 
ventured  to  love  that  lady  whose  name  had  better 
remain  unspoken  by  either  of  us — what  if  I  do  love 
her?  Where  is  the  indignity  that  I  do  either  to 
her  or  to  the  sentiment  of  friendship  ?  Does  one 
offer  an  indignity  to  friendship  by  loving  ?  " 

"  My  poor  friend,  you  are  laying  up  a  future  of 
misery  for  yourself — yes,  and  for  her  too;  for  she 
has  a  kind  heart,  and  if  she  should  come  to  know 
— and,  indeed,  I  think  she  must — that  she  has  been 


173 

the  cause,  even  though  the  unwilling  cause,  of  suffering 
on  the  part  of  another,  she  will  not  be  free  from 
unhappiness." 

"She  need  not  know,  she  need  not  know.  I 
have  been  a  bearer  of  burdens  all  my  life.  I  will 
assume  without  repining  this  new  burden." 

"Nay,  Sir,  if  I  know  your  character — and  I  be- 
lieve I  have  known  it  for  some  years — you  will 
cast  that  burden  away  from  you.  Life,  my  dear 
friend,  you  and  I  have  found  to  be  not  a  meadow 
wherein  to  sport,  but  a  battle-field.  We  have  been 
in  the  stuggle,  you  and  I,  and  we  have  not  come 
out  of  it  unscathed.  Come,  Sir,  face  boldly  this 
new  enemy,  and  put  it  to  flight  before  it  prove 
your  ruin." 

"Enemy,  you  call  it,  Sir?  You  call  that  which 
gives  everything  there  is  of  beauty — everything 
there  is  of  sweetness — to  the  life  of  man — you  call 
it  our  enemy  ?  " 

"I  call  it  your  enemy,  Goldsmith." 

"  Why  mine  only?  What  is  there  about  me  that 
makes  me  different  from  other  men?  Why  should 
a  poet  be  looked  upon  as  one  who  is  shut  out  for 
evermore  from  all  the  tenderness,  all  the  grace  of 
life,  when  he  has  proved  to  the  world  that  he  is 
the  most  capable  of  all  mankind  of  appreciating 
tenderness  and  grace?  What  trick  of  Nature  is 
this?  What  paradox  for  men  to  vex  their  souls 
over?  Is  the  poet  to  stand  aloof  from  men,  ever- 
more looking  on  happiness  through  another  man's 
eyes?  If  you  answer  'yes,'  then  I  say  that  men 


174  ^be  3e6sam£ 

who  are  not  poets  should  go  down  on  their  knees 
and  thank  Heaven  that  they  are  not  poets.  Happy 
it  is  for  mankind  that  Heaven  has  laid  on  few  men 
the  curse  of  being  poets.  For  myself,  I  feel  that 
I  would  rather  be  a  man  for  an  hour  than  a  poet 
for  all  time." 

"  Come,  Sir,  let  us  not  waste  our  time  railing 
against  Heaven.  Let  us  look  at  this  matter  as  it 
stands  at  present.  You  have  been  unfortunate 
enough  to  conceive  a  passion  for  a  lady  whose 
family  could  never  be  brought  to  think  of  you  se- 
riously as  a  lover.  You  have  been  foolish  enough 
to  regard  their  kindness  to  you — their  acceptance 
of  you  as  a  friend — as  encouragement  in  your  mad 
aspirations. " 

"  You  have  no  right  to  speak  so  authoritatively, 
Sir." 

*  I  have  the  right  as  your  oldest  friend,  Goldsmith ; 
and  you  know  I  speak  only  what  is  true.  Does 
your  own  conscience — your  own  intelligence,  Sir, 
not  tell  you  that  the  lady's  family  would  regard 
her  acceptance  of  you  as  a  lover  in  the  light  of 
the  greatest  misfortune  possible  to  happen  to  her? 
Answer  me  that  question,  Sir  ?  " 

But  Goldsmith  made  no  attempt  to  speak.  He 
only  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  resting  his  elbows 
on  the  table  at  which  he  sat. 

"You  cannot  deny  what  you  know  to  be  a  fact, 
Sir, "  resumed  Johnson.  *  I  will  not  humiliate  you 
by  suggesting  that  the  young  lady  herself  would 
only  be  moved  to  laughter  were  you  to  make  sen- 


Jessams  Bribe.  175 

ous  advances  to  her;  but  I  ask  you  if  you  think 
her  family  would  not  regard  such  an  attitude  on 
your  side  as  ridiculous — nay,  worse — a  gross  affront  ?  " 

Still  Goldsmith  remained  silent,  and  after  a  short 
pause  his  visitor  resumed  his  discourse. 

"  The  question  that  remains  for  you  to  answer  is 
this,  Sir:  Are  you  desirous  of  humiliating  yourself 
in  the  eyes  of  your  best  friends,  and  of  forfeiting 
their  friendship  for  you,  by  persisting  in  your  in- 
fatuation ?  * 

Goldsmith  started  up. 

"  Say  no  more,  Sir;  for  God's  sake,  say  no  more," 
he  cried  almost  piteously.  "Am  I,  do  you  fancy, 
as  great  a  fool  as  Pope,  who  did  not  hesitate  to 
declare  himself  to  Lady  Mary?  Sir,  I  have  done 
nothing  that  the  most  honourable  of  men  would 
shrink  from  doing.  There  are  the  verses  which  I 
wrote — I  could  not  help  writing  them — but  she  does 
not  know  that  they  were  ever  written.  Dr.  John- 
son, she  shall  never  hear  it  from  me.  My  history, 
Sir,  shall  be  that  of  the  hopeless  lover — a  blank — 
a  blank." 

"  My  poor  friend,"  said  Johnson  after  a  pause — 
he  had  laid  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  his  friend 
as  he  seated  himself  once  more  at  the  table — a  My 
poor  friend,  Providence  puts  into  our  hands  many 
cups  which  are  bitter  to  the  taste,  but  cannot  be 
turned  away  from.  You  and  I  have  drunk  of  bitter 
cups  before  now,  and  perhaps  we  may  have  to  drink 
of  others  before  we  die.  To  be  a  man  is  to  suffer; 
to  be  a  poet  means  to  have  double  the  capacity  of 


176  Hbe  Sessams 

men  to  suffer.  You  have  shown  yourself  before 
now  worthy  of  the  admiration  of  all  good  men  by 
the  way  you  have  faced  life,  by  your  independence 
of  the  patronage  of  the  great.  You  dedicated  'The 
Traveller '  to  your  brother  and  your  last  comedy  to 
me.  You  did  not  hesitate  to  turn  away  from  your 
door  the  man  who  came  to  offer  you  money  for 
the  prostitution  of  the  talents  which  God  has  given 
you.  Dr.  Goldsmith,  you  have  my  respect — you 
have  the  respect  of  every  good  man.  I  came  to 
you  to-day  that  you  may  disappoint  those  of  your 
detractors  who  are  waiting  for  you  to  be  guilty  of 
an  act  that  would  give  them  an  opportunity  of 
pointing  a  finger  of  malice  at  you.  We  have  dis- 
appointed them,  Sir.  You  will  .not  do  anything  but 
that  which  will  reflect  honour  upon  yourself  and 
show  all  those  who  are  your  friends  that  their  friend- 
ship for  you  is  well  founded.  I  am  assured  that  I 
can  trust  you,  Sir." 

Goldsmith  took  the  hand  that  he  offered,  but  said 
no  word. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WHEN  his  visitor  had  gone  Goldsmith  seated  him- 
self in  his  chair  and  gave  way  to  the  bitter  reflec- 
tions of  the  hour.  He  knew  that  the  end  of  his 
dream  had  come.  The  straightforward  words  which 
Johnson  had  spoken  had  put  an  end  to  his  self- 
deception — to  his  hoping  against  his  better  judgment 
that  by  some  miracle  his  devotion  might  be  rewarded. 
If  any  man  was  calculated  to  be  a  disperser  of  vain 
dreams  that  man  was  Johnson.  In  the  very  brutality 
of  his  straightforwardness  there  was,  however,  a 
suspicion  of  kindliness  that  made  any  appeal  from 
his  judgment  hopeless.  There  was  no  timidity  in 
the  utterances  of  his  phrases  when  forcing  his  con- 
tentions upon  any  audience;  but  Goldsmith  knew 
that  he  only  spoke  strongly  because  he  felt  strongly. 
Times  without  number  he  had  said  to  himself 
precisely  what  Dr.  Johnson  had  said  to  him.  If 
Mary  Horneck  herself  ever  went  so  far  as  to  mistake 
the  sympathy  which  she  had  for  him  for  that  affec- 
tion which  alone  would  content  him,  how  could  he 
approach  her  family  ?  Her  sister  had  married  Bun- 
bury,  a  man  of  position  and  wealth,  with  a  country 
house  and  a  town  house — a  man  of  her  own  age, 

177  12 


1 78  Ube  3e0sam$ 


and  with  the  possibility  of  inheriting  his  father's 
baronetcy.  Her  brother  was  about  to  marry 
Lord  Albemarle's  daughter.  What  would  these 
people  say  if  he,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  were  to  present 
himself  as  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  Mary  Horneck  ? 

It  did  not  require  Dr.  Johnson  to  speak  such 
forcible  words  in  his  hearing  to  enable  him  to  per- 
ceive how  ridiculous  were  his  pretensions.  The 
tragedy  of  the  poet's  life  among  men  and  women 
eager  to  better  their  prospects  in  the  world  was 
fully  appreciated  by  him.  It  was  surely,  he  felt, 
the  most  cruel  of  all  the  cruelties  of  destiny  that 
the  men  who  make  music  of  the  passions  of  men— 
who  have  surrounded  the  passion  of  love  with  a 
glorifying  halo — should  be  doomed  to  spend  their 
lives  looking  on  at  the  success  of  ordinary  men  in 
their  loves  by  the  aid  of  the  music  which  the  poets 
have  created.  That  is  the  poet's  tragedy  of  life,  and 
Goldsmith  had  often  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
it,  feeling  himself  to  be  one  of  those  with  whom 
destiny  is  only  on  jesting  terms. 

Because  he  was  a  poet  he  could  not  love  any  less 
beautiful  creature  than  Mary  Horneck,  any  less 
gracious,  less  sweet,  less  pure,  and  yet  he  knew 
that  if  he  were  to  go  to  her  with  those  poems  in 
his  hand  which  he  only  of  all  living  men  could 
write,  telling  her  that  they  might  plead  his  cause, 
he  would  be  regarded — and  rightly,  too — as  both 
presumptuous  and  ridiculous. 

He  thought  of  the  loneliness  of  his  life.  Was  it 
the  lot  of  the  man  of  letters  to  remain  in  loneliness 


Ube  Jessams  Brifce*  179 

-while  the  people  around  him  were  taking  to  them- 
selves wives  and  begetting  sons  and  daughters? 
Had  he  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  the  laurel 
wreath?  Was  it  taken  for  granted  that  a  contem- 
plation of  its  shrivelling  leaves  would  more  than 
-compensate  the  poet  for  the  loss  of  home — the 
grateful  companionship  of  a  wife — the  babble  of 
children — all  that  his  fellow-men  associated  with  the 
gladness  and  glory  of  life? 

He  knew  that  he  had  reached  a  position  in  the 
•world  of  letters  that  was  surpassed  by  no  living 
man  in  England.  He  had  often  dreamed  of  reaching 
such  a  place,  and  to  reach  it  he  had  undergone 
privation — he  had  sacrificed  the  best  years  of  his 
life.  And  what  did  his  consciousness  of  having 
attained  his  end  bring  with  it?  It  brought  to  him 
the  snarl  of  envy,  the  howl  of  hatred,  the  mock  of 
malice.  The  air  was  full  of  these  sounds;  they 
dinned  in  his  ears  and  overcame  the  sounds  of  the 
approval  of  his  friends.  And  it  was  for  this  he  had 
sacrificed  so  much?  So  much?  Everything.  He 
had  sacrificed  his  life.  The  one  joy  that  had  consoled 
him  for  all  his  ills  during  the  past  few  years  had 
departed  from  him.  He  would  never  see  Mary 
Horneck  again.  To  see  her  again  would  only  be 
to  increase  the  burden  of  his  humiliation.  His 
resolution  was  formed  and  he  would  abide  by  it. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  picked  up  the  roll  of 
poems.  In  sign  of  his  resolution  he  would  burn 
them.  He  would,  with  them,  reduce  to  ashes  the 
one  consolation  of  his  life. 


i8o  zifoe  Sessams  Bribe* 

In  the  small  grate  the  remains  of  a  fire  were  still 
glowing.  He  knelt  down  and  blew  the  spark  into 
a  blaze.  He  was  about  to  thrust  the  manuscript 
into  it  between  the  bars  when  the  light  that  it  made 
fell  upon  one  of  the  lines.  He  had  not  the  heart 
to  burn  the  leaf  until  he  had  read  the  remaining 
lines  of  the  couplet;  and  when  at  last,  with  a  sigh, 
he  hastily  thrust  the  roll  of  papers  between  the  bars, 
the  little  blaze  had  fallen  again  to  a  mere  smoulder- 
ing spark.  Before  he  could  raise  it  by  a  breath  or 
two,  his  servant  entered  the  room.  He  started  to 
his  feet. 

"A  letter  for  you,  Sir,"  said  John  Eyles.  « It 
came  by  a  messenger  lad." 

"Fetch  a  candle,  John,"  said  Goldsmith,  taking 
the  letter.  It  was  too  dark  for  him  to  see  the  hand- 
writing, but  he  put  the  tip  of  his  finger  on  the  seal 
and  became  aware  that  it  was  Mary  Horneck's. 

By  the  light  of  the  candle  he  broke  the  seal,  and 
read  the  few  lines  that  the  letter  contained— 

"  Come  to  me,  my  dear  friend,  without  delay,  for  Heaven's  sake. 
Your  ear  only  can  hear  what  I  have  to  tell.  You  may  be  able  to 
help  me ;  but  if  not,  then ....  Oh,  come  to  me  to-night. — Your 
unhappy  JESSAMY  BRIDE." 

He  did  not  delay  an  instant.  He  caught  up  his 
hat  and  left  his  chambers.  He  did  not  even  think 
of  the  resolution  which  he  had  just  made,  never 
to  see  Mary  Horneck  again.  All  his  thoughts  were 
lost  in  the  one  thought  that  he  was  about  to  stand 
face  to  face  with  her. 


Jessams  3Brifce.  181 

He  stood  face  to  face  with  her  in  less  than  half 
an  hour.  She  was  in  the  small  drawing-room  where 
he  had  seen  her  on  the  day  after  the  production  of 
"  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. "  Only  a  few  wax  candles 
were  lighted  in  the  cut-glass  sconces  that  were  placed 
in  the  centre  of  the  panels  of  the  walls.  Their  light 
was,  however,  sufficient  to  make  visible  the  contrast 
between  the  laughing  face  of  the  girl  in  Reynolds's 
picture  of  her  and  her  sister  which  hung  on  the 
wall,  and  the  sad  face  of  the  girl  who  put  her  hand 
into  his  as  he  was  shown  in  by  the  servant. 

"I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said.  "I  knew 
that  I  could  trust  you." 

"You  may  trust  me  indeed,"  he  said.  He  held 
her  hand  in  his  own,  looking  into  her  pale  face  and 
sunken  eyes.  "  I  knew  the  time  would  come  when 
you  would  tell  me  all  that  there  is  to  be  told,"  he 
continued.  "Whether  I  can  help  you  or  not  you 
will  find  yourself  better  for  having  told  me." 

She  seated  herself  on  a  sofa,  and  he  took  his 
place  beside  her.  There  was  a  silence  of  a  minute 
or  two,  before  she  suddenly  started  up,  and,  after 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  nervously,  stopped 
at  the  mantelpiece,  leaning  her  head  against  the 
high  slab,  and  looking  into  the  smouldering  fire  in 
the  grate. 

He  watched  her,  but  did  not  attempt  to  express 
the  pity  that  filled  his  heart. 

"What  am  I  to  tell  you — what  am  I  to  tell 
you  ?  "  she  cried  at  last,  resuming  her  pacing  of  the 
floor. 


1 82  TTbe  3essam$ 

He  made  no  reply,  but  sat  there  following  her 
movements  with  his  eyes.  She  went  beside  him, 
and  stood,  with  nervously  clasped  hands,  looking 
with  vacant  eyes  at  the  group  of  wax  candles  that 
burned  in  one  of  the  sconces.  Once  again  she 
turned  away  with  a  little  cry,  but  then  with  a  great 
effort  she  controlled  herself,  and  her  voice  was 
almost  tranquil  when  she  spoke,  seating  herself. 

"  You  were  with  me  at  the  Pantheon,  and  saw 
me  when  I  caught  sight  of  that  man,"  she  said* 
"  You  alone  were  observant.  Did  you  also  see  him 
call  me  to  his  side  in  the  Green  Room  at  the  play- 
house ?  " 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  act  of  speaking  to  him  there 
— he  calls  himself  Jackson — Captain  Jackson,"  said 
Goldsmith. 

"You  saved  me  from  him  once!"  she  cried. 
"  You  saved  me  from  becoming  his — body  and  soul." 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  I  have  not  yet  saved  you,, 
but  God  is  good;  He  may  enable  me  to  do  so." 

"  I  tell  you  if  it  had  not  been  for  you — for  the 
book  which  you  wrote,  I  should  be  to-day  a  miserable 
castaway.  * 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  cannot  quite  understand,"  said  he.  "  I  gave 
you  a  copy  of  'The  Vicar  of  Wakefield'  when  you 
were  going  to  Devonshire  a  year  ago.  You  were 
complaining  that  your  sister  had  taken  away  with 
her  the  copy  which  I  had  presented  to  your 
mother,  so  that  you  had  not  an  opportunity  of 
reading  it." 


3essam$  Bribe*  183 

i 

"  It  was  that  which  saved  me, "  she  cried.  "  Oh, 
what  fools  girls  are!  They  are  carried  away  by 
such  devices  as  would  not  impose  upon  the  merest 
child !  Why  are  we  not  taught  from  our  childhood 
of  the  baseness  of  men — some  men — so  that  we  can 
be  on  our  guard  when  we  are  on  the  verge  of 
womanhood?  If  we  are  to  live  in  the  world  why 
should  we  not  be  told  all  that  we  should  guard 
against?  " 

She  laid  her  head  down  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa, 
sobbing. 

He  put  his  hand  gently  upon  her  hair,  saying, 
"  I  cannot  believe  anything  but  what  is  good  re- 
garding you,  my  sweet  Jessamy  Bride." 

She  raised  her  head  quickly  and  looked  at  him 
through  her  tears. 

"  Then  you  will  err, "  she  said.  "  You  will  have 
to  think  ill  of  me.  Thank  God  you  saved  me  from  the 
worst,  but  it  was  not  in  your  power  to  save  me 
from  all — to  save  me  from  myself.  Listen  to  me,  my 
best  friend.  When  I  was  in  Devonshire  last  year 
I  met  that  man.  He  was  staying  in  the  village, 
pretending  that  he  was  recovering  from  a  wound 
which  he  had  received  in  our  colonies  in  America. 
He  was  looked  on  as  a  hero  and  feted  in  all  direc- 
tions. Every  girl  for  miles  around  was  in  love 
with  him,  and  I — innocent  fool  that  I  was — consi- 
dered myself  the  most  favoured  creature  in  the  world 
because  he  made  love  to  me.  Any  day  we  failed 
to  meet  I  wrote  him  a  letter — a  foolish  letter  such 
as  a  school-miss  might  write — full  of  protestations 


1 84  Ube  3essani£  Bribe* 

of  undying  affection.  I  sometimes  wrote  two  of 
these  letters  in  the  day.  More  than  a  month  passed 
in  this  foolishness,  and  then  it  came  to  my  uncle's 
ears  that  we  had  meetings.  He  forbade  me  con- 
tinuing to  see  a  man  of  whom  no  one  knew  anything 
definite,  but  about  whom  he  was  having  strict  in- 
quiries made.  I  wrote  to  the  man  to  this  effect,  and 
I  received  a  reply  persuading  me  to  have  one  more 
meeting  with  him.  I  was  so  infatuated  that  I  met 
him  secretly,  and  then  in  impassioned  strains  he  im- 
plored me  to  make  a  runaway  match  with  him.  He 
said  he  had  enemies.  When  he  had  been  fighting 
the  King's  battles  against  the  rebels  these  enemies 
had  been  active,  and  he  feared  that  their  malice 
would  come  between  us,  and  he  should  lose  me.  I 
was  so  carried  away  by  his  pleading  that  I  consented 
to  leave  my  uncle's  house  by  his  side." 

"  But  you  cannot  have  done  so. " 

"  You  saved  me, "  she  cried.  "  I  had  been  read- 
ing your  book,  and,  by  God's  mercy,  on  the  very 
day  before  that  .on  which  I  had  promised  to  go  to 
him  I  came  to  the  story  of  poor  Olivia's  flight  and 
its  consequences.  With  the  suddenness  of  a  reve- 
lation from  Heaven  I  perceived  the  truth.  The  scales 
fell  from  my  eyes  as  they  fell  from  St.  Paul's  on  the 
way  to  Damascus,  only  where  he  perceived  the  heaven 
I  saw  the  hell  that  awaited  me.  I  knew  that  that  man 
was  endeavouring  to  encompass  my  ruin,  and  in  a 
single  hour — thanks  to  the  genius  that  wrote  that  book 
— my  love  for  that  man,  or  what  I  fancied  was  love, 
was  turned  to  loathing.  I  did  not  meet  him.  I 


Ube  3essam£  iffirifce.  185 

returned  to  him,  without  a  word  of  comment,  a 
letter  he  wrote  to  me  reproaching  me  for  disap- 
pointing him:  and  the  very  next  day  my  uncle's 
suspicions  regarding  him  were  confirmed.  His 
inquiries  resulted  in  proof  positive  of  the 
ruffianism  of  the  fellow  who  called  himself  Captain 
Jackson.  He  had  left  the  army  in  America  with 
a  stain  on  his  character,  and  it  was  known  that 
since  his  return  to  England  at  least  two  young 
women  had  been  led  into  the  trap  which  he  laid 
for  me." 

"Thank  God  you  were  saved,  my  child,"  said 
Goldsmith,  as  she  paused,  overcome  with  emotion. 
"  But  being  saved,  my  dear,  you  have  no  further 
reason  to  fear  that  man." 

u  That  was  my  belief  too,"  said  she.  "But  alas! 
it  was  a  delusion.  So  soon  as  he  found  out  that  I 
had  escaped  from  him,  he  showed  himself  in  his 
true  colours.  He  wrote  threatening  to  send  the 
letters  which  I  had  been  foolish  enough  to  write  to 
him,  to  my  friends — he  was  even  scoundrel  enough 
to  point  out  that  I  had  in  my  innocence  written 
certain  passages  which  were  susceptible  of  being 
interpreted  as  evidence  of  guilt — nay,  his  letter  in 
which  he  did  so  took  it  for  granted  that  I  had  been 
guilty,  so  that  I  could  not  show  it  as  evidence  of 
his  falsehood.  What  was  left  for  me  to  do?  I 
wrote  to  him  imploring  him  to  return  to  me  those 
letters.  I  asked  him  how  he  could  think  it  con- 
sistent with  his  honour  to  retain  them  and  to  hold 
such  an  infamous  threat  over  my  head.  Alas!  he 


1 86  ZIbe  3essams  Bribe* 

soon  gave  me  to  understand  that  I  had  but  placed 
myself  more  deeply  in  his  power." 

"The  scoundrel!" 

"  Oh !  scoundrel !  I  made  an  excuse  for  coming 
back  to  London,  though  I  had  meant  to  stay  in 
Devonshire  until  the  end  of  the  year." 

"And  'twas  then  you  thanked  me  for  the  book."* 

"  I  had  good  reason  to  do  so.  For  some  months- 
I  was  happy,  believing  that  I  had  escaped  from  my 
persecutor.  How  happy  we  were  when  in  France- 
together  !  But  then — ah !  you  know  the  rest.  My 
distress  is  killing  me — I  cannot  sleep  at  night.  I 
start  a  dozen  times  a  day ;  every  time  the  bell  rings 
I  am  in  trepidation." 

"  Great  Heaven !  Is't  possible  that  you  are  miser- 
able solely  on  this  account?"  cried  Goldsmith. 

"Is  there  not  sufficient  reason  for  my  misery?" 
she  asked.  "What  did  he  say  to  me  that  night  in 
the  Green  Room  ?  He  told  me  that  he  would  give 
me  a  fortnight  to  accede  to  his  demands ;  if  I  failed 
he  swore  to  print  my  letters  in  full,  introducing  my 
name  so  that  everyone  should  know  who  had  writ- 
ten them." 

"  And  his  terms  ?  "  asked  Goldsmith  in  a  whisper. 

"  His  terms?  I  cannot  tell  you — I  cannot  tell 
you.  The  very  thought  that  I  placed  myself  in  such 
a  position  as  made  it  possible  for  me  to  have  such 
an  insult  offered  to  me  makes  me  long  for  death." 

"  By  God !  'tis  he  who  has  need  to  prepare  for 
death!  "  cried  Goldsmith ;  "  for  I  shall  kill  him,  even 
though  the  act  be  called  murder." 


3essam£  Brtoe*  187 

"  No — no !  "  she  said,  laying  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"  No  friend  of  mine  must  suffer  for  my  folly.  I 
dare  not  speak  a  word  of  this  to  my  brother  for 
fear  of  the  consequences.  That  wretch  boasted  to 
me  of  having  laid  his  plansso  carefully  that,  if  any 
harm  were  to  come  to  him,  the  letters  would  still 
be  printed.  He  said  he  had  heard  of  my  friends, 
and  declared  that  if  he  were  approached  by  any 
of  them,  nothing  should  save  me  from  being  made 
the  talk  of  the  town.  I  was  terrified  by  the  threat, 
but  I  determined  to-day  to  tell  you  my  pitiful  story 
in  the  hope — the  forlorn  hope — that  you  might  be 
able  to  help  me.  Tell  me — tell  me,  my  dear  friend, 
if  you  can  see  any  chance  of  escape  for  me  except 
that  of  which  poor  Olivia  sang:  'The  only  way  her 
guilt  to  cover.'" 

"Guilt?  Who  talks  of  guilt?"  said  he.  « Oh, 
my  poor  innocent  child,  I  knew  that  whatever  your 
grief  might  be  there  was  nothing  to  be  thought  of 
you  except  what  was  good.  I  am  not  one  to  say 
even  that  you  acted  foolishly;  you  only  acted  inno- 
cently. You,  in  the  guilelessness  of  your  own  pure 
heart,  could  not  believe  that  a  man  could  be  worse 
than  any  monster.  Dear  child,  I  pray  of  you  to 
bear  up  for  a  short  time  against  this  stroke  of 
fate,  and  I  promise  you  that  I  shall  discover  a  way 
of  escape  for  you." 

"  Ah,  it  is  easy  to  say  those  words  '  bear  up.'  I 
said  them  to  myself  a  score  of  times  within  the 
week.  You  cannot  now  perceive  in  what  direction 
yllies  my  hope  of  escape  ?  " 


1 88  ZTbe  5essam£ 

He  shook  his  head,  but  not  without  a  smile  on 
his  face,  as  he  said, 

" '  Tis  easy  enough  for  one  who  has  composed 
so  much  fiction  as  I  have  to  invent  a  plan  for  the 
rescue  of  a  tortured  heroine;  but,  unhappily,  it  is 
the  case  that  in  real  life  one  cannot  control  circum- 
stances as  one  can  in  a  work  of  the  imagination.  That 
is  one  of  the  weaknesses  of  real  life,  my  dear ;  things 
will  go  on  happening  in  defiance  of  all  the  arts  of 
fiction.  But  of  this  I  feel  certain :  Providence  does 
not  do  things  by  halves.  He  will  not  make  me  the 
means  of  averting  a  great  disaster  from  you  and  then 
permit  me  to  stand  idly  by  while  you  suffer  such  a 
calamity  as  that  which  you  apprehend  just  now.  Nay, 
my  dear,  I  feel  that  as  Heaven  directed  my  pen  to 
write  that  book  in  order  that  you  might  be  saved 
from  the  fate  of  my  poor  Livy,  I  shall  be  permitted 
to  help  you  out  of  your  present  difficulty." 

"You  give  me  hope,"  she  said.  "Yes — a  little 
hope.  But  you  must  promise  me  that  you  will  not 
be  tempted  to  do  anything  that  is  rash.  I  know 
how  brave  you  are — my  brother  told  me  what  prompt 
action  you  took  yesterday  when  that  vile  slander 
appeared.  But  were  you  not  foolish  to  place  your- 
self in  jeopardy  ?  To  strike  at  a  serpent  that  hisses 
may  only  cause  it  to  spring." 

"I  feel  now  that  I  was  foolish,"  said  he  humbly: 
"I  ran  the  chance  of  forfeiting  your  friendship." 

"Oh,  no,  it  was  not  so  bad  as  that,"  she  said. 
41  But  in  this  matter  of  mine  I  perceive  clearly  that 
craft  and  not  bravery  will  prevail  to  save  me,  if  I 


Jessams  Bribe*  189 

am  to  be  saved.  I  saw  that  you  provoked  a  quarrel 
with  that  man  on  the  night  when  we  were  leaving 
the  Pantheon:  think  of  it,  think  what  my  feelings 
would  have  been  if  he  had  killed  you !  And  think 
also  that  if  you  had  killed  him  I  should  certainly 
be  lost,  for  he  had  made  his  arrangements  to  print 
the  letters  by  which  I  should  be  judged." 

"You  have  spoken  truly,"  said  he.  "You  are 
wiser  than  I  have  ever  been.  But  for  your  sake, 
my  sweet  Jessamy  Bride,  I  promise  to  do  nothing 
that  shall  jeopardise  your  safety.  Have  no  fear,, 
dear  one,  you  shall  be  saved,  whatever  may 
happen." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  fondly. 

"  You  shall  be  saved,"  he  repeated. 

"  If  not "  said  she  in  a  low  tone,  looking  be- 
yond him. 

"  No — no,"  he  whispered.  "  I  have  given  you 
my  promise.  You  must  give  me  yours.  You  will 
do  nothing  impious." 

She  gave  a  wan  smile. 

"  I  am  a  girl,"  she  said.  "  My  courage  is  as 
water.  I  promise  you  I  will  trust  you,  with  all  my 
heart — all  my  heart." 

"  I  shall  not  fail  you — Heaven  shall  not  fail  you." 
said  he,  going  to  the  door. 

He  looked  back  at  her.  What  a  lovely  picture 
she  made,  standing  in  her  white  loose  gown  with 
its  lace  collar  that  seemed  to  make  her  face  the- 
more  pallid! 

He  bowed  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


HE  went  for  supper  to  a  tavern  which  he  knew 
would  be  visited  by  none  of  his  friends.  He  had 
no  wish  to  share  in  the  drolleries  of  Garrick  as  the 
latter  turned  Boswell  into  ridicule  to  make  sport 
for  the  company.  He  knew  that  Garrick  would  be 
at  the  club  in  Gerrard  Street,  to  which  he  had  been 
elected  only  a  few  days  before  the  production  of 
"She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  and  it  was  not  at  all 
unlikely  that  on  this  account  the  club  would  be  a 
good  deal  livelier  than  it  usually  was  even  when 
Richard  Burke  was  wittiest. 

While  awaiting  the  modest  fare  which  he  had 
ordered  he  picked  up  one  of  the  papers  published 
that  evening,  and  found  that  it  contained  a  fierce 
assault  upon  him  for  having  dared  to  take  the  law 
into  his  own  hands  in  attempting  to  punish  the 
scoundrel  who  had  introduced  the  name  of  Miss 
Horneck  into  his  libel  upon  the  author  of  the  comedy 
about  which  all  the  town  were  talking, 

The  scurrility  of  his  new  assailant  produced  no 
impression  upon  him.  He  smiled  as  he  read  the 
ungrammatical  expression  of  the  indignation  which 

the  writer  purported  to  feel  at  so  gross  an  infringe- 

190 


Jessams  SScibe.  191 

ment  of  the  liberty  of  the  Press  as  that  of  which 
— according  to  the  writer — the  ingenious  Dr.  Gold- 
smith was  guilty.  He  did  not  even  fling  the  paper 
across  the  room.  He  was  not  dwelling  upon  his 
own  grievances.  In  his  mind,  the  worst  that  could 
happen  to  him  was  not  worth  a  moment's  thought 
compared  with  the  position  of  the  girl  whose  pre- 
sence he  had  just  left. 

He  knew  perfectly  well — had  he  not  good  reason 
to  know? — that  the  man  who  had  threatened  her 
would  keep  his  threat.  He  knew  of  the  gross  na- 
ture of  the  libels  which  were  published  daily  upon 
not  merely  the  most  notable  persons  in  society,  but 
also  upon  ordinary  private  individuals;  and  he  had 
a  sufficient  knowledge  of  men  and  women  to  be 
aware  of  the  fact  that  the  grossest  scandal  upon 
the  most  innocent  person  was  more  eagerly  read 
than  any  of  the  other  contents  of  the  prints  of  the 
day.  That  was  one  of  the  results  of  the  publica- 
tion of  the  scurrilities  of  Junius :  the  appetite  of  the 
people  for  such  piquant  fare  was  whetted,  and 
there  was  no  lack  of  literary  cooks  to  prepare  it. 
Slander  was  all  that  the  public  demanded :  they  did 
not  make  the  brilliancy  of  Junius  one  of  the  con- 
ditions of  their  acceptance  of  such  compositions — 
all  they  required  was  that  the  libel  should  have  a 
certain  amount  of  piquancy. 

No  one  was  better  aware  of  this  fact  than  Oliver 
Goldsmith.  He  knew  that  Kenrick,  who  had  so 
frequently  libelled  him,  would  pay  all  the  money 
that  he  could  raise  to  obtain  the  letters  which  the 


1 92  TFbe  5essams  Bribe* 

man  who  called  himself  Captain  Jackson  had  in  his 
possession;  he  also  knew  that  there  would  be  no 
difficulty  in  finding  a  publisher  for  them;  and  as 
people  were  always  much  more  ready  to  believe  evil 
than  good  regarding  anyone — especially  a  young  girl 
against  whom  no  word  of  suspicion  had  ever  been 
breathed — the  result  of  the  publication  of  the  letters 
would  mean  practically  ruin  to  the  girl  who  had 
been  innocent  enough  to  write  them. 

Of  course,  a  man  of  the  world,  with  money  at  his 
hand,  would  have  smiled  at  the  possibility  of  a 
question  arising  as  to  the  attitude  to  assume  in 
regard  to  such  a  scoundrel  as  Jackson.  He  would 
merely  ask  what  sum  the  fellow  required  in 
exchange  for  the  letters.  But  Goldsmith  was  in 
such  matters  as  innocent  as  the  girl  herself.  He 
believed,  as  she  did,  that  because  the  man  did  not 
make  any  monetary  claim  upon  her,  he  was  not 
sordid.  He  was  the  more  inclined  to  disregard  the 
question  of  the  possibility  of  buying  the  man  off, 
knowing  as  he  did  that  he  should  find  it  impossible 
to  raise  a  sufficient  sum  for  the  purpose;  and  he 
believed,  with  Mary  Horneck,  that  to  tell  her  friends 
how  she  was  situated  would  be  to  forfeit  their 
respect  for  ever. 

She  had  told  him  that  only  cunning  could  prevail 
against  her  enemy,  and  he  felt  certain  that  she 
was  right.  He  would  try  and  be  cunning  for 
her  sake. 

He  found  great  difficulty  in  making  a  beginning. 
He  remembered  how  often  in  his  life,  and  how  easily, 


Zlbe  Sessams  3Brifce.  193 

he  had  been  imposed  upon — how  often  his  friends 
had  entreated  him  to  acquire  this  talent,  since  he 
had  certainly  not  been  endowed  with  it  by  nature. 
He  remembered  how  upon  some  occasions  he  had 
endeavoured  to  take  their  advice;  and  he  also 
remembered  how,  when  he  fancied  he  had  been 
extremely  shrewd,  it  turned  out  that  he  had  never 
been  more  clearly  imposed  upon. 

He  wondered  if  it  was  too  late  to  begin  again 
on  a  more  approved  system. 

He  brought  his  skill  as  a  writer  of  fiction  to 
bear  upon  the  question  (which  may  be  taken  as 
evidence  that  he  had  not  yet  begun  his  career  of 
shrewdness). 

How,  for  instance,  would  he,  it  the  exigencies  of 
his  story  required  it,  cause  Moses  Primrose  to  de- 
velop into  a  man  of  resources  in  worldly  wisdom? 
By  what  means  would  he  turn  Honeywood  into  a 
cynical  man  of  the  world? 

He  considered  these  questions  at  considerable 
length,  and  only  when  he  reached  the  Temple, 
returning  to  his  chambers,  did  he  find  out  that  the 
waiter  at  the  tavern  had  given  him  change  for  a 
guinea  two  shillings  short,  and  that  half-a-crown  of 
the  change  was  made  of  pewter.  He  could  not 
help  being  amused  at  his  first  step  towards  cunning. 
He  certainly  felt  no  vexation  at  being  made  so 
easy  a  victim  of:  he  was  accustomed  to  that  position. 

When  he  found  that  the  roll  of  manuscript  which 
he  had  thrust  between  the  bars  of  the  grate  remained 
as  he  had  left  it,  only  slightly  charred  at  the  end 

13 


194 

which  had  been  the  nearer  to  the  hot,  though  not 
burning,  coals,  all  thoughts  of  guile — all  his  prospects 
of  shrewdness  were  cast  aside.  He  unfolded  the 
pages  and  read  the  verses  once  more.  After  all, 
he  had  no  right  to  burn  them.  He  felt  that  they 
were  no  longer  his  property.  They  belonged  either 
to  the  world  of  literature  or  to  Mary  Horneck, 
as — as  what  ?  As  a  token  of  the  affection  which 
he  bore  her  ?  But  he  had  promised  Johnson  to  root 
out  of  his  heart  whatever  might  remain  of  that 
which  he  had  admitted  to  be  foolishness. 

Alas !  alas !  He  sat  up  for  hours  in  his  cold  rooms 
thinking,  hoping,  dreaming  his  old  dream  that  a 
day  was  coming  when  he  might  without  reproach 
put  those  verses  into  the  girl's  hand — when,  learning 
the  truth,  she  would  understand. 

And  that  time  did  come. 

In  the  morning  he  found  himself  ready  to  face 
the  question  of  how  to  get  possession  of  the  letters. 
No  man  of  his  imagination  could  give  his  attention 
to  such  a  matter  without  having  suggested  to  him 
many  schemes  for  the  attainment  of  his  object.  But 
in  the  end  he  was  painfully  aware  that  he  had 
contrived  nothing  that  did  not  involve  the  risk  of 
a  criminal  prosecution  against  himself,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  the  discovery  of  all  that  Mary  Hor- 
neck was  anxious  to  hide. 

It  was  not  until  the  afternoon  that  he  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  unwise  for  him  to 
trust  to  his  own  resources  in  this  particular  affair. 
After  all,  he  was  but  a  man :  it  required  the  craft 


ZTbc  Jessamg  Bribe.  195 

of  a  woman  to  defeat  the  wiles  of  such  a  demon 
as  he  had  to  deal  with. 

That  he  knew  to  be  a  wise  conclusion  to  come  to. 
But  where  was  the  woman  to  whom  he  could  go 
for  help?  He  wanted  to  find  a  woman  who  was 
accustomed  to  the  wiles  of  the  devil,  and  he  believed 
that  he  should  have  considerable  difficulty  in  find- 
ing her. 

He  was,  of  course,  wrong.  He  had  not  been  con- 
sidering this  aspect  of  the  question  for  long  before 
he  thought  of  Mrs.  Abington,  and  in  a  moment  he 
knew  that  he  had  found  a  woman  who  could  help 
him  if  she  had  a  mind  to  do  so.  Her  acquaintance 
with  wiles  he  knew  to  be  large  and  varied,  and  he 
liked  her. 

He  liked  her  so  well  that  he  felt  sure  she  would 
help  him — if  he  made  it  worth  her  while;  and  he 
thought  he  saw  his  way  to  make  it  worth  her  while. 

He  was  so  convinced  he  was  on  the  way  to  suc- 
cess that  he  became  impatient  at  the  reflection  that 
he  could  not  possibly  see  Mrs.  Abington  until  the 
evening.  But  while  he  was  in  this  state  his  servant 
announced  a  visitor — one  with  whom  he  was  not 
familiar,  but  who  gave  his  name  as  Colonel  Gwyn. 

Full  of  surprise,  he  ordered  Colonel  Gwyn  to  be 
shown  into  the  room.  He  recollected  having  met 
him  at  a  dinner  at  the  Reynolds's,  and  once  at  the 
Hornecks'  house  in  Westminster ;  but  why  he  should 
pay  a  visit  to  Brick  Court  Goldsmith  was  at  a  loss 
to  know.  He,  however,  greeted  Colonel  Gwyn  as 
if  he  considered  it  to  be  one  of  the  most  natural 


196  ftbe  Jessams  Bribe* 

occurrences  in  the  world  for  him  to  appear  at  that 
particular  moment. 

"  Dr.  Goldsmith, "  said  the  visitor,  when  he  had 
seated  himself,  "  you  have  no  doubt  every  reason  to 
be  surprised  at  my  taking  the  liberty  of  calling 
upon  you  without  first  communicating  with  you." 

"Not  at  all,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith.  "Tis  a  great 
compliment  you  offer  to  me.  Bear  in  mind  that  I 
am  sensible  of  it,  Sir." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Sir.  Those  who  have  a 
right  to  speak  on  the  subject  have  frequently  referred 
to  you  as  the  most  generous  of  men." 

"  Oh,  Sir,  I  perceive  that  you  have  been  talking 
with  some  persons  whose  generosity  was  more  note- 
worthy than  their  judgment." 

And  once  again  he  gave  an  example  of  the  Gold- 
smith bow,  which  Garrick  had  so  successfully  carica- 
tured. 

"  Nay,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  if  I  thought  so  I  would 
not  be  here  to-day.  The  fact  is,  Sir,  that  I — I — in 
faith,  Sir,  I  scarce  know  how  to  tell  you  how  it  is 
I  appear  before  you  in  this  fashion." 

"  You  do  not  need  to  have  an  excuse,  I  do  assure 
you,  Colonel  Gwyn.  You  are  a  friend  of  my  best 
friend — Sir  Joshua  Reynolds." 

"  Yes,  Sir,  and  of  other  friends,  too,  I  would  fain 
hope.     In  short,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  I  am  here  because 
I  know   how   highly  you  stand  in  the  esteem  of— 
of — well,  of  all  the  members  of  the  Horneck  family." 

It  was  now  Goldsmith's  turn  to  stammer.  He 
was  so  surprised  by  the  way  his  visitor  introduced 


Ube  Sessamg  Bri&e.  197 

the  name  of  the  Hornecks  he  scarcely  knew  what 
reply  to  make  to  him. 

"I  perceive  that  you  are  surprised,  Sir?"  said 
Gwyn. 

u  No,  no — not  at  all — that  is — no,  not  greatly 
surprised — only — well,  Sir,  why  should  you  not  be 
a  friend  of  Mrs.  Horneck :  her  son  is,  like  yourself, 
a  soldier  ?  "  stammered  Goldsmith. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  more  than 
once  during  the  past  week  or  two  upon  the  Hor- 
necks, Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  Gwyn;  "but  upon  no 
occasion  have  I  been  fortunate  enough  to  see  Miss 
Horneck.  They  told  me  she  was  by  no  means 
well." 

"  And  they  told  you  the  truth,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith 
somewhat  brusquely. 

"You  know  it  then?  Miss  Horneck  is  really  in- 
disposed ?  Ah !  I  feared  that  they  were  merely  ex- 
cusing her  presence  on  the  ground  of  illness.  I  must 
confess  a  headache  was  not  specified." 

"  Nay,  Sir,  Miss  Horneck's  relations  are  not  des- 
titute of  imagination.  But  why  should  you  fancy 
that  you  were  being  deceived  by  them,  Colonel 
Gwyn?  " 

Colonel  Gwyn  laughed  slightly,  not  freely. 

"  I  had  an  idea  that  the  lady  herself  might  think, 
perhaps,  that  I  was  taking  a  liberty, "  he  said  some- 
what awkwardly. 

"Why  should  she  think  that,  Colonel  Gwyn?" 
asked  Goldsmith. 

"Well,  Dr.    Goldsmith,   you  see — Sir,  you  are,  I 


1 98  ftbe  5e5samp  Bribe. 

know,  a  favoured  friend  of  the  lady's — I  perceived 
long  ago — nay,  it  is  well  known  that  she  regards 
you  with  great  affection  as  a — no,  not  as  a  father 
—no,  as — as  an  elder  brother,  that  is  it — yes,  as  an 
elder  brother,  and  therefore  I  thought  that  I  would 
venture  to  intrude  upon  you  to-day.  Sir,  to  be  quite 
frank  with  you,  I  love  Miss  Horneck,  but  I  hesitate 
—as  I  am  sure  you  could  understand  that  any  man 
must — before  declaring  myself  to  her.  Now,  it  oc- 
curred to  me,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  that  you  might  not 
conceive  it  to  be  a  gross  impertinence  on  my  part 
if  I  were  to  ask  you  if  you  knew  of  the  lady's  af- 
fections being  already  engaged.  I  hope  you  will 
be  frank  with  me,  Sir." 

Goldsmith  looked  with  curious  eyes  at  the  man 
before  him.  Colonel  Gwyn  was  a  well-built  man  of 
perhaps  a  year  or  two  over  thirty.  He  sat  upright 
on  his  chair — a  trifle  stiffly,  it  might  be  thought  by 
some  people,  but  that  was  pardonable  in  a  military 
man.  He  was  also  somewhat  inclined  to  be  pom- 
pous in  his  manners ;  but  anyone  could  perceive  that 
they  were  the  manners  of  a  gentleman. 

Goldsmith  looked  earnestly  at  him.  Was  that  the 
man  who  was  to  take  Mary  Horneck  away  from 
him,  he  asked  himself. 

He  could  not  speak  for  some  time  after  his  visitor 
had  spoken.  At  last  he  gave  a  little  start. 

"You  should  not  have  come  to  me,  Sir,"  he  said 
slowly. 

"I felt  that  I  was  taking  a  great  liberty,  Sir," 
said  Gwyn. 


Jessams  iKrifce.  199 

"  On  the  contrary,  Sir,  I  feel  that  you  have 
honoured  me  with  your  confidence.  But — ah,  Sir, 
do  you  fancy  that  I  am  the  sort  of  man  a  lady 
would  seek  for  a  confidant  in  any  matter  concerning 
her  heart?" 

"  I  thought  it  possible  that  she — Miss  Horneck— 
might  have  let  you  know.  You  are  not  as  other 
men,  Dr.  Goldsmith:  you  are  a  poet,  and  so  she 
might  naturally  feel  that  you  would  be  interested 
in  a  love  affair.  Poets,  all  the  world  knows,  Sir 
have  a  sort  of — well,  a  sort  of  vested  interest  in  the 
love  affairs  of  humanity,  so  to  speak." 

"  Yes,  Sir;  that  is  the  decree  of  Heaven,  I  suppose, 
to  compensate  them  for  the  emptiness  in  their  own 
hearts  to  which  they  must  become  accustomed.  I 
have  heard  of  childless  women  becoming  the  nurses 
to  the  children  of  their  happier  sisters,  and  growing 
as  fond  of  them  as  if  they  were  their  own  offspring. 
It  is  on  the  same  principle,  I  suppose,  that  poets 
become  sympathetically  interested  in  the  world  of 
lovers,  which  is  quite  apart  from  the  world  of 
letters." 

Goldsmith  spoke  slowly,  looking  his  visitor  in  the 
face.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  perceiving  that  Colonel 
Gwyn  failed  to  understand  the  exact  appropriateness 
of  what  he  had  said.  Colonel  Gwyn  himself  admitted 
as  much. 

"I  protest,  Sir,  I  scarcely  take  your  meaning," 
he  said.  "But  for  that  matter,  I  fear  that  I  was 
scarcely  fortunate  enough  to  make  myself  quite 
plain  to  you." 


200  zrbe  3essam£  Bribe, 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Goldsmith,  "I  think  I  gathered 
from  your  words  all  that  you  came  hither  to  learn. 
Briefly,  Colonel  Gwyn,  you  are  reluctant  to  subject 
yourself  to  the  humiliation  of  having  your  suit  re- 
jected by  the  lady,  and  so  you  have  come  hither  to  try 
and  learn  from  me  what  are  your  chances  of  success." 

"  How  admirably  you  put  the  matter !  "  said  Gwyn. 
"  And  I  fancied  you  did  not  apprehend  the  purport 
of  my  visit.  Well,  Sir,  what  chance  have  I?  " 

"I  cannot  tell,"  said  Goldsmith.  "  Miss  Horneck 
has  never  told  me  that  she  loved  any  man." 

"  Then  I  have  still  a  chance  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Sir ;  girls  do  not  usually  confide  to  their 
fathers  the  story  of  their  attachments — no,  nor  to 
their  elder  brothers.  But  if  you  wish  to  consider 
your  chances  with  any  lady,  Colonel  Gwyn,  I  would 
venture  to  advise  you  to  go  and  stand  in  front  of 
a  looking-glass  and  ask  yourself  if  you  are  the 
manner  of  man  to  whom  a  young  lady  would  be 
likely  to  become  attached.  Add  to  the  effect  of 
your  personality — which  I  think  is  great,  Sir — the 
glamour  that  surrounds  the  profession  in  which  you 
have  won  distinction,  and  you  will  be  able  to  judge 
for  yourself  whether  your  suit  would  be  likely  to 
be  refused  by  the  majority  of  young  ladies." 

"You  flatter  me,  Dr.  Goldsmith.  But,  assuming 
for  a  moment  that  there  is  some  force  in  your  words, 
I  protest  that  they  do  not  reassure  me.  Miss  Horneck, 
Sir,  is  not  the  lady  to  be  carried  away  by  the  con- 
siderations that  would  prevail  in  the  eyes  of  others 
of  her  sex.w 


"You  have  learned  something  of  Miss  Horneck, 
at  any  rate,  Colonel  Gwyn." 

"  I  think  I  have,  Sir.  When  I  think  of  her,  I 
feel  despondent.  Does  the  man  exist  who  is 
worthy  of  her  love  ?  " 

"He  does  not,  Colonel  Gwyn.  But  that  is  no 
reason  why  she  may  not  love  some  man.  Does  a 
woman  only  give  her  love  to  one  who  is  worthy 
of  it?  It  is  fortunate  for  men  that  that  is  not  the 
way  with  women." 

"It  is  fortunate;  and  in  that  reflection,  Sir,  I 
find  my  greatest  consolation  at  the  present  moment. 
I  am  not  a  bad  man,  Dr.  Goldsmith — as  men 
go;  there  is  in  my  lifetime  nothing  that  I  have 
cause  to  be  ashamed  of;  but,  I  repeat,  when 
I  think  of  her  sweetness,  her  purity,  her  tender- 
ness, I  am  overcome  with  a  sense  of  my  own 
presumption  in  aspiring  to  win  her.  You  think 
me  presumptuous  in  this  matter,  I  am  convinced, 
Sir." 

al  do — I  do.     I   know  Mary  Horneck. " 

w  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  am  better  satisfied 
with  your  agreement  with  me  in  this  respect  than 
I  should  be  if  you  were  to  flatter  me.  Allow  me 
to  thank  you  for  your  great  courtesy  to  me,  Sir. 
You  have  not  sent  me  away  without  hope,  and  I 
trust  that  I  may  assume,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  that  I  have 
your  good  wishes  in  this  matter,  which  I  hold  to 
be  vital  to  my  happiness." 

"  Colonel  Gwyn,  my  wishes — my  prayer  to  Heaven 
are  that  Mary  Horneck  may  be  happy." 


202 


TIbe  Jessams  Bribe* 


"  And  I  ask  for  nothing  more,  Sir.  There  is  my 
hand  on  it." 

Oliver  Goldsmith  took  the  hand  that  he  but  dimly 
saw  stretched  out  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

NEVER  for  a  moment  had  Goldsmith  felt  jealous  of 
the  younger  men  who  were  understood  to  be  ad- 
mirers of  the  Jessamy  Bride.  He  had  made  hu- 
mourous verses  on  some  of  them,  Henry  Bunbury  had 
supplied  comic  illustrations,  and  Mary  and  her  sister 
had  had  their  laugh.  He.  could  not  even  now  feel 
jealous  of  Colonel  Gwyn,  though  he  knew  that  he 
was  a  more  eligible  suitor  than  the  majority  whom 
he  had  met  from  time  to  time  at  the  Hornecks' 
house.  He  knew  that  since  Colonel  Gwyn  had 
appeared  the  girl  had  no  thoughts  to  give  to  love 
and  suitors.  If  Gwyn  were  to  go  to  her  immediately 
and  offer  himself  as  a  suitor  he  would  meet  with  a 
disappointment. 

Yes;  at  the  moment  he  had  no  reason  to  feel 
jealous  of  the  man  who  had  just  left  him.  On  the 
contrary,  he  felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  be  exultant 
at  the  thought  that  it  was  he — he — Oliver  Gold- 
smith— who  had  been  entrusted  by  Mary  Horneck 
with  her  secret — with  the  duty  of  saving  her  from 
the  scoundrel  who  was  persecuting  her.  Colonel 
Gwyn  was  a  soldier,  and  yet  it  was  not  to  him  that 
this  knight's  enterprise  had  fallen. 


204  'Ebe  3essam£  Bribe* 

He  felt  that  he  had  every  reason  to  be  proud. 
He  had  been  placed  in  a  position  which  was  cer- 
tainly quite  new  to  him.  He  was  to  compass  the 
rescue  of  the  maiden  in  distress;  and  had  he  not 
heard  of  innumerable  instances  in  which  the  reward 
of  success  in  such  an  undertaking  was  the  hand  of 
the  maiden? 

For  half  an  hour  he  felt  exultant.  He  had  boldly 
faced  an  adverse  fate  all  his  life;  he  had  grappled 
with  a  cruel  destiny;  and,  though  the  struggle  had 
lasted  all  his  life,  he  had  come  out  the  conqueror. 
He  had  become  the  most  distinguished  man  of  let- 
ters in  England.  As  Professor  at  the  Royal  Aca- 
demy his  superiority  had  been  acknowledged  by 
the  most  eminent  men  of  the  period.  And  then, 
although  he  was  plain  of  face  and  awkward  in 
manner — nearly  as  awkward,  if  far  from  being  so 
offensive,  as  Johnson — he  had  been  appointed  her 
own  knight  by  the  loveliest  girl  in  England.  He 
felt  that  he  had  reason  to  exult. 

But  then  the  reaction  came.  He  thought  of  him- 
self as  compared  with  Colonel  Gwyn — he  thought 
of  himself  as  a  suitor  by  the  side  of  Colonel  Gwyn. 
What  would  the  world  say  of  a  girl  who  would 
choose  him  in  preference  to  Colonel  Gwyn?  He 
had  told  Gwyn  to  survey  himself  in  a  mirror  in 
order  to  learn  what  chance  he  would  have  of  being 
accepted  as  the  lover  of  a  lovely  girl.  Was  he 
willing  to  apply  the  same  test  to  himself?  " 

He  had  not  the  courage  to  glance  toward  even 
the  small  glass  which  he  had — a  glass  which 


Ube  Jessams  Bribe.  205 

could  reflect  only   a  small  portion  of  his  plainness. 

He  remained  seated  in  his  chair  for  a  long  time, 
being  saved  from  complete  despair  only  by  the  re- 
flection that  it  was  he  who  was  entrusted  with  the 
task  of  freeing  Mary  Horneck  from  the  enemy  who 
had  planned  her  destruction.  v  This  was  his  one 
agreeable  reflection,  and  after  a  time  it,  too,  became 
tempered  by  the  thought  that  all  his  task  was  still 
before  him :  he  had  taken  no  step  toward  saving  her. 

He  started  up,  called  for  a  lamp,  and  proceeded 
to  dress  himself  for  the  evening.  He  would  dine 
at  a  coffee-house  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Covent 
Garden  Theatre,  and  visit  Mrs.  Abington  in  the 
Green  Room  while  his  play — in  which  she  did  not 
appear — was  being  acted  on  the  stage. 

He  was  unfortunate  enough  to  meet  Boswell  in 
the  coffee-house,  so  that  his  design  of  thinking  out, 
while  at  dinner,  the  course  which  he  should  pursue 
in  regard  to  the  actress — how  far  he  would  be  safe 
in  confiding  in  her — was  frustrated. 

The  little  Scotchman  was  in  great  grief:  Johnson 
had  actually  quarrelled  with  him — well,  not  exactly 
quarrelled,  for  it  required  two  to  make  a  quarrel, 
and  Boswell  had  steady  refused  to  contribute  to  such 
a  disaster.  Johnson,  however,  was  so  overwhelming 
a  personality  in  Boswell's  eyes  that  he  could  almost 
make  a  quarrel  without  the  assistance  of  a  second 
person. 

"Psha!  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith,  "you  know  as  little 
of  Dr.  Johnson  as  you  do  of  the  Irish  nation  and 
their  characteristics." 


206  Ube  Jessams  :Brit>e. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  so,  but  I  felt  that  I  was  getting 
to  know  him,"  said  Boswell.  "  But  now  all  is  over; 
he  will  never  see  me  again." 

"  Nay,  man,  cannot  you  perceive  that  he  is  only 
assuming  this  attitude  in  order  to  give  you  a  chance 
of  knowing  him  better  ?  "  said  Goldsmith. 

"  For  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see  how  that  could 
be,"  cried  Boswell  after  a  contemplative  pause. 

u  Why,  Sir,  you  must  perceive  that  he  wishes  to 
impress  you  with  a  consciousness  of  his  generosity." 

"  What,  by  quarrelling  with  me  and  declaring  that 
he  would  never  see  me  again  ?  " 

"  No,  not  in  that  way,  though  I  believe  there  are 
some  people  who  would  feel  that  it  was  an  act  of 
generosity  on  Dr.  Johnson's  part  to  remain  secluded 
for  a  space  in  order  to  give  the  rest  of  the  world 
a  chance  of  talking  together." 

"  What  does  it  matter  about  the  rest  of  the 
world,  Sir?" 

"Not  much,  I  suppose  I  should  say,  since  he 
means  me  to  be  his  biographer." 

Boswell,  of  course,  utterly  failed  to  appreciate  the 
sly  tone  in  which  the  Irishman  spoke,  and  took  him 
up  quite  seriously. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  he  has  been  in  communication 
with  you,  Dr.  Goldsmith  ?  "  he  cried  anxiously. 

"I  will  not  divulge  Dr.  Johnson's  secrets,  Sir," 
replied  Goldsmith,  with  an  affectation  of  the  manner 
of  the  man  who  a  short  time  before  had  said  that 
Shakspere  was  pompous. 

"  Now    you    are    imitating   him, "    said    Boswell. 


Ube  Sessams  Bribe.  207 

*  But  I  perceive  that  he  has  not  told  you  of  our 
quarrel — our  misunderstanding.  It  arose  through 
you,  Sir." 

"Through  me,  Sir?" 

"  Through  the  visit  of  your  relative,  the  Dean, 
after  we  had  dined  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor.  You 
see,  he  bound  me  down  to  promise  him  to  tell  no 
one  of  that  unhappy  occurrence,  Sir;  and  yet  he 
heard  that  Garrick  has  lately  been  mimicking  the 
Dean — yes,  down  to  his  very  words,  at  the  Rey- 
nolds's,  and  so  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Gar- 
rick  was  made  acquainted  with  the  whole  story  by 
me.  He  sent  for  me  yesterday,  and  upbraided  me 
for  half  an  hour." 

"  To  whom  did  you  give  an  account  of  the  affair, 
Sir?" 

"To  no  human  being,  Sir." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  you  must  have  given  it  to 
someone." 

"  To  no  one,  Sir — that  is,  no  one  from  whom 
Garrick  could  possibly  have  had  the  story." 

"  Ah,  I  knew,  and  so  did  Johnson,  that  it  would 
be  out  of  the  question  to  expect  that  you  would 
hold  your  tongue  on  so  interesting  a  secret.  Well, 
perhaps  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  you  in  the  future. 
I  must  not  fail  to  make  an  entire  chapter  of  this 
in  my  biography  of  our  great  friend.  Perhaps  you 
would  do  me  the  favour  to  write  down  a  clear 
and  as  nearly  accurate  an  account  as  your  pride 
will  allow,  of  your  quarrel  with  the  Doctor,  Sir, 
Such  an  account  would  be  an  amazing  assistance 


208  TTbe  3e6sams  Bribe* 

to  posterity  in  forming  an  estimate  of  the  character 
of  Johnson." 

"Ah,  Sir,  am  I  not  sufficiently  humiliated  by  the 
reflection  that  my  friendly  relations  with  the  man 
whom  I  revere  more  than  any  living  human  being 
are  irretrievably  ruptured?  You  will  not  add  to  the 
poignancy  of  that  reflection  by  asking  me  to  write 
down  an  account  of  our  quarrel  in  order  to  per- 
petuate so  deplorable  an  incident?" 

"Sir,  I  perceive  that  you  are  as  yet  ignorant  of 
the  duties  of  the  true  biographer.  You  seem  to 
think  that  a  biographer  has  a  right  to  pick  and 
choose  the  incidents  with  which  he  has  to  deal — 
that  he  may,  if  he  please,  omit  the  mention  of  any 
occurrence  that  may  tend  to  show  his  hero  or  his 
hero's  friends  in  an  unfavourable  light.  Sir,  I  tell 
you  frankly  that  your  notions  of  biography  are  as 
erroneous  as  they  are  mischievous.  Mr.  Boswell,  I 
am  a  more  conscientious  man,  and  so,  Sir,  I  insist 
on  your  writing  down  while  they  are  still  fresh  in 
your  mind  the  very  words  that  passed  between  you 
and  Dr.  Johnson  on  this  matter;  and  you  will  also 
furnish  me  with  a  list  of  the  persons — if  you  have 
not  sufficient  paper  at  your  lodgings  for  the  purpose, 
you  can  order  a  ream  at  the  stationer's  at  the  cor- 
ner— to  whom  you  gave  an  account  of  the  humilia- 
tion of  Dr.  Johnson  by  a  clergyman  who  claimed 
relationship  with  me,  but  who  was  an  impostor. 
Come,  Mr.  Boswell,  be  a  man,  Sir;  do  not  seek  to 
avoid  so  obvious  a  duty." 

Boswell    looked    at    him,    but,    as    usual,   failed 


Ube  3essam£  JSribe.  209 

to    detect    the   least    gleam   of  a  smile  on  his  face. 

He  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  out  of  the 
coffee-house  without  a  word. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  have  got  rid  of  that  Peeping 
Tom,"  muttered  Goldsmith.  "If  I  had  acted  other- 
wise in  regard  to  him  I  should  not  have  been  out 
of  hearing  of  his  rasping  tongue  until  midnight." 

(The  very  next  morning  a  letter  from  Boswell 
was  brought  to  him.  It  told  him  that  he  had  sought 
Johnson  the  previous  evening,  and  had  obtained  his 
forgiveness.  "You  were  right,  Sir,"  the  letter  con- 
cluded. "  Dr.  Johnson  has  still  further  impressed 
me  with  a  sense  of  his  generosity.") 

But  as  soon  as  Boswell  had  been  got  rid  of,  Gold- 
smith hastened  to  the  playhouse  in  order  to  consult 
with  the  lady  who — through  long  practice — was,  he 
believed,  the  most  ably  qualified  of  her  sex  to  give 
him  advice  as  to  the  best  way  of  getting  the  better 
of  a  scoundrel.  It  was  only  when  he  was  entering 
the  Green  Room  that  he  recollected  he  had  not  yet 
made  up  his  mind  as  to  the  exact  limitations  he 
should  put  upon  his  confidence  with  Mrs.  Abington. 

The  beautiful  actress  was  standing  in  one  of  those 
picturesque  attitudes  which  she  loved  to  assume,  at 
one  end  of  the  long  room.  The  second  act  only  of 
"  She  Stoops  to  Conquer"  had  been  reached,  and  as 
she  did  not  appear  in  the  comedy,  she  had  no  need 
to  begin  dressing  for  the  next  piece.  She  wore  a 
favourite  dress  of  hers — one  which  had  taken  the 
town  by  storm  a  few  months  before,  and  which  had 
been  imitated  by  every  lady  of  quality  who  had 

14 


210  Ube  JessantE 

more  respect  for  fashion  than  for  herself.  It  was  a 
negligently  flowing  gown  of  some  soft  but  heavy 
fabric,  very  low  and  loose  about  the  neck  and 
shoulders. 

"Ha,  my  little  hero,"  cried  the  lady,  when  Gold- 
smith approached  and  made  his  bow,  first  to  a 
group  of  players  who  stood  near  the  door,  and  then 
to  Mrs.  Abington.  "  Ha,  my  little  hero,  whom  have 
you  been  drubbing  last?  Oh,  lud!  to  think  of  your 
beating  a  critic!  Your  courage  sets  us  all  a-dying 
of  envy.  How  we  should  love  to  pommel  some  oi 
our  critics!  There  was  a  rumour  last  night  that 
the  man  had  died,  Dr.  Goldsmith." 

"  The  fellow  would  not  pay  such  a  tribute  to  my 
powers,  depend  on  't,  Madam,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"  Not  if  he  could  avoid  it,  I  am  certain, "  said 
she.  "  Faith,  Sir,  you  gave  him  a  pretty  fair  drub- 
bing anyhow.  'Twas  the  talk  of  the  playhouse,  I 
give  you  my  word.  Some  vastly  pretty  things  were 
said  about  you,  Dr.  Goldsmith.  It  would  turn  your 
head  if  I  were  to  repeat  them  all.  For  instance,  a 
gentleman  in  this  very  room  last  night  said  that  it 
was  the  first  case  that  had  come  under  his  notice 
of  a  doctor's  making  an  attempt  upon  a  man's  life, 
except  through  the  legitimate  professional  channel. " 

"  If  all  the  pretty  things  that  were  spoken  were 
no  prettier  than  that,  Mrs.  Abington,  you  will 
not  turn  my  head,"  said  Goldsmith.  "Though,  for 
that  matter,  I  vow  that  to  effect  such  a  purpose  you 
only  need  to  stand  before  me  in  that  dress — ay,  or 
any  other." 


Bribe*  211 

"  Oh,  Sir,  I  protest  that  I  cannot  stand  before 
such  a  fusillade  of  compliment — I  sink  under  it,  Sir- 
thus,"  and  she  made  an  exquisite  courtesy.  "Talk 
of  turning  heads!  do  you  fancy  that  actresses' 
heads  are  as  immovable  as  their  hearts,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith?" 

"I  trust  that  their  hearts  are  less  so,  Madam,  for 
just  now  I  am  extremely  anxious  that  the  heart  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  most  accomplished  should  be 
moved,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"  You  have  only  to  give  me  your  word  that  you 
have  written  as  good  a  comedy  as  'She  Stoops  to 
Conquer'  with  a  better  part  for  me  in  it  than  that 
of  Miss  Hardcastle. " 

"  I  have  the  design  of  one  in  my  head,  Madam. " 

"  Then,  faith,  Sir,  'tis  lucky  that  I  did  not  say 
anything  to  turn  your  head.  Dr.  Goldsmith,  my 
heart  is  moved  already.  See  how  easy  it  is  for  a 
great  author  to  effect  his  object  where  a  poor  actress 
is  concerned.  And  you  have  begun  the  comedy, 
Sir?" 

"  I  cannot  begin  it  until  I  get  rid  of  a  certain 
tragedy  that  is  in  the  air.  I  want  your  assistance 
in  that  direction." 

"  What !  Do  you  mistake  the  farce  of  drubbing 
a  critic  for  a  tragedy,  Dr.  Goldsmith?" 

"Psha,  Madam!  What  do  you  take  me  for? 
Even  if  I  were  as  poor  a  critic  as  Kenrick  I 
could  still  discriminate  between  one  and  t'other. 
Can  you  give  me  half  an  hour  of  your  time,  Mrs. 
Abington  ?  " 


212  Hbe  3essam£  Bribe. 

"  With  all  pleasure,  Sir.  We  shall  sit  down. 
You  wear  a  tragedy  face,  Dr.  Goldsmith." 

"  I  need  to  do  so,  Madam,  as  I  think  you  will 
allow  when  you  hear  all  I  have  to  tell  you." 

"Oh,  lud!     You  frighten  me.     Fray  begin,  Sir." 

*  How  shall  I  begin?  Have  you  ever  had  to 
encounter  the  devil,  Madam  ?  " 

"Frequently,  Sir.  Alas!  I  fear  that  I  have  not 
always  prevailed  against  him  as  successfully  as  you 
did  in  your  encounter  with  one  of  his  family — a 
critic.  Your  story  promises  to  be  more  interesting 
than  your  face  suggested." 

"  I  have  to  encounter  a  devil,  Mrs.  Abington, 
and  I  come  to  you  for  help." 

"  Then  you  must  tell  me  if  your  devil  is  male  or 
female.  If  the  former,  I  think  I  can  promise  you 
my  help ;  if  the  latter,  do  not  count  on  me.  When 
the  foul  fiend  assumes  the  form  of  an  angel  of 
light — which  I  take  to  be  the  way  St.  Paul  meant 
to  convey  the  idea  of  a  woman — he  is  too  powerful 
for  me,  I  frankly  confess." 

"Mine  is  a  male  fiend." 

"  Not  the  manager  of  a  theatre — another  form  of 
the  same  hue  ?  " 

"  Nay,  dear  Madam,  there  are  degrees  of  blackness. " 

"  Ah,  yes ;  positive  bad,  comparative  Baddeley, 
superlative  Colman." 

"  If  I  could  compose  a  phrase  like  that,  Mrs. 
Abington,  I  should  be  the  greatest  wit  in  London, 
and  ruin  my  life  going  from  coffee-house  to  coffee- 
house repeating  it." 


ZTbe  Sessams  Bribe*  213 

"Pray  do  not  tell  Mrs.  Baddeley  that  I  made 
it,  Sir." 

"  How  could  I,  Madam,  when  you  have  just  told 
me  that  a  she-devil  was  more  than  you  could  cope 
with?" 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"AND  now,  Sir,  to  face  the  particulars — to  proceed 
from  the  fancy  embroidery  of  wit  to  the  solid  fabric 
of  fact — who  or  what  is  the  aggressive  demon  that 
you  want  exorcised?" 

"  His  name  is  Jackson — he  calls  himself  Captain 
Jackson,"  replied  Oliver.  He  had  not  made  up  his 
mind  how  much  he  should  tell  of  Mary  Horneck's 
story.  He  blamed  Boswell  for  interrupting  his 
consideration  of  this  point  after  he  had  dined ;  though 
it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have  made  any  substantial 
advance  in  that  direction  even  if  the  unhappy 
Scotchman  had  not  thrust  himself  and  his  grievance 
upon  him. 

"  Jackson — Captain  Jackson !  "  cried  the  actress. 
"Why,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  this  is  a  very  little  fiend 
that  you  ask  me  to  help  you  to  destroy.  Surely, 
Sir,  he  can  be  crushed  without  my  assistance:  one 
does  not  ask  for  a  battering-ram  to  overturn  a  house 
of  cards — one  does  not  requisition  a  park  of  artillery 
to  demolish  a  sparrow." 

u  Nay,  but  if  a  blunderbuss  be  not  handy,  one 
should  avail  oneself  of  the  power  of  a  piece  of 

ordnance,"  said  Goldsmith.     "The  truth  is,  Madam, 

214 


ZTbe  JessantE  Bribe.  215 

that  in  this  matter  I  represent  only  the  blunder  of 
the  blunderbuss." 

"If  you  drift  into  wit,  Sir,  we  shall  never  get 
on.  I  know  'tis  hard  for  you  to  avoid  it ;  but  time 
is  flying.  What  has  this  Captain  Jackson  been  doing 
that  he  must  be  sacrificed?  You  must  be  straight 
with  me." 

"I'm  afraid  it  has  actually  come  to  that.  Well, 
Mrs.  Abington,  in  brief,  there  is  a  lady  in  the 
question." 

"  Oh !  you  need  scarce  dwell  on  so  inevitable  an 
incident  as  that:  I  was  waiting  for  the  lady." 

"She  is  the  most  charming  of  her  sex,  Madam." 

"  I  never  knew  one  that  wasn't.  Don't  waste  time 
over  anything  that  may  be  taken  for  granted." 

"  Unhappily  she  was  all  unacquainted  with  the 
wickedness  of  men." 

"  I  wonder  in  what  part  of  the  world  she  lived— 
certainly  not  in  London." 

"  Staying  with  a  relation  in  the  country,  this  fellow 
Jackson  appeared  upon  the  scene " 

"  Ah !  the  most  ancient  story  that  the  world  knows : 
Innocence,  the  Garden,  the  Serpent.  Alas !  Sir,  there 
is  no  return  to  the  Garden  of  Innocence,  even  though 
the  serpent  be  slaughtered." 

"Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Abington" — Goldsmith  spoke 
slowly  and  gravely — "  pardon  me.  This  real  story 
is  not  so  commonplace  as  that  of  my  Olivia.  Des- 
tiny has  more  resources  than  the  most  imaginative 
composer  of  fiction. 

In    as   direct   a   fashion    as   possible   he   told   the 


2i6  itifoe  Jessam^  Bribe. 

actress  the  pitiful  story  of  how  Mary  Horneck  was 
imposed  upon  by  the  glamour  of  the  man  who  let 
it  be  understood  that  he  was  a  hero,  only  incapa- 
citated by  a  wound  from  taking-  any  further  part  in 
the  campaign  against  the  rebels  in  America;  and 
how  he  refused  to  return  to  her  the  letters  which  she 
had  written  to  him,  but  had  threatened  to  print  them 
in  such  a  way  as  would  give  them  the  appearance 
of  having  been  written  by  a  guilty  woman. 

"The  lady  is  prostrated  with  grief,"  he  said, 
concluding  his  story.  "  The  very  contemplation  of  the 
possibility  of  her  letters  being  printed  is  killing  her, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  she  would  not  survive  the 
shame  of  knowing  that  the  scoundrel  had  carried 
out  his  infamous  threat." 

"  Tis  a  sad  story  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Abington. 
"  The  man  is  as  bad  as  bad  can  be.  He  claimed 
acquaintance  with  me  on  that  famous  night  at  the 
Pantheon,  though  I  must  confess  that  I  had  only  a 
vague  recollection  of  meeting  him  before  his  regi- 
ment was  ordered  across  the  Atlantic  to  quell  the 
rebellion  in  the  plantations.  Only  two  days  ago  I 
heard  that  he  had  been  drummed  out  of  the  army, 
and  that  he  had  sunk  to  the  lowest  point  possible 
for  a  man  to  fall  in  this  world.  But  surely  you 
know  that  all  the  fellow  wants  is  to  levy  what  was 
termed  on  the  Border  of  Scotland  '  blackmail '  upon 
the  unhappy  girl  ?  Tis  merely  a  question  of  guineas, 
Dr.  Goldsmith.  You  perceive  that?  You  are  a 
man  ?  " 

"  That   was   indeed   my   first  belief;  but,  on  con- 


<dfoe  Sessams?  JBrifce.  217 


sideration,  I  have  come  to  think  that  he  is  fiend 
enough  to  aim  only  at  the  ruin  of  the  girl,"  said 
Goldsmith. 

"  Psha  !  Sir,  I  believe  not  in  this  high  standard  of 
crime.  I  believe  not  in  the  self-sacrifice  of  such 
fellows  for  the  sake  of  their  principles,"  cried  the 
lady.  "  Go  to  the  fellow  with  your  guineas  and 
shake  them  in  a  bag  under  his  nose,  and  you  shall 
quickly  see  how  soon  he  will  forego  the  dramatic 
elements  in  his  attitude,  and  make  an  ignoble  grab 
at  the  coins." 

"  You  may  be  right,  "  said  he.  "  But  from  whence 
are  the  guineas  to  come,  pray?" 

"Surely  the  lady's  friends  will  not  see  her  lost 
for  the  sake  of  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds." 

"  Nay  ;  but  her  aim  is  to  keep  the  matter  from 
the  ears  of  her  friends.  She  would  be  overcome 
with  shame  were  it  to  reach  their  ears  that  she  had 
written  letters  of  affection  to  such  a  man." 

"  She  must  be  a  singularly  unpractical  young  lady, 
Dr.  Goldsmith." 

"  If  she  had  not  been  more  than  innocent  would 
she,  think  you,  have  allowed  herself  to  be  imposed 
on  by  a  stranger  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  Sir,  if  there  were  no  ladies  like  her  in  the 
world,  you  gentlemen  who  delight  us  with  your 
works  of  fiction  would  have  to  rely  solely  on  your 
imagination  ;  and  that  means  going  to  another  world. 
But  to  return  to  the  matter  before  us:  you  wish  to 
obtain  possession  of  the  letters  ?  How  do  you  suggest 
that  I  can  help  you  to  accomplish  that  purpose?" 


218  Ube  3e0sam£  Bribe* 

"  Why,  Madam,  it  is  you  to  whom  I  come  for 
suggestions.  I  saw  the  man  in  conversation  with 
you  first  at  the  Pantheon,  and  then  in  this  very 
room.  It  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps — it  might  be 
possible — in  short,  Mrs.  Abington,  that  you  might 
know  of  some  way  by  which  the  scoundrel  could 
be  entrapped." 

"You  compliment  me,  Sir.  You  think  that  the 
entrapping  of  unwary  men — and  of  wary — is  what 
nature  and  art  have  fitted  me  for — nature  and 
practice?  " 

"I  cannot  conceive  a  higher  compliment  being 
paid  to  a  woman,  dear  Madam.  But,  in  truth,  I 
came  to  you  because  you  are  the  only  lady  with 
whom  I  am  acquainted  who  with  a  kind  heart 
combines  the  highest  intelligence.  That  is  why 
you  are  our  greatest  actress.  The  highest  intelligence 
is  valueless  on  the  stage  unless  it  is  associated  with 
a  heart  that  beats  in  sympathy  with  the  sorrow  and 
becomes  exultant  with  the  joy  of  others.  That  is 
why  I  regard  myself  as  more  than  fortunate  in 
having  your  promise  to  accept  a  part  in  my  next 
comedy. " 

Mrs.  Abington  smiled  as  she  saw  through  the 
very  transparent  art  of  the  author,  reminding  her 
that  she  would  have  her  reward  if  she  helped  him 
out  of  his  difficulty. 

"  I  can  understand  how  ladies  look  on  you  with 
great  favour,  Sir,"  said  the  actress.  "Yes,  in  spite 
of  your  being — being — ah — innocent — a  poet,  and  of 
possessing  other  disqualifications,  you  are  a  delightful 


Hbe  JessamE  ^Sribe*  219 


man,  Dr.  Goldsmith;  and  by  Heaven,  Sir,  I 
shall  do  what  I  can  to  —  to  —  well,  shall  we  say 
to  put  you  in  a  position  of  earning  the  lady's 
gratitude  ?  " 

"That  is  the  position  I  long  for,  dear  Madam." 

"Yes,  but  only  to  have  the  privilege  of  foregoing 
your  claim.  I  know  you,  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Well, 
supposing  you  come  to  see  me  here  in  a  day  or 
two—  that  will  give  both  of  us  a  chance  of  still 
further  considering  the  possibility  of  successfully 
entrapping  our  friend  the  Captain.  I  believe  it  was 
the  lady  who  suggested  the  trap  to  you:  you, 
being  a  man,  were  doubtless  for  running  your 
enemy  through  the  vitals  or  for  cutting  his  throat 
without  the  delay  of  a  moment." 

"Your  judgment  is  unerring,  Airs.  Abington." 

"  Ah,  you  see,  it  is  the  birds  that  have  been  in 
the  trap  who  know  most  about  it.  Besides,  does 
not  our  dear  dead  friend  Will  Shakspere  say,  *  Some 
Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps  '  ?  " 

"  Those  are  his  words,  Madam,  though  at  this 
moment  I  cannot  quite  perceive  their  bearing." 

"Oh,  lud!  Why,  dear  Sir,  Cupid's  mother's 
daughters  resemble  their  little  step-brother  in  being 
fond  of  a  change  of  weapons,  and  you,  Sir,  I  per- 
ceive, have  been  the  victim  of  a  dart.  Now  I  must 
hasten  to  dress  for  my  part  or  there  will  be 
what  Mr.  Daly  of  Smock  Alley,  Dublin,  used  to 
term  '  ructions.'  * 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  delightful  smile 
and  hurried  off,  but  not  before  he  had  bowed  over 


220  Ube  Sessamp 

her  hand,  imprinting  on  it  a  clumsy  but  very 
effective  kiss. 

He  remained  in  the  theatre  until  the  close  of  the 
performance;  for  he  was  not  so  utterly  devoid  of  guile 
as  to  be  unable  to  know  that  if  he  had  departed  without 
witnessing  Mrs.  Abington  in  the  second  piece  she  would 
have  regarded  him  as  far  from  civil.  Seeing  him  in  a 
side  box,  however,  that  clever  lady  perceived  that 
He  had  taste  as  well  as  tact.  She  felt  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  do  anything  for  such  a  man — especially 
as  he  was  a  writer  of  plays.  It  would  be  an  additional 
pleasure  to  her  if  she  could  so  interpret  a  character 
in  a  play  of  his  that  it  should  be  the  most  notable 
success  of  the  season. 

As  Goldsmith  strolled  back  to  his  chambers  he  felt 
that  he  had  made  some  progress  in  the  enterprise 
with  which  he  had  been  entrusted.  He  did  not  feel 
elated,  but  only  tranquilly  confident  that  his  judgment 
had  not  been  at  fault  when  it  suggested  to  him  the 
propriety  of  consulting  with  Mrs.  Abington.  This 
was  the  first  time  that  propriety  and  Mrs.  Abington 
had  ever  been  associated. 

The  next  day  he  got  a  message  that  the  success 
of  his  play  was  consolidated  by  a  "  command " 
performance  at  which  the  whole  of  his  Majesty's 
Court  would  attend.  This  news  elated  him,  not  only 
because  it  meant  the  complete  success  of  the  play 
and  the  overthrow  of  the  sentimentalists  who  were 
still  harping  upon  the  "low"  elements  of  certain 
scenes,  but  also  because  he  accepted  it  as  an 
incident  of  good  augury.  He  felt  certain  that  Mrs. 


ZTbe  Jessam    3Bribe.  221 


Abington  would  discover  a  plan  by  which  he  should 
be  able  to  get  possession  of  the  letters. 

When  he  went  to  her  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
days,  he  found  that  she  had  not  been  unmindful  of 
his  interests. 

"The  fellow  had  the  effrontery  to  stand  beside 
my  chair  in  the  Mall  yesterday,"  said  she,  "but  I 
tolerated  him  —  nay,  I  encouraged  him  —  not  for  your 
sake,  mind;  I  do  not  want  you  to  fancy  that  you 
interest  me,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  unhappy  girl 
who  was  no  nearly  making  a  shocking  fool  of  herself. 
Only  one  girl  interests  me  more  than  she  who  nearly 
makes  a  fool  of  herself,  and  that  is  she  who  actually 
makes  the  fool  of  herself." 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  the  latter  is  more  widely  repre- 
sented in  this  evil  world,  Mrs.  Abington,"  said  Oliver, 
so  gravely  that  the  actress  roared  with  laughter. 

"  You  have  too  fine  a  comedy  face  to  be  sentimen- 
tal, Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  she.  "But  to  business. 
I  tell  you  I  even  smiled  upon  the  gentleman,  for  I 
have  found  that  the  traps  which  are  netted  with 
silk  are  invariably  the  most  effective." 

"  You  have  found  that  by  your  experience  of 
traps  ?  "  said  Goldsmith.  "  The  smile  is  the  silken 
net?" 

"Even  so,"  said  she,  giving  an  excellent  exam- 
ple of  the  fatal  mesh.  "  Ah,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  you 
would  do  well  to  avoid  the  woman  who  smiles 
on  you." 

"  Alas  !  Madam,  the  caution  is  thrown  away  upon 
me;  she  smiles  not  on  me,  but  at  me." 


222  Ube  JessamK?  Bribe* 

"  Thank  Heaven  for  that,  Sir.  No  harm  will 
come  to  you  through  being  smiled  at.  How  I  stray 
from  my  text!  Well,  Sir,  the  wretch,  in  response 
to  the  encouragement  of  my  smile,  had  the  effron- 
tery to  ask  me  for  my  private  address,  upon  which 
I  smiled  again.  Ah,  Sir,  'tis  diverting  when  the 
fly  begins  to  lure  on  the  spider." 

"  Tis  vastly  diverting,  Madam,  I  doubt  not — to 
the  fly." 

"Ay,  and  to  the  friends  of  the  spider.  But  we 
shall  let  that  pass.  Sir,  to  be  brief,  I  did  not  let 
the  gentleman  know  that  I  had  a  private  address, 
but  I  invited  him  to  partake  of  supper  with  me  on 
next  Thursday  night." 

"  Heavens !  Madam,  you  do  not  mean  to  tell  me 
that  your  interest  on  my  behalf " 

"  Is  sufficiently  great  to  lead  me  to  sup  with  a 
spider?  Sir,  I  say  that  I  am  only  interested  in  my 
sister-fly — would  she  be  angry  if  she  were  to  hear 
that  such  a  woman  as  I  even  thought  of  her  as  a 
sister?" 

There  was  a  note  of  pathos  in  the  question,  which 
did  not  fall  unnoticed  upon  Goldsmith's  ear. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  she  is  a  Christian  woman." 

"Ah,  Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  the  actress,  "a  very 
small  amount  of  Christian  charity  is  thought  suffi- 
cient for  the  equipment  of  a  Christian  woman.  Let 
that  pass,  however;  what  I  want  of  you  is  to  join 
us  at  supper  on  Thursday  night.  It  is  to  take  place 
in  the  Shakspere  tavern  round  the  corner,  and,  of 
course,  in  a  private  room;  but  I  do  not  want  you 


Sessamp  JBcibe,  223 

to  appear  boldly,  as  if  I  had  invited  you  beforehand 
to  partake  of  my  hospitality.  You  must  come  into 
the  room  when  we  have  begun,  carrying  with  you 
a  roll  of  manuscript,  which  you  must  tell  me  con- 
tains a  scene  of  your  new  comedy,  upon  which  we 
are  daily  in  consultation,  mind  you." 

"I  shall  not  fail  to  recollect,"  said  Goldsmith. 
"Why,  'tis  like  the  argument  of  a  comedy,  Mrs. 
Abington;  I  protest  I  never  invented  one  more 
elaborate.  I  rather  fear  to  enter  upon  it." 

"Nay,  you  must  be  in  no  trepidation,  Sir,"  said 
the  lady.  "  I  think  I  know  the  powers  of  the  va- 
rious members  of  the  cast  of  this  little  drama  of 
mine,  so  you  need  not  think  that  you  will  be  put 
into  a  part  which  you  will  not  be  able  to  play  to 
perfection. " 

"  You  are  giving  me  a  lesson  in  play- writing.  Pray 
continue  the  argument.  When  I  enter  with  the 
imaginary  scene  of  my  new  piece,  you  will,  I  trust, 
ask  me  to  remain  to  supper :  you  see  I  grudge  the 
gentleman  the  pleasure  of  your  society  for  even 
an  hour." 

"  I  will  ask  you  to  join  us  at  the  table,  and  then 
—well,  then  I  have  a  notion  that  between  us  we 
should  have  no  great  difficulty  making  our  friend 
drink  a  sufficient  quantity  of  wine  to  cause  him  to 
make  known  all  his  secrets  to  us,  even  as  to  where 
he  keeps  those  precious  letters  of  his." 

Oliver's  face  did  not  exhibit  any  expression  that 
the  actress  could  possibly  interpret  as  a  flattering 
tribute  to  her  ingenuity — the  fact  being  that  he  was 


224  Tflbe  Sessam^  Bribe, 

greatly  disappointed  at  the  result  of  her  contriving. 
Her  design  was  on  a  level  of  ingenuity  with  that 
which  might  occur  to  a  romantic  school  miss.  Of 
course  the  idea  upon  which  it  was  founded  had 
formed  the  basis  of  more  than  one  comedy — he  had 
a  notion  that  if  these  comedies  had  not  been  written 
Mrs.  Abington's  scheme  would  not  have  been  so 
clearly  defined. 

She  perceived  the  expression  on  his  face  and 
rightly  interpreted  it. 

"  What,  Sir !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you  fail  to  per- 
ceive the  singular  ingenuity  of  my  scheme?  Nay, 
you  must  remember  that  'tis  my  first  attempt — not 
at  scheming,  to  be  sure,  but  at  inventing  a  design 
for  a  play." 

"  I  would  not  shrink  from  making  use  of  your 
design  if  I  were  writing  a  play,  dear  lady,"  said 
he;  "but  then,  you  see,  it  would  be  in  my  power 
to  make  my  villain  speak  at  the  right  moments  and 
hold  his  peace  at  the  right  moments.  It  would  also 
be  in  my  power  to  make  him  confess  all  that  was 
necessary  for  the  situation.  But  alas!  Madam,  it 
makes  me  sometimes  quite  hopeless  of  Nature  to 
find  how  frequently  she  disregards  the  most  ordinary 
precepts  of  art." 

"  Psha !  Sir, "  said  the  actress.  "  Nothing  in  this 
world  is  certain.  I  am  a  poor  moralist,  but  I 
recognise  the  fact,  and  make  it  the  guide  of  my 
life.  At  the  same  time  I  have  noticed  that,  although 
one's  carefully  arranged  plans  are  daily  thrown  into 
terrible  disorder  by  the  slovenliness  of  the  actors  to 


ube  Jessams  JSribe*  225 

whom  we  assign  certain  parts  and  certain  dialogue, 
yet  in  the  end  Nature  makes  even  a  more  satis- 
factory drama  out  of  the  ruins  of  our  schemes  than 
we  originally  designed.  So,  in  this  case,  Sir,  I  am 
not  without  hope  that  even  though  our  gentleman's 
lips  remain  sealed — nay,  even  though  our  gentleman 
remain  sober — a  great  calamity — we  may  still  be 
able  to  accomplish  our  purpose.  You  will  keep 
your  ears  open  and  I  shall  keep  my  eyes  open, 
and  it  will  be  strange  if  between  us  we  cannot  get 
the  better  of  so  commonplace  a  scoundrel." 

"I  place  myself  unreservedly  in  your  handst 
Madam,"  said  Oliver;  "and  I  can  only  repeat  what 
you  have  said  so  well — namely,  that  even  the  most 
clumsy  of  our  schemes — which  this  one  of  yours 
certainly  is  not — may  become  the  basis  of  a  most 
ingenious  drama,  designed  and  carried  out  by  that 
singularly  adroit  playwright,  Destiny.  And  so  I 
shall  not  fail  you  on  Thursday  evening." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


few  days  felt 


ill 


GOLDSMITH  for  the  ne 
ease.  He  had  a  consciousness  of  having  wasted  a 
good  deal  of  valuable  time  waiting  upon  Mrs.  Abington 
and  discussing  with  her  the  possibility  of  accom- 
plishing the  purpose  which  he  had  at  heart;  for  he 
could  not  but  perceive  how  shallow  was  the  scheme 
which  she  had  devised  for  the  undoing  of  Mary 
Horneck's  enemy.  He  felt  that  it  would,  after  all, 
have  been  better  for  him  to  place  himself  in  the 
hands  of  the  fencing-master  whom  Baretti  had  pro- 
mised to  find  out  for  him,  and  to  do  his  best  to 
run  the  scoundrel  through  the  body,  than  to  waste 
his  time  listening  to  the  crude  scheme  concocted  by 
Mrs.  Abington,  in  close  imitation  of  some  third-class 
playwright. 

He  felt,  however,  that  he  had  committed  himself 
to  the  actress  and  her  scheme.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  him  to  draw  back  after  agreeing  to  join  her  at 
supper  on  the  Thursday  night.  But  this  fact  did 
not  prevent  his  exercising  his  imagination  with  a 
view  to  finding  out  some  new  plan  for  obtaining 
possession  of  the  letters.  Thursday  came,  however, 

without    seeing    him   any   further  advanced  in  this 

226 


Jessamg  Bribe*  227 

direction  than  he  had  been  when  he  had  first  gone 
to  the  actress,  and  he  began  to  feel  that  kind  of 
despair  which  takes  the  form  of  hoping  for  the 
intervention  of  some  accident  to  effect  what  inge- 
nuity has  failed  to  accomplish.  Mrs.  Abington  had 
suggested  the  possibility  of  such  an  accident  taking 
place — in  fact,  she  seemed  to  rely  rather  upon  the 
possibility  of  such  an  occurrence  than  upon  the  in- 
genuity of  her  own  scheme;  and  Oliver  could  not 
but  think  that  she  was  right  in  this  respect.  He 
had  a  considerable  experience  of  Jife  and  its  vicissi- 
tudes, and  he  knew  that  when  Destiny  was  in  a 
jesting  mood  the  most  judicious  and  cunningly  de- 
vised scheme  may  be  overturned  by  an  accident 
apparently  no  less  trivial  than  the  raising  of  a 
hand,  the  fluttering  of  a  piece  of  lace,  or  the  cry 
of  a  baby. 

He  had  known  of  a  horse's  casting  a  shoe  pre- 
venting a  runaway  match  and  a  vast  amount  of  con- 
sequent misery,  and  he  had  heard  of  a  shower  of 
rain  causing  a  confirmed  woman-hater  to  take  shel- 
ter in  a  doorway,  where  he  met  a  young  woman 
who  changed — for  a  time — all  his  ideas  of  the  sex. 
As  he  recalled  these  and  other  freaks  of  Fate,  he 
could  not  but  feel  that  Mrs.  Abington  was  fully  jus- 
tified in  her  confidence  in  accident  as  a  factor  in 
all  human  problems.  But  he  was  quite  aware  that 
hoping  for  an  accident  is  only  another  form  of 
despair. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  appointed  by  Mrs.  Abing- 
ton for  her  supper  he  met  Baretti,  and  reminded 


228  TTbe  Jessams  Bribe. 

him  of  the  promise  he  had  made  to  find  an  Italian 
fencing-master  and  send  him  to  Brick  Court. 

"  What !  "  cried  Baretti.  "  Have  you  another  affair 
on  your  hands  in  addition  to  that  in  which  you  have 
already  been  engaged?  Psha!  Sir.  You  do  not 
need  to  be  a  swordsman  in  order  to  flog  a  book- 
seller." 

"I  do  not  look  forward  to  fighting  booksellers," 
said  Goldsmith.  "They  have  stepped  between  me 
and  starvation  more  than  once." 

"Would  any  one  of  them  have  taken  that  step 
unless  he  was  pretty  certain  to  make  money  by  his 
philanthropy?"  asked  Baretti  in  his  usual  cyni- 
cal way. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  replied  Goldsmith.  "  I  don't  think 
that  I  can  lay  claim  to  the  mortifying  reflection  that 
I  have  enriched  any  bookseller.  At  any  rate,  I  do 
not  mean  ever  to  beat  another." 

"Tis,  then,  a  critic  whom  you  mean  to  attack? 
If  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  kill  a  critic, 
I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  find  you  the  best  swords- 
man in  Europe,"  said  Baretti. 

"Do  so,  my  friend,"  said  Goldsmith;  "  and  when 
I  succeed  in  killing  a  critic,  you  shall  have  the  first 
and  second  fingers  of  his  right  hand  as  a  memento." 

"  I  shall  look  for  them — yes,  in  five  years,  for  it 
will  certainly  take  that  time  to  make  you  expert 
with  a  sword, "  said  the  Italian.  "  And,  meantime, 
you  may  yourself  be  cut  to  pieces  by  even  so  indif- 
ferent a  fighter  as  Kenrick." 

"  In   such    a   case   I  promise  to  bequeath  to  you 


Jessams  Bribe*  229 

whatever  bones  of  mine  you  may  take  a  fancy  to 
have." 

"  And  I  shall  regard  them  with  great  veneration, 
being  the  relics  of  a  martyr — a  man  who  did  not 
fear  to  fight  with  dragons  and  other  unclean  beasts. 
You  may  look  for  a  visit  from  a  skilful  countryman 
of  mine  within  a  week;  only  let  me  pray  of  you  to 
be  guided  by  his  advice.  If  he  should  say  that  it 
is  wiser  for  you  to  beware  the  entrance  to  a  quarrel, 
as  your  poet  has  it,  you  will  do  well  to  accept  his 
advice.  I  do  not  want  a  poet's  bones  for  my  reli- 
quary, though  from  all  that  I  can  hear  one  of  our 
friends  would  have  no  objection  to  a  limb  or  two." 

"  And  who  may  that  friend  be  ?  " 

"You  should  be  able  to  guess,  Sir.  What!  have 
you  not  been  negotiating  with  the  booksellers  for  a 
Life  of  Dr.  Johnson?  " 

"  Not  I,  Sir.  But,  if  I  have  been  doing  so,  what 
then?" 

"  What  then  ?  Why,  then  you  may  count  upon 
the  eternal  enmity  of  the  little  Scotchman  whom 
you  once  described  not  as  a  cur  but  only  a  burr. 
Sir,  Boswell  robbed  of  his  Johnson  would  be  worse 
than — than " 

aA  lioness  robbed  of  her  whelps?" 

a  Well,  better  say  a  she-bear  robbed  of  her  cubs, 
only  that  Johnson  is  the  bear  and  Boswell  the  cub. 
Boswell  has  been  going  about  saying  that  you  had 
boasted  to  him  of  your  intention  to  become  John- 
son's biographer ;  and  the  best  of  the  matter  is  that 
Johnson  has  entered  with  great  spirit  into  the  jest, 


230  Ube  Jessams  Bribe* 

and  has  kept  his  poor  Bossy  on  thistles — reminiscent 
of  his  native  land — ever  since." 

Goldsmith  laughed,  and  told  Baretti  how  he  had 
occasion  to  get  rid  of  Boswell  and  had  done  so  by 
pretending  that  he  meant  to  write  a  Life  of  Johnson. 
Baretti  laughed  and  went  on  to  describe  how,  on 
the  previous  evening,  Garrick  had  drawn  Boswell 
on  until  the  latter  had  imitated  all  the  animals  in 
the  farmyard,  while  narrating,  for  the  thousandth 
time,  his  first  appearance  in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane. 
Boswell  had  felt  quite  flattered,  Baretti  said,  when 
Garrick,  making  a  judicial  speech,  which  everyone 
present  except  Boswell  perceived  to  be  a  fine  piece 
of  comedy,  said  he  felt  constrained  to  reverse  the 
judgment  of  the  man  in  the  pit  who  had  shouted: 
"Stick  to  the  coo,  mon!"  On  the  whole  Garrick 
said  he  thought  that,  while  Boswell's  imitation  of 
the  cow  was  most  admirable  in  many  respects,  yet 
for  naturalness  it  was  his  opinion — whatever  it  might 
be  worth — that  the  voice  of  the  ass  was  that  which 
Boswell  was  most  successful  in  attempting. 

Goldsmith  knew  that  even  Garrick's  broadest 
buffoonery  was  on  occasions  accepted  by  Boswell 
with  all  seriousness,  and  he  had  no  hesitation  in 
believing  Baretti's  account  of  the  party  on  the  pre- 
vious evening. 

He  went  to  Mrs.  Abington's  room  at  the  theatre 
early  in  the  night  to  inquire  if  she  had  made  any 
change  in  her  plans  respecting  the  supper,  and  he 
found  that  the  lady  had  come  to  think  as  poorly  as 
he  did  of  the  scheme  which  she  had  invented.  She 


Bribe.  231 

had  even  abandoned  her  idea  of  inducing  the  man 
to  confess,  when  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  where 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  keeping  the  letters. 

"  These  fellows  are  sometimes  desperately  suspi- 
cious when  in  their  cups,"  said  she;  "and  I  fear 
that  at  the  first  hint  of  our  purpose  he  may  become 
dumb,  no  matter  how  boldly  he  may  have  been 
talking  previously.  If  he  suspects  that  you  have  a 
desire  to  obtain  the  letters,  you  may  say  farewell 
to  the  chance  of  worming  anything  out  of  him  re- 
garding them." 

"  What  then  is  to  be  gained  by  our  supping  with 
him?  "  said  Goldsmith. 

"  Why,  you  are  brought  into  contact  with  him, " 
she  replied.  "  You  will  then  be  in  a  position,  if  you 
cultivate  a  friendship  with  him,  to  take  him  unawares 
upon  some  occasion,  and  so  effect  your  purpose. 
Great  Heavens,  Sir!  one  cannot  expect  to  take  a 
man  by  storm,  so  to  speak — one  cannot  hope  to 
meet  a  clever  scoundrel  for  half  an  hour  in  the 
evening,  and  then  walk  away  with  all  his  secrets. 
You  may  have  to  be  with  this  fellow  every  day  for 
a  month  or  two  before  you  get  a  chance  of  putting 
the  letters  into  your  pocket." 

"  I'll  hope  for  better  luck  than  that,"  said  Oliver. 

"  Oh,  with  good  luck  one  can  accomplish  any- 
thing," said  she.  "But  good  luck  is  just  one  of  the 
things  that  cannot  be  arranged  for  even  by  the 
cleverest  people." 

"  That  is  where  men  are  at  a  disadvantage  in 
striving  with  Destiny,"  said  Goldsmith.  "But  I 


232  ZTfoe  3essam£  Bribe. 

think  that  any  man  who  succeeds  in  having  Mrs. 
Abington  as  his  ally  must  be  regarded  as  the  most 
fortunate  of  his  sex." 

"  Ah,  Sir,  wait  for  another  month  before  you  compli- 
ment me,"  said  she. 

"  Madam, "  said  he,  "  I  am  not  complimenting  you 
but  myself.  I  will  take  your  advice  and  reserve 
my  compliments  to  you  for — well,  no,  not  a  month; 
if  I  can  put  them  off  for  a  week  I  shall  feel  that 
I  have  done  very  well." 

As  he  made  his  bow  and  left  her,  he  could  not 
help  feeling  more  strongly  that  he  had  greatly 
overrated  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  an 
alliance  with  Mrs.  Abington  when  his  object  was 
to  get  the  better  of  an  adroit  scoundrel.  He  had 
heard — nay,  he  had  written — of  the  wiles  of  women, 
and  yet  the  first  time  that  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  testing  a  woman's  wiles  he  found  that  he  had 
been  far  too  generous  in  his  estimate  of  their  value. 

It  was  with  no  little  trepidation  that  he  went  to 
the  Shakspere  tavern  at  supper-time  and  inquired 
for  Mrs.  Abington.  He  had  a  roll  of  manuscript 
in  his  hand,  according  to  agreement,  and  he  desired 
the  waiter  to  inform  the  lady  that  he  would  not 
keep  her  for  long.  He  was  very  fluent  up  to  this 
point;  but  he  was  uncertain  how  he  would  behave 
when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  man 
who  had  made  the  life  of  Mary  Horneck  miserable. 
He  wondered  if  he  would  be  able  to  restrain  his 
impulse  to  fly  at  the  scoundrel's  throat. 

When,     however,     the    waiter    returned    with    a 


-JessaniE  Bribe*  233 

message  from  Mrs.  Abington  that  she  would  see 
Dr.  Goldsmith  in  the  supper-room,  and  he  ascended 
the  stairs  to  that  apartment,  he  felt  quite  at  his 
ease.  He  had  nerved  himself  to  play  a  part,  and 
he  was  convinced  that  the  role  was  not  beyond  his 
powers. 

Mrs.  Abington,  at  the  moment  of  his  entrance, 
was  lying  back  in  her  chair  laughing,  apparently 
at  a  story  which  was  being  told  to  her  by  her 
vis-a-vis,  for  he  was  leaning  across  the  table,  with 
his  elbow  resting  upon  it  and  one  expressive  finger 
upraised  to  give  emphasis  to  the  points  of  his 
narrative. 

When  Goldsmith  appeared,  the  actress  nodded  to 
him  familiarly,  pleasantly,  but  did  not  allow  her 
attention  to  be  diverted  from  the  story  which  Captain 
Jackson  was  telling  to  her.  Goldsmith  paused,  with 
his  fingers  still  on  the  handle  of  the  door.  He 
knew  that  the  most  inopportune  entrance  that  a 
man  can  make  upon  another  is  when  the  other  is 
in  the  act  of  telling  a  story  to  an  appreciative 
audience — say,  a  beautiful  actress  in  a  gown  that 
allows  her  neck  and  shoulders  to  be  seen  to  the 
greatest  advantage  and  does  not  interfere  with  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  that  roseate  tide,  with  its  gracious 
ripples  and  delicate  wimplings,  rising  and  falling 
between  the  porcelain  of  her  throat  and  the  curve 
of  the  ivory  of  her  shoulders. 

The  man  did  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to  turn 
round  in  recognition  of  Goldsmith's  entrance ;  he 
finished  his  story  and  received  Mrs.  Abington's 


234 


tribute  of  a  laugh  as  a  matter  of  course.  Then  he 
turned  his  head  round  as  the  visitor  ventured  to 
take  a  step  or  two  toward  the  table,  bowing  pro- 
fusely— rather  too  profusely  for  the  part  he  was 
playing,  the  artistic  perception  of  the  actress 
told  her. 

"  Ha,  my  little  author !  "  cried  the  man  at  the 
table  with  the  swagger  of  a  patron,  "  you  are,  true 
to  the  tradition  of  the  craft  of  scribblers — the  best 
time  for  putting  in  an  appearance  is  when  supper 
has  just  been  served." 

"Ah,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith,  "we  poor  devils  are 
forced  to  wait  upon  the  convenience  of  our  betters." 

"  Strike  me  dumb,  Sir,  if  'tis  not  a  pity  you  do 
not  await  their  convenience  in  an  ante-room — ay, 
or  the  kitchen.  I  have  heard  that  the  scribe  and 
the  cook  usually  become  the  best  of  friends.  You 
poets  write  best  of  broken  hearts  when  you  are 
sustained  by  broken  victuals." 

"  For  shame,  Captain ! "  cried  Mrs.  Abington. 
"Dr.  Goldsmith  is  a  man  as  well  as  a  poet.  He 
has  broken  heads  before  now.** 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CAPTAIN  JACKSON  laughed  heartily  at  so  quaint  an 
idea,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  point- 
ing a  contemptuous  thumb  at  Oliver,  who  had 
advanced  to  the  side  of  the  actress,  assuming  the 
deprecatory  smile  of  the  bookseller's  hack.  He 
played  the  part  very  indifferently,  the  lady  perceived. 

"Faith,  my  dear,"  laughed  the  Captain,  "I  would 
fain  believe  that  he  is  a  terrible  person  for  a  poet, 
for,  by  the  Lord,  he  nearly  had  his  head  broke  by 
me  on  the  first  night  that  you  went  to  the  Pan- 
theon, and  I  swear  that  I  never  crack  a  skull  un- 
less that  of  a  person  who  is  accustomed  to  spread 
terror  around." 

"  Some  poets'  skulls,  Sir,  are  not  so  easily  cracked, w 
said  Mrs.  Abington. 

"Nay,  my  dear  Madam,"  cried  her  vis-a-vis, 
"you  must  pardon  me  for  saying  that  I  do  not 
think  you  express  your  meaning  with  any  great 
exactness.  I  take  it  that  you  mean,  Madam,  that 
on  the  well-known  kitchen  principle  that  cracked 
objects  last  longer  than  others,  a  poet's  pate,  being 
cracked  originally,  survives  the  assaults  that  would 
overcome  a  sound  head." 

235 


236  irfoe  Jessams 

"I  meant  nothing  like  that,  Captain,"  said  Mrs. 
Abington.  Then  she  turned  to  Goldsmith,  who 
stood  by,  fingering  his  roll  of  manuscript.  "  Come, 
Dr.  Goldsmith,"  she  cried,  "seat  yourself  by  me, 
and  partake  of  supper.  I  vow  that  I  will  not  even 
glance  at  that  act  of  your  new  play  which  I  per- 
ceive you  have  brought  to  me,  until  we  have 
supped." 

"Nay,  Madam,"  stuttered  Goldsmith;  "I  have 
already  had  my  humble  meal;  still " 

He  glanced  from  the  dishes  on  the  table  to  Cap- 
tain Jackson,  who  gave  a  hoarse  laugh,  crying, 

"Ha,  I  wondered  if  the  traditions  of  the  trade 
were  about  to  be  violated  by  our  most  admirable 
Doctor.  I  thought  it  likely  that  he  would  allow 
himself  to  be  persuaded.  But  I  swear  that  he  has 
no  regard  for  the  romance  which  he  preaches,  or 
else  he  would  not  form  the  third  at  a  party.  Has 
he  never  heard  that  the  third  in  a  party  is  the  in- 
evitable kill-joy?" 

"  You  wrong  my  friend  Dr.  Goldsmith,  Captain," 
said  the  actress,  in  smiling  remonstrance  that  seemed 
to  beg  of  him  to  take  an  indulgent  view  of  the 
poet's  weakness.  "  You  wrong  him,  Sir.  Dr.  Gold- 
smith is  a  man  of  parts.  He  is  a  wit  as  well  as 
a  poet,  and  he  will  not  stay  very  long;  will  you, 
Dr.  Goldsmith?" 

She  acted  the  part  so  well  that  but  for  the  side 
glance  which  she  cast  at  him,  Goldsmith  might 
have  believed  her  to  be  in  earnest.  For  his  own 
part  he  was  acting  to  perfection  the  role  of  the 


TTbe  Jessams  ®rtbe.  237 

hack  author  who  was  patronised  till  he  found  him- 
self in  the  gutter.  He  could  only  smile  in  a  sickly 
way  as  he  laid  down  his  hat  beside  a  chair  over 
which  Jackson's  cloak  was  flung,  and  placed  in  it 
the  roll  of  manuscript,  preparatory  to  seating  him- 
self. 

"Madam,  I  am  your  servant,"  he  murmured. 
"  Sir,  I  am  your  most  obedient  to  command.  I  feel 
the  honour  of  being  permitted  to  sup  in  such 
distinguished  company." 

"  And  so  you  should,  Sir,"  cried  Captain  Jackson 
as  the  waiter  bustled  about,  laying  a  fresh  plate  and 
glass,  "  so  you  should.  Your  grand  patrons,  my 
little  friend,  though  they  may  make  a  pretence  of 
saving  you  from  slaughter  by  taking  your  quarrel 
on  their  shoulders,  are  not  likely  to  feed  you  at 
their  own  table.  Lord,  how  that  piece  of  antiquity, 
General  Oglethorpe,  swaggered  across  the  porch  at 
the  Pantheon  when  I  had  half  a  mind  to  chastise 
you  for  your  clumsiness  in  almost  knocking  me 
over.  May  I  die,  Sir,  if  I  wasn't  at  the  brink  of 
teaching  the  General  a  lesson  which  he  would  have 
remembered  to  his  dying  hour — his  dying  hour— 
that  is  to  say  for  exactly  four  minutes  after  I  had 
drawn  upon  him." 

"Ah,  Dr.  Goldsmith  is  fortunate  in  his  friends," 
said  Mrs.  Abington.  "  But  I  hope  that  in  future, 
Captain,  he  may  reckon  on  your  sword  being  drawn 
on  his  behalf,  and  not  turned  against  him  and  his 
friends. " 

"  If  you  are  his  friend,  my  dear  Mrs.  Abington, 


238  Ube  Jessams  Bribe* 

he  may  count  upon  me,  I  swear,"  cried  the  Captain 
bowing  over  the  table. 

"Good,"  she  said.  "And  so  I  call  upon  you  to 
drink  to  his  health — a  bumper,  Sir  a  bumper!" 

The  Captain  showed  no  reluctance  to  pay  the 
suggested  compliment.  With  an  air  of  joviality  he 
filled  his  large  glass  up  to  the  brim  and  drained  it 
with  a  good-humoured,  half-patronising  motion  in  the 
direction  of  Goldsmith. 

"  Hang  him !  "  he  cried,  when  he  had  wiped  his 
lips,  "  I  bear  Goldsmith  no  malice  for  his  clumsiness 
in  the  porch  of  the  Pantheon.  'Sdeath,  Madam, 
shall  the  man  who  led  a  company  of  his  Majesty's 
regulars  in  charge  after  charge  upon  the  American 
rebels  refuse  to  drink  to  the  health  of  a  little  man 
who  tinkles  out  his  rhymes  as  the  man  at  the  raree 
show  does  his  bells?  Strike  me  blind,  deaf,  and 
dumb !  if  I  am  not  magnanimous  to  my  heart's  core. 
I'll  drink  his  health  again  if  you  challenge  me." 

"  Nay,  Captain, "  said  the  lady,  "  I  '11  be  magnanimous, 
too,  and  refrain  from  challenging  you.  I  sadly  fear 
that  you  have  been  drinking  too  many  healths  during 
the  day,  Sir." 

"What  mean  you  by  that,  Madam?"  he  cried. 
"  Do  you  suggest  that  I  cannot  carry  my  liquor  with 
the  best  men  at  White's?  If  you  were  a  man,  and 
you  gave  a  hint  in  that  direction,  by  the  Lord  it 
would  be  the  last  that  you  would  have  a  chance 
of  offering." 

"Nay,  nay,  Sir!  I  meant  not  that,"  said  the 
actress  hastily.  "  I  will  prove  to  you  that  I  meant 


Ube  3es8ant£  JSrifce.  239 

it  not  by  challenging  you  to  drink  to  Dr.  Goldsmith's 
new  comedy." 

"Now  you  are  very  much  my  dear,"  said  Jack- 
son, half-emptying  the  brandy  decanter  into  his 
glass  and  adding  only  a  thimbleful  of  water.  "  Yes, 
your  confidence  in  me  wipes  out  the  previous  affront. 
'Sblood,  Madam,  shall  it  be  said  that  Dick  Jackson, 
whose  name  made  the  American  rebels — curse  'em ! 
— turn  as  green  as  their  own  coats — shall  it  be  said 
that  Dick  Jackson,  of  whom  the  rebel  Colonel- 
Washington  his  name  is — George  Washington" — he 
had  considerable  difficulty  over  the  name — "is  ac- 
customed to  say  to  this  day,  'Give  me  a  hundred 
men — not  men,  but  lions,  like  that  devil  Dick  Jack- 
son, and  I'll  sweep  his  Majesty's  forces  into  the 
Potomac ' — shall  it  be  said  that — that — what  the  devil 
was  I  about  to  say — shall  it  be  said? — never  mind 
—here's  to  the  health  of  Colonel  Washington!" 

"  Nay,  Sir,  we  cannot  drink  to  one  of  the  King's 
enemies,  *  said  Mrs.  Abington,  rising.  "  'Twere 
scandalous,  indeed,  to  do  so  in  this  place ;  and,  Sir, 
you  still  wear  the  King's  uniform." 

"  The  devil  take  the  King's  uniform !  "  shouted 
the  man.  a  The  devils  of  rebels  are  taking  a  good 
many  coats  of  that  uniform,  and  let  me  tell  you, 
Madam,  that — nay,  you  must  not  leave  the  table 
until  the  toast  is  drunk — "  Mrs.  Abington  having 
risen,  had  walked  across  the  room  and  seated  her- 
self on  the  chair  over  which  Captain  Jackson  had 
flung  his  cloak. 

"Hold,  Sir,"  cried  Goldsmith,  dropping  his  knife 


240  Ube  3essams  Bribe* 


t  made 


and  fork  with  a  clatter  upon  his  plate  that 
the  other  man  give  a  little  jump.  "  Hold,  Sir,  I 
perceive  that  you  are  on  the  side  of  freedom,  and 
I  would  feel  honoured  by  your  permission  to  drink 
the  toast  that  you  propose.  Here's  success  to  the 
cause  that  will  triumph  in  America." 

Jackson,  who  was  standing  at  the  table  with  his 
glass  in  his  hand,  stared  at  him  with  the  smile  of 
a  half-intoxicated  man.  He  had  just  enough  intel- 
ligence remaining  to  make  him  aware  that  there 
was  something  ambiguous  in  Goldsmith's  toast. 

"  It  sounds  all  right, "  he  muttered  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  convince  himself  that  his  suspicions  of 
ambiguity  were  groundless.  "  It  sounds  all  right, 
and  yet,  strike  me  dizzy !  if  it  wouldn't  work  both 
ways!  Ha,  my  little  poet,"  he  continued,  "I'm  glad 
to  see  that  you  are  a  man.  Drink,  Sir — drink  to 
the  success  of  the  cause  in  America." 

Goldsmith  got  upon  his  feet  and  raised  his  glass — 
it  contained  only  a  light  wine. 

"  Success  to  it !  "  he  cried,  and  he  watched  Cap- 
tain Jackson  drain  his  third  tumbler  of  brandy. 

"Hark  ye,  my  little  poet!"  whispered  the  latter 
very  huskily,  lurching  across  the  table,  and  failing 
to  notice  that  his  hostess  had  not  returned  to  her 
place.  "Hark  ye,  Sir!  Cornwallis  thought  himself 
a  general  of  generals.  He  thought  when  he  court- 
martialled  me  and  turned  me  out  of  the  regiment, 
sending  me  back  to  England  in  a  foul  hulk  from 
Boston  port,  that  he  had  got  rid  of  me.  He'll  find 
out  that  he  was  mistaken,  Sir,  and  that  one  of  these 


Sessarn^  Bribe*  241 

days — mum's  the  word,  mind  you!  If  you  open 
your  lips  to  any  human  being  about  this,  I'll  cut 
you  to  pieces.  I'll  flay  you  alive  i  Washington  is  no 
better  than  Cornwallis,  let  me  tell  you.  What 
message  did  he  send  to  me  when  he  heard  that  I  was 
ready  to  blow  Cornwallis's  brains  out  and  march 
my  company  across  the  Potomac?  I  ask  you,  Sir, 
man  to  man — though  a  poet  isn't  quite  a  man — but 
that's  my  generosity.  Said  Washy — Washy — Wishy 
-Washy — Washington:  'Cornwallis's  brains  have 
been  such  valuable  allies  to  the  colonists,  Colonel 
Washington  would  regard  as  his  enemy  any  man 
who  would  make  the  attempt  to  curtail  their  capa- 
city for  blundering.'  That's  the  message  I  got  from 
Washington,  curse  him!  But  the  Colonel  isn't 
everybody.  Mark  me,  my  friend — whatever  your 
name  is — I've  got  letters — letters " 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  have  letters — where  ?  "  cried  Gold- 
smith, in  the  confidential  whisper  that  the  other  had 
assumed. 

The  man  who  was  leaning  over  the  table  stared 
at  him  hazily,  and  then  across  his  face  there  came 
the  cunning  look  of  the  more  than  half-intoxicated. 
He  straightened  himself  as  well  as  he  could  in 
his  chair,  and  then  swayed  limply  backward  and 
forward,  laughing. 

"  Letters — oh,  yes — plenty  of  letters — but  where  ? — 
where? — that's  my  own  matter — a  secret,"  he  mur- 
mured in  vague  tones.  "  The  Government  would 
give  a  guinea  or  two  for  my  letters — one  of  them 
came  from  Mount  Vernon  itself,  Mr. — whatever  your 

16 


242  Ube  SessantK?  JBrifce. 

name  may  be — and  if  you  went  to  Mr.  Secretary 
and  said  to  him  'Mr.  Secretary"' — he  pronounced 
the  word  "Secrary" — "'I  know  that  Dick  Jackson 
is  a  rebel,'  and  Mr.  Secretary  says,  '  Where  are  the 
letters  to  prove  it  ? '  where  would  you  be,  my  clever 
friend?  No,  Sir,  my  brains  are  not  like  Cornwallis's, 
drunk  or  sober.  Hallo!  where's  the  lady?" 

He  seemed  suddenly  to  recollect  where  he  was. 
He  straightened  himself  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
looked  sleepily  across  the  room. 

"  I  am  here, "  cried  Mrs.  Abington,  leaving  the 
chair,  across  the  back  of  which  Jackson's  coat  was 
thrown.  "  I  am  here,  Sir ;  but  I  protest  I  shall  not  take 
my  place  at  the  table  again  while  treason  is  in  the  air.  * 

"  Treason,  Madam  ?     Who  talks  of  treason  ?  "  cried 

the   man   with  a   lurch  forward  and  a  wave  of  the 

hand      "Madam,    I'm    shocked — quite    shocked!      I 

wear  the  King's  coat,  though  that  cloak  is  my  own 

—my  own,  and  all  that  it  contains — all  that  - 

His  voice  died  away  in  a  drunken  fashion  as  he 
stared  across  the  room  at  his  cloak.  Goldsmith  saw 
an  expression  of  suspicion  come  over  his  face;  he 
saw  him  straighten  himself  and  walk  with  an  affec- 
tation of  steadiness  that  only  emphasised  his  intox- 
icated lurches,  to  the  chair  where  the  cloak  lay, 
and,  lifting  up  the  cloak,  run  his  hand  down 
the  lining  until  he  came  to  a  pocket.  With  eager 
eyes  he  saw  him  extract  from  the  pocket  a  leathern 
wallet,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  slip  it  furtively  into 
the  bosom  of  his  long  waistcoat,  where,  apparently, 
there  was  another  pocket. 


3essam£  Bribe*  243 

Goldsmith  glanced  toward  Mrs.  Abington.  She 
was  sitting"  leaning  over  her  chair  with  a  finger  on 
her  lips,  and  on  her  face  the  same  look  of  mischief 
that  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  transferred  to  his  picture 
of  her  as  "  Miss  Prue."  She  gave  a  glance  of  smiling 
intelligence  at  Oliver,  as  Jackson  laughed  coarsely, 
saying  huskily, 

"A  handkerchief — I  thought  I  had  left  my  hand- 
kerchief in  the  pocket  of  my  cloak,  and  'tis  as  well  to 
make  sure — that's  my  motto.  And  now,  my  charmer, 
you  will  see  that  I'm  not  the  man  to  dally  with  treason, 
for  I'll  challenge  you  in  a  bumper  to  drink  to  the 
King's  most  excellent  Majesty.  Fill  up  your  glass, 
Madam;  fill  up  yours,  too,  Mr. — Mr.  Killjoy,  we'll 
call  you,  for  what  the  devil  made  you  show  your 
ugly  face  here  the  fiend  only  knows.  Mrs.  Badde- 
ley  and  I  are  the  best  of  good  friends.  Isn't  that 
the  truth,  sweet  Mrs.  Baddeley?  Come,  drink  to 
my  toast — whatever  it  may  be — or,  by  the  Lord,  I'll 
run  you  through  the  vitals!  " 

Goldsmith  hastened  to  pass  the  man  the  decanter 
with  whatever  brandy  remained  in  it,  and  in  another 
instant  the  decanter  was  empty  and  the  man's  glass 
was  full.  Goldsmith  was  on  his  feet  with  uplifted 
glass  before  Jackson  had  managed  to  raise  himself, 
by  the  aid  of  a  heavy  hand  on  the  table,  into  a 
standing  attitude,  murmuring, 

"Drink,  Sir!  drink  to  my  lovely  friend  there,  the 
voluptuous  Mrs.  Baddeley.  My  dear  Mrs.  Baddeley, 
I  have  the  honour  to  welcome  you  to  my  table, 
and  to  drink  to  your  health,  dear  Madam." 


244 

He  swallowed  the  contents  of  the  tumbler — his 
fourth  since  he  had  entered  the  room — and  the  next 
instant  he  had  fallen  in  a  heap  into  his  chair,  drenched 
by  the  contents  of  Mrs.  Abington's  glass. 

"  That  is  how  I  accept  your  toast  of  Mrs.  Bad- 
deley,  Sir,"  she  cried,  standing  at  the  head  of  the 
table  with  the  dripping  glass  still  in  her  hand.  "  You 
drunken  sot !  not  to  be  able  to  distinguish  between 
me  and  Sophia  Baddeley!  I  can  stand  the  insult 
no  longer.  Take  yourself  out  of  my  room,  Sir ! " 

She  gave  the  broad  ribbon  of  the  bell  such  a 
pull  as  nearly  brought  it  down.  Goldsmith  having 
started  up,  stood  with  amazement  on  his  face  watch- 
ing her,  while  the  other  man  also  stared  at  her 
through  his  drunken  stupor,  his  jaw  fallen. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  until  the  waiter  entered 
the  room. 

"  Call  a  hackney  coach  immediately  for  that  gentle- 
man," said  the  actress,  pointing  to  the  man  who 
alone  remained — for  the  best  of  reasons — seated. 

"A  coach?  Certainly,  Madam,"  said  the  waiter, 
withdrawing  with  his  bow. 

"  Dr.  Goldsmith, "  resumed  Mrs.  Abington,  "  may 
I  beg  of  you  to  have  the  goodness  to  see  that  person 
to  his  lodgings  and  to  pay  the  cost  of  the  hackney- 
coach?  He  is  not  entitled  to  that  consideration,  but 
I  have  a  wish  to  treat  him  more  generously  than 
he  deserves.  His  address  is  Whetstone  Park,  I 
think  we  may  assume;  and  so  I  leave  you,  Sir." 

She  walked  from  the  room  with  her  chin  in  the 
air,  both  of  the  men  watching  her  with  such  surprise 


Jessams  JBrifce.  245 

as  prevented  either  of  them  from  uttering  a  word. 
It  was  only  when  she  had  gone  that  it  occurred  to 
Goldsmith  that  she  was  acting  her  part  admirably— 
that  she  had  set  herself  to  give  him  an  opportunity 
of  obtaining  possession  of  the  wallet  which  she,  as 
well  as  he,  had  seen  Jackson  transfer  from  the  pocket 
of  his  cloak  to  that  of  his  waistcoat.  Surely  he  should 
have  no  great  difficulty  in  extracting  the  bundle 
from  the  man's  pocket  when  in  the  coach. 

"  They're  full  of  their  whimsies,  these  wenches, " 
were  the  first  words  spoken,  with  a  free  wave  of  an 
arm,  by  the  man  who  had  failed  in  his  repeated 
attempts  to  lift  himself  out  of  his  chair.  "  What  did 
I  say? — what  did  I  do  to  cause  that  spitfire  to 
behave  like  that?  I  feel  hurt,  Sir,  more  deeply  hurt 
than  I  can  express,  at  her  behaviour.  What's  her 
name — I'm  not  sure  if  she  was  Mrs.  Abington  or 
Mrs.  Baddeley?  Anyhow,  she  insulted  me  grossly— 
me,  Sir — me,  an  officer  who  has  charged  his  Majesty's 
rebels  in  the  plantations  of  Virginia,  where  the 
Potomac  flows  down  to  the  sea.  But  they're  all 
alike.  I  could  tell  you  a  few  stories  about  them, 
Sir,  that  would  open  your  eyes,  for  I  have  been 
their  darling  always."  Here  he  began  to  sing  a 
tavern  song  in  a  loud  but  husky  tone,  for  the 
brandy  had  done  its  work  very  effectively,  and  he 
had  now  reached  what  might  be  called — somewhat 
paradoxically — the  high- water  mark  of  intoxication. 
He  was  still  singing  when  the  waiter  re-entered  the 
room  to  announce  that  a  hackney  carriage  was 
waiting  at  the  door  of  the  tavern. 


246  Hbe  Jessams 

At  the  announcement  the  drunken  man  made  a 
grab  for  a  decanter  and  flung  it  at  the  waiter's 
head.  It  missed  that  mark,  however,  and  crashed 
among  the  plates  which  were  still  on  the  table,  and 
in  a  moment  the  landlord  and  a  couple  of  his  barmen 
were  in  the  room  and  on  each  side  of  Jackson.  He 
made  a  poor  show  of  resistance  when  they  pinioned 
his  arms  and  pushed  him  down  the  stairs  and  lifted 
him  into  the  hackney  coach.  The  landlord  and  his 
assistants  were  accustomed  to  deal  with  promptitude 
with  such  persons,  and  they  had  shut  the  door  of 
the  coach  before  Goldsmith  reached  the  street. 

"  Hold,  Sir, "  he  cried,  "  I  am  accompanying  that 
gentleman  to  his  lodging." 

"  Nay,  Doctor, "  whispered  the  landlord,  who  was 
a  friend  of  his ;  "  the  fellow  is  a  brawler — he  will 
involve  you  in  a  quarrel  before  you  reach  the 
Strand." 

"Nevertheless,  I  will  go,  my  friend,"  said  Oliver. 
"  The  lady  has  laid  it  upon  me  as  a  duty,  and  I 
must  obey  her  at  all  hazards." 

He  got  into  the  coach,  and  shouted  out  the  address 
to  the  driver. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  instant  he  had  seated  himself  he  found  to  his 
amazement  that  the  man  beside  him  was  fast  asleep. 
To  look  at  him  lying  in  a  heap  on  the  cushions 
one  might  have  fancied  that  he  had  been  sleeping 
for  hours  rather  than  minutes,  so  composed  was  he. 
Even  the  jolting  of  the  starting  coach  made  no 
impression  upon  him. 

Goldsmith  perceived  that  the  moment  for  which 
he  had  been  longing  had  arrived.  He  felt  that  if 
he  meant  to  get  the  letters  into  his  possession  he 
must  act  at  once. 

He  passed  his  hand  over  the  man's  waistcoat, 
and  had  no  difficulty  in  detecting  the  exact  where- 
abouts of  the  packet  which  he  coveted.  All  he  had 
to  do  was  to  unbutton  the  waistcoat,  thrust  his 
hand  into  the  pocket,  and  then  leave  the  coach 
while  it  was  still  in  motion. 

The  moment  that  he  touched  the  first  button, 
however,  the  man  shifted  his  position,  and  awoke, 
putting  his  hand,  as  if  mechanically,  to  his  brenst 
to  feel  that  the  wallet  was  still  there.  Then 
he  straightened  himself  in  some  measure  and 

began    to  mumble,  apparently  being  quite  unaware 

247 


248  Utoe  Jessams  Bribe* 

of  the   fact   that   someone   was   seated  beside  him. 

"Dear  Madam,  you  do  me  great  honour,"  he 
said,  and  then  gave  a  little  hiccupping  laugh. 
"  Great  honour,  I  swear ;  but  if  you  were  to  offer 
me  all  the  guineas  in  the  treasure  chest  of  the 
regiment  I  would  not  give  you  the  plan  of  the  fort. 
No,  Madam,  I  am  a  man  of  honour,  and  I  hold  the 
documents  for  Colonel  Washington.  Oh,  the  fools 
that  girls  are  to  put  pen  to  paper!  but  if  she  was 
a  fool  she  did  not  write  the  letters  to  a  fool.  Oh, 
no,  no !  I  would  accept  no  price  for  them — no  price 
whatever  except  your  own  fair  self.  Come  to  me, 
my  charmer,  at  sunset,  and  they  shall  be  yours; 
yes,  with  a  hundred  guineas,  or  I  print  them.  Oh, 
Ned,  my  lad,  there's  no  honester  way  of  living  than 
by  selling  a  wench  her  own  letters.  No,  no,  Ned, 
I'll  not  leave  'em  behind  me  in  the  drawer  in  case 
of  accidents.  I'll  carry  'em  about  with  me  in  case 
of  accidents,  for  I  know  how  sharp  you  are,  dear 
Ned;  and  so  when  I  had  'em  in  the  pocket  of  my 
cloak  I  thought  it  as  well  to  transfer  'em— in  case 
of  accidents,  Ned — to  my  waistcoat,  Sir.  Ay,  they're 
here !  here,  my  friend !  and  here  they'll  stay  till 
Colonel  Washington  hands  me  over  his  dollars 
for  them." 

Then  he  slapped  his  breast,  and  laughed  the 
horrible  laugh  of  a  drunken  man  whose  hallucination 
is  that  he  is  the  shrewdest  fellow  alive. 

Goldsmith  caught  every  word  of  his  mumblings, 
and  from  the  way  he  referred  to  the  letters,  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  scoundrel  had  not  only 


Jessams  Bribe.  249 

tried  to  levy  blackmail  on  Mary  Horneck,  he  had 
been  endeavouring  also  to  sell  the  secrets  of  the  King's 
forces  to  the  American  rebels.  Goldsmith  had, 
however,  no  doubt  that  the  letters  which  he  was 
-desirous  of  getting  into  his  hands  were  those  which 
the  man  had  within  his  \vaistcoat.  His  belief  in 
this  direction  did  not,  however,  assist  him  to  devise 
,a  plan  for  transferring  the  letters  from  the  place 
•where  they  reposed  to  his  o\vn  pocket. 

The  coach  jolted  over  the  uneven  roads  on  its 
way  to  the  notorious  Whetstone  Park,  but  all  the 
jolting  failed  to  prevent  the  operation  of  the  brandy 
which  the  man  had  drunk,  for  once  again  he  fell 
asleep,  his  fingers  remaining  between  the  buttons 
of  his  waistcoat,  so  that  it  would  be  quite  impossible 
for  even  the  most  adroit  pickpocket,  which  Gold- 
smith could  not  claim  to  be,  to  open  the  garment. 

He  felt  the  vexation  of  the  moment  very  keenly. 
The  thought  that  the  packet  which  he  coveted  was 
only  a  few  inches  from  his  hand,  and  yet  that  it 
was  as  unattainable  as  though  it  were  at  the  summit 
of  Mont  Blanc,  was  maddening ;  but  he  felt  that  he 
would  be  foolish  to  make  any  further  attempts  to 
effect  his  purpose.  The  man  would  be  certain  to 
awake,  and  Goldsmith  knew  that,  intoxicated  though 
he  was,  he  was  strong  enough  to  cope  with  three 
men  of  his,  Goldsmith's,  physique. 

Gregory's  Court,  which  led  into  Whetstone  Park, 
was  too  narrow  to  admit  so  broad  a  vehicle  as  a 
hackney  coach,  so  the  driver  pulled  up  at  the 
entrance  in  Holborn  near  the  New  Turnstile,  just 


250  Ubc  3essant£  IBrifce. 

under  an  alehouse  lamp.  Goldsmith  was  wondering 
if  his  obligation  to  Mrs.  Abington's  guest  did  not 
end  here,  when  the  light  of  the  lamp  showed  the 
man  to  be  wide  awake,  and  he  really  seemed  com- 
paratively sober.  It  was  only  when  he  spoke  that 
he  showed  himself,  by  the  huskiness  of  his  voice, 
to  be  very  far  from  sober. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  cried,  "  how  do  I  come  to  be 
here?  Who  the  devil  may  you  be,  Sirrah?  Oh,  I 
remember!  You're  the  poet.  She  insulted  me— 
grossly  insulted  me — turned  me  out  of  the  tavern. 
And  you  insulted  me,  too,  you  rascal,  coming  with 
me  in  my  coach,  as  if  I  was  drunk,  and  needed  you 
to  look  after  me.  Get  out,  you  scoundrel,  or  I'll 
crack  your  skull  for  you.  Can't  you  see  that  this 
is  Gregory's  Court  ?  " 

Goldsmith  eyed  the  ruffian  for  a  moment.  He 
was  debating  if  it  might  not  be  better  to  spring 
upon  him,  and  make  at  least  a  straightforward 
attempt  to  obtain  the  wallet.  The  result  of  his 
moment's  consideration  of  the  question  was  to  cause 
him  to  turn  away  from  the  fellow  and  open  the 
door.  He  was  in  the  act  of  telling  the  driver  that 
he  would  take  the  coach  on  to  the  Temple,  when 
Jackson  stepped  out,  shaking  the  vehicle  on  its 
leathern  straps,  and  staggered  a  few  yards  in  the 
direction  of  the  Turnstile.  At  the  same  instant  a 
man  hastily  emerged  from  the  entrance  to  the  court, 
almost  coming  in  collision  with  Jackson. 

"  You  cursed,  clumsy  lout ! "  shouted  the  latter, 
swinging  half-way  round  as  the  man  passed.  In 


Ubc  ScBsamy  IBri^c*  251 

a    second    the    stranger    stopped,    and    faced    him. 

"  You  low  ruffian !  "  he  said.  "  You  cheated  me 
last  night,  and  left  me  to  sleep  in  the  fields ;  but  my 
money  came  to  me  to-day,  and  I've  been  waiting 
for  you.  Take  that,  you  scoundrel — and  that — and 
that-  -" 

He  struck  Jackson  a  blow  to  right  and  left,  and 
then  one  straight  on  the  forehead,  which  felled  him 
to  the  ground.  He  gave  the  man  a  kick  when  he 
fell,  and  then  turned  about  and  ran,  for  the  watch- 
man was  coming  up  the  street,  and  half  a  dozen 
of  the  passers-by  gave  an  alarm. 

Goldsmith  shouted  out,  "Follow  him — follow  the 
murderer !  "  pointing  wildly  in  the  direction  taken 
by  the  stranger. 

In  another  instant  he  was  leaning  over  the  prostrate 
man,  and  making  a  pretence  to  feel  his  heart.  He 
tore  open  his  waistcoat.  Putting  in  his  hand,  he 
quickly  abstracted  the  wallet,  and  bending  right 
over  the  body  in  order  to  put  his  hand  to  the  man's 
chest,  he,  with  much  more  adroitness  than  was 
necessary — for  outside  the  sickly  gleam  of  the  lamp 
all  the  street  was  in  darkness — slipped  the  wallet 
into  his  other  hand  and  then  under  his  coat. 

A  few  people  had  by  this  time  been  drawn  to  the 
spot  by  the  alarm  which  had  been  given,  and  some 
inquired  if  the  man  were  dead,  and  if  he  had  been 
run  through  with  a  sword. 

"It  was  a  knock-down  blow,"  said  Goldsmith, 
still  leaning  over  the  prostrate  man ;  "and  being  a 
doctor,  I  can  honestly  say  that  no  great  harm  has 


252  'ftfoe  3essamp  Bribe, 

been  done.  The  fellow  is  as  drunk  as  if  he  had 
been  soused  in  a  beer-barrel.  A  dash  of  water  in 
his  face  will  go  far  to  bring  about  his  recovery. 
Ah,  he  is  recovering  already." 

He  had  scarcely  spoken  before  he  felt  himself 
thrown  violently  back,  almost  knocking  down  two 
of  the  bystanders,  for  the  man  had  risen  to  a  sitting 
posture,  asking  him,  with  an  oath,  as  he  flung  him 
back,  what  he  meant  by  choking  him. 

A  roar  of  laughter  came  from  the  people  in  the 
street  as  Goldsmith  picked  up  his  hat  and  straight- 
ened his  sword,  saying, 

"  Gentlemen,  I  think  that  a  man  who  is  strong 
enough  to  treat  his  physician  in  that  way  has  small 
need  of  his  services.  I  thought  the  fellow  might  be 
seriously  hurt,  but  I  have  changed  my  mind  on  that 
point  recently ;  and  so  good  night.  Souse  him  co- 
piously with  water  should  he  relapse.  By  a  casual 
savour  of  him  I  should  say  that  he  is  not  used 
to  water." 

He  re-entered  the  coach  and  told  the  driver  to 
proceed  to  the  Temple,  and  as  rapidly  as  possible, 
for  he  was  afraid  that  the  man,  on  completely  re- 
covering from  the  effects  of  the  blow  that  had  stunned 
him,  would  miss  his  wallet  and  endeavour  to  over- 
take the  coach.  He  was  greatly  relieved  when  he 
reached  the  lodge  of  his  friend  Ginger,  the  head- 
porter,  and  he  paid  the  driver  with  a  liberality  that 
called  down  upon  him  a  torrent  of  thanks. 

As  he  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  chambers  he  could 
scarcely  refrain  from  cheering.  In  his  hand  he 


JBri&e.  253 

carried  the  leathern  wallet,  and  he  had  no  doubt 
that  it  contained  the  letters  which  he  hoped  to  place 
in  the  hands  of  his  dear  Jessamy  Bride,  who,  he 
felt,  had  alone  understood  him — had  alone  trusted 
him  with  the  discharge  of  a  knightly  task. 

He  closed  his  oaken  outer  door  and  forced  up 
the  wick  of  the  lamp  in  his  room.  With  trembling* 
fingers  by  the  light  of  its  rays  he  unclasped  the 
wallet  and  extracted  its  contents.  He  devoured  the 
pages  with  his  eyes,  and  then  both  wallet  and  papers 
fell  from  his  hands.  He  dropped  into  a  chair  with 
an  exclamation  of  wonder  and  dismay. 

The  papers  which  he  had  taken  from  the  wallet 
were  those  which,  following  the  instructions  of  Mrs. 
Abington,  he  had  brought  with  him  to  the  tavern, 
pretending  that  they  were  the  act  of  the  comedy 
which  he  had  to  read  to  the  actress. 

He  remained  for  a  long  time  in  the  chair  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  He  was  utterly  stupefied. 
Apart  from  the  shock  of  his  disappointment,  the 
occurrence  was  so  mysterious  as  to  deprive  him  of 
the  power  of  thought.  He  could  only  gaze  blankly 
down  at  the  empty  wallet  and  the  papers,  covered 
with  his  own  handwriting,  which  he  had  picked  up 
from  his  desk  before  starting  for  the  tavern. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  How  on  earth  had  those 
papers  found  their  way  into  the  wallet? 

Those  were  the  questions  which  he  had  to  face, 
but  to  which,  after  an  hour's  consideration,  he 
failed  to  find  an  answer. 

He  recollected  distinctly  having  seen  the  expres- 


254  TOe  Jessams  Bribe* 

sion  of  suspicion  come  over  the  man's  face  when 
he  saw  Mrs.  Abington  sitting  on  the  chair  over 
which  his  cloak  was  hanging;  and  when  she  had 
returned  to  the  table,  Jackson  staggered  to  the 
cloak,  and  running  his  hand  down  the  lining  until 
he  had  found  the  pocket,  furtively  took  from  it  the 
wallet,  which  he  transferred  to  the  pocket  on  the 
inner  side  of  his  waistcoat.  He  had  had  no  time 
— at  least,  so  Goldsmith  thought  —to  put  the  sham 
act  of  the  play  into  the  wallet ;  and  yet  he  felt  that 
the  man  must  have  done  so  unseen  by  the  others 
in  the  room,  or  how  could  the  papers  ever  have 
been  in  the  wallet? 

Great  Heavens!  The  man  must  only  have  been 
shamming  intoxication  the  greater  part  of  the  night! 
He  must  have  had  so  wide  an  experience  of  the 
craft  of  men  and  the  wiles  of  women  as  caused  him 
to  live  in  a  condition  of  constant  suspicion  of  both 
men  and  women.  He  had  clearly  suspected  Mrs. 
Abington' s  invitation  to  supper,  and  had  amused 
himself  at  the  expense  of  the  actress  and  her  other 
guest.  He  had  led  them  both  on  and  had  fooled 
them  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  just  when  they  were 
fancying  that  they  were  entrapping  him. 

Goldsmith  felt  that,  indeed,  he  at  least  had  been 
a  fool,  and,  as  usual,  he  had  attained  the  summit  of 
his  foolishness  just  when  he  fancied  he  was  showing 
himself  to  be  especially  astute.  He  had  chuckled 
over  his  shrewdness  in  placing  himself  in  the  hands 
of  a  woman  to  the  intent  that  he  might  defeat  the 
ends  of  the  scoundrel  who  threatened  Mary  Horneck's 


Sessam^  Bcifce*  255 

happiness,  but  now  it  was  Jackson  who  was  chuckling 
—Jackson,  who  had  doubtless  been  watching  with 
amused  interest  the  childish  attempts  made  by  Mrs. 
Abington  to  entrap  him. 

How  glibly  she  had  talked  of  entrapping  him! 
She  had  even  gone  the  length  of  quoting  Shak- 
spere;  she  was  one  of  those  people  who  fancy  that 
when  they  have  quoted  Shakspere  they  have  said 
the  last  word  on  any  subject.  But  when  the  time 
came  for  her  to  cease  talking  and  begin  to  act, 
she  had  failed.  She  had  proved  to  him  that  he  had 
been  a  fool  to  place  himself  in  her  hands,  hoping 
she  would  be  able  to  help  him. 

He  laughed  bitterly  at  his  own  folly.  The  con- 
sciousness of  having  failed  would  have  been  bitter 
enough  by  itself,  but  now  to  it  was  added  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  been  laughed  at  by  the  man 
of  whom  he  was  trying  to  get  the  better. 

What  was  there  now  left  for  him  to  do  ?  Nothing 
except  to  go  to  Mary,  and  tell  her  that  she  had  been 
wrong  in  entrusting  her  cause  to  him.  She  should  have 
entrusted  it  to  Colonel  Gwyn,  or  some  man  who  would 
have  been  ready  to  help  her  and  capable  of  helping 
her — some  man  with  a  knowledge  of  men — some  man 
of  resource,  not  one  who  was  a  mere  weaver  of  fictions, 
who  was  incapable  of  dealing  with  men  unless  on  paper. 
Nothing  was  left  for  him  but  to  tell  her  this,  and 
to  see  Colonel  Gwyn  achieve  success  where  he  had 
achieved  only  the  most  miserable  of  failures. 

He  felt  that  he  was  as  foolish  as  a  man  who 
built  for  himself  a  house  of  cards,  and  hoped 


256  TOe  Sessamg 

to  dwell  in  it  happily  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  whereas 
the  fabric  had  not  survived  the  breath  of  the  first 
breeze  that  swept  down  upon  it. 

He  felt  that,  after  the  example  which  he  had  just 
had  of  the  diabolical  cunning  of  the  man  with  whom 
he  had  been  contesting,  it  would  be  worse  than 
useless  for  him  to  hope  to  be  of  any  help  to  Mary 
Horneck.  He  had  already  wasted  more  than  a 
week  of  valuable  time.  His  could,  at  least,  prevent 
any  more  being  wasted  by  going  to  Mary  and  tell- 
ing her  how  great  a  mistake  she  had  made  in  being 
over-generous  to  him.  She  should  never  have  made 
such  a  friend  of  him.  Dr.  Johnson  had  been  right 
when  he  said  that  he,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  gracious  generosity  of  the  girl 
and  her  family.  He  felt  that  it  was  his  vanity  that 
had  led  him  to  undertake  on  Mary's  behalf  a  task 
for  which  he  was  utterly  unsuited;  and  only  the 
smallest  consolation  was  allowed  to  him  in  the  reflec- 
tion that  his  awaking  had  come  before  it  was  too 
late.  He  had  not  been  led  away  to  confess  to 
Mary  all  that  was  in  his  heart.  She  had  been  saved 
the  unhappiness  which  that  confession  would  bring 
to  a  nature  so  full  of  feeling  as  hers.  And  he  had 
been  saved  the  mortification  of  the  thought  that  he 
had  caused  her  pain. 

The  dawn  was  embroidering  with  its  floss  the 
early  foliage  of  the  trees  of  the  Temple  before  he 
went  to  his  bed-room,  and  another  hour  had  passed 
before  he  fell  asleep. 

He    did    not    awake  until   the   clock  had  chimed 


ZTbe  3essams  Bribe.  257 

the  hour  of  ten,  and  he  found  that  his  man  had 
already  brought  to  the  table  at  his  bedside  the  letters 
which  had  come  for  him  in  the  morning.  He 
turned  them  over  with  but  a  languid  amount  of 
interest.  There  was  a  letter  from  Griffiths,  the  book- 
seller; another  from  Garrick,  relative  to  the  play 
which  Goldsmith  had  promised  him;  a  third,  a 
fourth,  and  a  fifth  were  from  men  who  begged  the 
loan  of  varying  sums  for  varying  periods.  The 
sixth  was  apparently,  from  its  shape  and  bulk,  a 
manuscript — one  of  the  many  which  were  submitted 
to  him  by  men  who  called  him  their  brother- 
poet.  He  turned  it  over,  and  perceived  that  it 
had  not  come  through  the  post.  That  fact  con- 
vinced him  that  it  was  a  manuscript,  most  pro- 
bably an  epic  poem,  or  perhaps  a  tragedy  in 
verse,  which  the  writer  might  think  he  could  get 
accepted  at  Drury  Lane  by  reason  of  his  friendship 
with  Garrick. 

He  let  this  parcel  lie  on  the  table  until  he  had 
dressed,  and  only  when  at  the  point  of  sitting  down 
to  breakfast  did  he  break  the  seals.  The  instant 
he  had  done  so  he  gave  a  cry  of  surprise,  for  he 
found  that  the  parcel  contained  a  number  of  letters 
addressed  in  Mary  Horneck's  handwriting  to  a 
certain  Captain  Jackson  at  a  house  in  the  Devonshire 
village  where  she  had  been  staying  the  previous 
summer. 

On  the  topmost  letter  there  was  a  scrap  of  paper, 
bearing  a  scrawl  from  Mrs.  Abington — the  spelling 
as  well  as  the  writing  was  hers : 

17 


258 


ZIbe  Jessamp  Bribe. 


'Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps.' 
These  are  a  few  feathers  pluckt  from  our  hawke, 
hoping  that  they  will  be  a  feather  in  the  capp  of 
dear  Dr.  Goldsmith." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

HE  was  so  greatly  amazed  he  could  only  sit 
looking-  mutely  at  the  scattered  letters  on  the  table 
in  front  of  him.  He  was  even  more  amazed  at 
finding  them  there  than  he  had  been  the  night  before 
at  not  finding  them  in  the  wallet  which  he  had 
taken  from  Jackson's  waistcoat.  He  thought  he  had 
arrived  at  a  satisfactory  explanation  as  to  how  he 
had  come  to  find  within  the  wallet  the  sheets  of 
manuscript  which  he  had  in  his  hand  on  entering 
the  supper-room;  but  how  was  he  to  account  for 
the  appearance  of  the  letters  in  this  parcel  which 
he  had  received  from  Mrs.  Abington? 

So  perplexed  was  he  that  he  failed  for  some  time 
to  grasp  the  truth — to  appreciate  what  was  meant 
by  the  appearance  of  those  letters  on  his  table. 
But  so  soon  as  it  dawned  upon  him  that  they  meant 
safety  and  happiness  to  Mary,  he  sprang  from  his 
seat  and  almost  shouted  for  joy.  She  was  saved. 
He  had  checkmated  the  villain  who  had  sought  her 
ruin  and  who  had  the  means  to  accomplish  it,  too. 
It  was  his  astuteness  that  had  caused  him  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Abington  and  ask  for  her  help  in  accomplish- 
ing the  task  with  which  he  had  been  entrusted- 

259 


260 


He  had,  after  all,  not  been  mistaken  in  applying  to 
a  woman  to  help  him  to  defeat  the  devilish  scheme 
of  a  pitiless  ruffian,  and  Mary  Horneck  had  not 
been  mistaken  when  she  had  singled  him  out  to  be 
her  champion,  though  all  men  and  most  women 
would  have  ridiculed  the  idea  of  his  assuming  the 
role  of  a  knight-errant. 

His  elation  at  that  moment  was  in  proportion  to 
his  depression,  his  despair,  his  humiliation  when  he 
had  last  been  in  his  room.  His  nature  knew  nothing 
but  extremes.  Before  retiring  to  his  chamber  in 
the  early  morning  he  had  felt  that  life  contained 
nothing  but  misery  for  him;  but  now  he  felt  that 
a  future  of  happiness  was  in  store  for  him  —  his 
imagination  failed  to  set  any  limits  to  the  possibility 
of  his  future  happiness.  He  laughed  at  the  thought 
of  how  he  had  resolved  to  go  to  Mary  and  advise 
her  to  intrust  her  cause  to  Colonel  Gwyn.  The  thought 
of  Colonel  Gwyn  convulsed  him  just  now.  With  all 
his  means,  could  Colonel  Gwyn  have  accomplished 
all  that  he,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  had  accomplished? 

He  doubted  it.  Colonel  Gwyn  might  be  a  good 
sort  of  fellow  in  spite  of  his  formal  manner,  his 
army  training,  and  his  incapacity  to  see  a  jest,  but 
it  was  doubtful  if  he  could  have  brought  to  a 
successful  conclusion  so  delicate  an  enterprise  as 
that  which  he,  Goldsmith,  had  accomplished.  Gwyn 
would  most  likely  have  scorned  to  apply  to  Mrs. 
Abington  to  help  him,  and  that  was  just  where  he 
would  have  made  a  huge  mistake.  Any  man  who 
thought  to  get  the  better  of  the  devil  without  the 


TTbe  Sessams  Bribe*  261 

aid  of  a  woman  was  a  fool.  He  felt  more  strongly 
convinced  of  the  truth  of  this  as  he  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  fire  in  his  grate  than  he  had  been 
when  he  had  found  the  wallet  containing  only  his 
own  manuscript.  The  previous  half-hour  had  natur- 
ally changed  his  views  of  man  and  woman  and 
Providence  and  the  world. 

When  he  had  picked  up  the  letters  and  locked 
them  in  his  desk,  he  ate  some  breakfast,  wondering 
all  the  while  by  what  means  Mrs.  Abington  had 
obtained  those  precious  writings;  and  after  giving 
the  matter  an  hour's  thought,  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  must  have  felt  the  wallet  in  the 
pocket  of  the  man's  cloak  when  she  had  left  the 
table  pretending  to  be  shocked  at  the  disloyal  expres- 
sions of  her  guest — she  must  have  felt  the  wallet 
and  have  contrived  to  extract  the  letters  from  it, 
substituting  for  them  the  sham  act  of  the  play  which 
excused  his  entrance  to  the  supper-room. 

The  more  he  thought  over  the  matter,  the  more 
convinced  he  became  that  the  wily  lady  had  effected 
her  purpose  in  the  way  he  conjectured.  He  recol- 
lected that  she  had  been  for  a  considerable  time  on 
the  chair  with  the  cloak — much  longer  than  was 
necessary  for  Jackson  to  drink  the  treasonable  toast ; 
and  when  she  came  back  to  the  table,  it  was  only 
to  turn  him  out  of  the  room  upon  a  very  shallow 
pretext.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  fancy  that 
she  was  in  a  genuine  passion  when  she  had  flung 
her  glass  of  wine  in  the  face  of  her  guest  because 
he  had  addressed  her  as  Mrs.  Baddeley! 


262  ube  Sessamp 

He  had  been  amazed  at  the  anger  displayed  by 
her  in  regard  to  that  particular  incident,  but  later  he 
had  thought  it  possible  that  she  had  acted  the  part 
of  a  jealous  woman  to  give  him  a  better  chance  of 
getting  the  wallet  out  of  the  man's  waistcoat 
pocket.  Now,  however,  he  clearly  perceived  that  her 
anxiety  was  to  get  out  of  the  room  in  order  to  place 
the  letters  beyond  the  man's  hands. 

Once  again  he  laughed,  saying  out  loud, 

"Ah,  I  was  right — a  woman's  wiles  only  are  su- 
perior to  the  strategy  of  a  devil !  " 

Then  he  became  more  contemplative.  The  most 
joyful  hour  of  his  life  was  at  hand.  He  asked  him- 
self how  his  dear  Jessamy  Bride  would  receive  the 
letters  which  he  was  about  to  take  to  her.  He  did 
not  think  of  himself  in  connection  with  her  grati- 
tude. He  left  himself  altogether  out  of  considera- 
tion in  this  matter.  He  only  thought  how  the 
girl's  face  would  lighten — how  the  white  roses  which 
he  had  last  seen  on  her  cheeks  would  change  to 
red  when  he  put  the  letters  into  her  hand,  and  she 
felt  that  she  was  safe. 

That  was  the  reward  for  which  he  looked.  He 
knew  that  he  would  feel  bitterly  disappointed  if  he 
failed  to  see  the  change  of  the  roses  on  her  face — 
if  he  failed  to  hear  her  fill  the  air  with  the  music 
of  her  laughter.  And  then — then  she  would  be 
happy  for  evermore,  and  he  would  be  happy  through 
witnessing  her  happiness. 

He  finished  dressing,  and  was  in  the  act  of  going 
to  his  desk  for  the  letters,  which  he  hoped  she 


Ube  Sessams  Bribe*  263 

would  soon  hold  in  her  hand,  when  his  servant 
announced  two  visitors.  Signer  Baretti,  accom- 
panied by  a  tall  and  very  thin  man,  entered.  The 
former  greeted  Goldsmith,  and  introduced  his  friend, 
who  was  a  compatriot  of  his  own,  named  Nicolo. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  the  matter  which  you 
honoured  me  by  placing  in  my  hands, "  said  Baretti. 
"  My  friend  Nicolo  is  a  master  of  the  art  of  fencing 
as  practised  in  Italy  in  the  present  day.  He  is 
under  the  impression,  singular  though  it  may  seem, 
that  he  spoke  to  you  more  than  once  during  your 
wanderings  in  Tuscany." 

"  And  now  I  am  sure  of  it, "  said  Nicolo  in  French. 
He  explained  that  he  spoke  French  rather  better 
than  English,  "  Yes,  I  was  a  student  at  Pisa  when 
Dr.  Goldsmith  visited  that  city.  I  have  no  difficulty 
recognising  him." 

"  And  I,  for  my  part,  have  a  conviction  that  I 
have  seen  your  face,  Sir,"  said  Goldsmith,  also 
speaking  in  French;  "I  cannot,  however,  recall  the 
circumstances  of  our  first  meeting.  Can  you  supply 
the  deficiency  in  my  memory,  Sir  ? " 

"  There  was  a  students'  society  that  met  at  the 
Boccaleone,"  said  Sign  or  Nicolo. 

"  I  recollect  it  distinctly,  Figli  della  Torre,  you 
called  yourselves,"  said  Goldsmith  quickly.  "You 
were  one  of  the  orators — quite  reckless,  if  you  will 
permit  me  to  say  so  much." 

The  man  smiled  somewhat  grimly. 

"  If  he  had  not  been  utterly  reckless  he  would 
not  be  in  England  to-day,"  said  Baretti.  "Like 


264  Ube  Sessams 

myself,  he  is  compelled  to  face  your  detestable 
climate  on  account  of  some  indiscreet  references  to 
the  Italian  Government,  which  he  would  certainly 
repeat  to-morrow  were  he  back  again." 

"  It  brings  me  back  to  Tuscany  once  more  to  see 
your  face,  Signor  Nicolo,"  said  Goldsmith.  "Yes, 
though  your  Excellency  had  not  so  much  of  a  beard 
and  mustacio  when  I  saw  you  some  years  ago." 

"  Nay,  Sir,  nor  was  your  Lordship's  coat  quite  so 
admirable  then  as  it  is  now,  if  I  am  not  too  bold  to 
make  so  free  a  comment,  Sir,"  said  the  man  with 
another  grim  smile. 

"  You  are  not  quite  right,  my  friend, "  laughed 
Goldsmith ;  "  for  if  my  memory  serves  me — and  it 
does  so  usually  on  the  matter  of  dress — I  had  no 
coat  whatsoever  to  my  back — that  was  of  no  im- 
portance in  Pisa,  when  the  air  was  full  of  patriotism." 

"  The  most  dangerous  epidemic  that  could  occur 
in  any  country, "  said  Baretti.  "  There  is  no  Black 
Death  that  has  claimed  so  many  victims.  We  are 
examples — Nicolo  and  I.  I  am  compelled  to  teach 
Italian  to  a  brewer's  daughter,  and  Nicolo  is  willing 
to  transform  the  most  clumsy  Englishman — and  there 
are  a  good  number  of  them,  too — into  an  expert 
swordsman  in  twelve  lessons — yes,  if  the  pupil  will 
but  practise  sufficiently  afterwards." 

"We  need  not  talk  of  business  just  now,"  said 
Goldsmith.  "  I  insist  on  my  old  friends  sharing  a  bottle 
of  wine  with  me.  I  shall  drink  to  'patriotism,'  since 
it  is  the  means  of  sending  to  my  poor  room  two  such 
excellent  friends  as  the  Signori  Baretti  and  Nicolo." 


Sessams  Bribe.  265 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  gave  his  servant  directions 
to  fetch  a  couple  of  bottles  of  the  old  Madeira  which 
Lord  Clare  had  recently  sent  to  him — very  recently, 
otherwise  three  bottles  out  of  the  dozen  would  not 
have  remained. 

The  wine  had  scarcely  been  uncorked  when  the 
sound  of  a  man's  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs, 
and  in  a  moment  Captain  Jackson  burst  into  the 
room. 

"  I  have  found  you,  you  rascal ! "  he  shouted, 
swaggering  across  the  room  to  where  Goldsmith  was 
seated.  "  Now,  my  good  fellow,  I  give  you  just 
one  minute  to  restore  to  me  those  letters  which  you 
abstracted  from  my  pocket  last  night." 

"  And  I  give  you  just  one  minute  to  leave  my  room 
you  drunken  blackguard,"  said  Goldsmith,  laying  a 
hand  on  the  arm  of  Signer  Nicolo,  who  was  in  the 
act  of  rising.  "Come,  Sir,"  he  continued,  "I  sub- 
mitted to  your  insults  last  night  because  I  had  a 
purpose  to  carry  out ;  but  I  promise  you  that  I  give 
you  no  such  licence  in  my  own  house.  Take  your 
carcase  away,  Sir,  my  friends  have  fastidious  nos- 
trils." 

Jackson's  face  became  purple  and  then  white. 
His  lips  receded  from  his  gums  until  his  teeth  were 
seen  as  the  teeth  of  a  wolf  when  it  is  too  cowardly 
to  attack. 

"  You  cur !  "  he  said  through  his  set  teeth.  "  I 
don't  know  what  prevents  me  from  running  you 
through  the  body." 

"Do   you   not?     I  do,"  said  Goldsmith.     He  had 


266  Zlbe  5essam£  Bribe. 

taken    the   second  bottle  of  wine  off  the  table,  an 
was  toying  with  it  in  his  hands. 

"Come,  Sir,"  said  the  bully  after  a  pause;  "I 
don't  wish  to  go  to  Sir  John  Fielding  for  a  war- 
rant for  your  arrest  for  stealing  my  property,  but, 
by  the  Lord,  if  you  don't  hand  over  those  letters 
to  me  now  I  will  not  spare  you.  I  shall  have  you 
taken  into  custody  as  a  thief  before  an  hour  has 
passed." 

"  Go  to  Sir  John,  my  friend,  and  tell  him  that 
Dick  Jackson,  American  spy,  is  anxious  to  hang 
himself,  and  mention  that  one  Oliver  Goldsmith  has 
at  hand  the  rope  that  will  rid  the  world  of  one  of 
its  greatest  scoundrels,"  said  Goldsmith. 

Jackson  took  a  step  or  two  back,  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  sword.  In  a  second  both  Baretti  and 
Nicolo  had  touched  the  hilts  of  their  weapons.  The 
bully  looked  from  the  one  to  the  other,  and  then 
laughed  harshly. 

"My  little  poet,"  he  said  in  a  mocking  voice, 
"you  fancy  that  because  you  have  got  a  letter  or 
two  you  have  drawn  my  teeth.  Let  me  tell  you 
for  your  information  that  I  have  something  in 
my  possession  that  I  can  use  as  I  meant  to  use  the 
letters." 

"  And  I  tell  you  that  if  you  use  it,  whatever  it 
is,  by  God  I  shall  kill  you,  were  you  thrice 
the  scoundrel  that  you  are ! "  cried  Goldsmith, 
leaping  up. 

There  was  scarcely  a  pause  before  the  whistle 
of  the  man's  sword  through  the  air  was  heard;  but 


3essam£  Bribe,  267 

Baretti  gave  Goldsmith  a  push  that  sent  him  behind 
a  chair,  and  then  quietly  interposed  between  him 
and  Jackson. 

"Pardon  me,  Sir,"  said  he,  bowing  to  Jackson, 
"  but  we  cannot  permit  you  to  stick  an  unarmed 
man.  Your  attempt  to  do  so  in  our  presence  my 
friend  and  I  regard  as  a  grave  affront  to  us." 

"  Then  let  one  of  you  draw !  "  shouted  the  man. 
"  I  see  that  you  are  Frenchmen,  and  I  have  cut  the 
throat  of  a  good  many  of  your  race.  Draw,  Sir, 
and  I  shall  add  you  to  the  Frenchies  that  I  have 
sent  to  hell." 

"  Nay,  Sir,  I  wear  spectacles,  as  you  doubtless 
perceive, "  said  Baretti.  "  I  do  not  wish  my  glasses 
to  be  smashed ;  but  my  friend  here,  though  a  weaker 
man,  may  possibly  not  decline  to  fight  with  so 
contemptible  a  ruffian  as  you  undoubtedly  are." 

He  spoke  a  few  words  to  Nicolo  in  Italian,  and 
in  a  second  the  latter  had  whisked  out  his  sword 
and  stepped  between  Jackson  and  Baretti,  putting 
quietly  aside  the  fierce  lunge  which  the  former  made 
when  Baretti  had  turned  partly  round. 

"  Briccone !  assassin  !  "  hissed  Baretti.  "  You  saw 
that  he  meant  to  kill  me,  Nicolo, "  he  said  address- 
ing his  friend  in  their  own  tongue. 

"  He  shall  pay  for  it, "  whispered  Nicolo,  pushing 
back  a  chair  with  his  foot  until  Goldsmith  lifted  it 
and  several  other  pieces  of  furniture  out  of  the 
way,  so  as  to  make  a  clear  space  in  the  room. 

u  Don't  kill  him,  friend  Nicolo,"  said  Baretti.  "  We 
used  to  enjoy  a  sausage  or  two  in  the  old  days  at 


268 


Pisa.      You    can    make    sausage-meat    of  a  carcas 
without  absolutely  killing  the  beast." 

The  fencing-master  smiled  grimly,  but  spoke  no 
word. 

Jackson  seemed  puzzled  for  a  few  moments,  and 
Baretti  roared  with  laughter,  watching  him  hang 
back.  The  laugh  of  the  Italian — it  was  not  melo- 
dious— acted  as  a  goad  upon  him.  He  rushed  upon 
Nicolo,  trying  to  beat  down  his  guard,  but  his  an- 
tagonist did  not  yield  a  single  inch.  He  did  not 
even  cease  to  smile  as  he  parried  the  attack.  His 
expression  resembled  that  of  an  indulgent  chess- 
player when  a  lad  who  has  airily  offered  to  play 
with  him  opens  the  game. 

After  a  few  minutes'  fencing  during  which  the 
Italian  declined  to  attack,  Jackson  drew  back  and 
lowered  the  point  of  his  sword. 

"  Take  a  chair,  Sir, "  said  Baretti  grinning.  "  You 
will  have  need  of  one  before  my  friend  has  finished 
with  you." 

Goldsmith  said  nothing.  The  man  had  grossly 
insulted  him  the  evening  before,  and  he  had  made 
Mary  Horneck  wretched;  but  he  could  not  taunt 
him  now  that  he  was  at  the  mercy  of  a  master- 
swordsman.  He  watched  the  man  breathing  hard 
and  then  nerve  himself  for  another  attack  upon  the 
Italian. 

His  second  attempt  to  get  Nicolo  within  the 
point  of  his  sword  was  no  more  successful  than  his 
first.  He  was  no  despicable  fencer,  but  his  antagonist 
could  afford  to  play  with  him.  The  sound  of  his 


Jessam^  Bribe*  269 

hard  breathing  was  a  contrast  to  the  only  other 
sound  in  the  room — the  grating  of  steel  against 
steel. 

But  then  the  smile  upon  the  sallow  face  of  the  fen- 
cing-master seemed  gradually  to  vanish.  He  became 
more  than  serious — surely  his  expression  was  one 
of  apprehension.  Goldsmith  became  somewhat  ex- 
cited. He  grasped  Baretti  by  the  arm,  as  one  of 
Jackson's  thrusts  passed  within  half  an  inch  of  his 
antagonist's  shoulder,  and  for  the  first  time  Nicolo 
took  a  hasty  step  back,  and  in  doing  so  barely 
succeeded  in  protecting  himself  against  a  fierce  lunge 
of  the  other  man. 

It  was  now  Jackson's  turn  to  laugh.  He  gave  a 
contemptuous  chuckle  as  he  pressed  forward  to 
follow  up  his  advantage.  He  did  not  succeed  in 
touching  Nicolo,  though  he  went  very  close  to  him 
more  than  once,  and  now  it  was  plain  that  the  Italian 
was  greatly  exhausted.  He  was  breathing  hard, 
and  the  look  of  apprehension  on  his  face  had 
increased  until  it  had  actually  become  one  of  terror. 
Jackson  did  not  fail  to  perceive  this,  and  malignant 
triumph  was  in  every  feature  of  his  face.  Anyone 
could  see  that  he  felt  confident  of  tiring  out  the 
visibly  fatigued  Italian,  and  Goldsmith,  with  staring 
eyes,  once  again  clutched  Baretti. 

Baretti's  yellow  skin  became  wrinkled  up  to  the 
meeting  place  of  his  wig  and  forehead  in  smiles. 

"  I  should  like  the  third  button  of  his  coat  for  a 
memento,  Sandrino,"  said  he. 

In  an  instant  there  was  a  quivering  flash  through 


270  Tlbe  SessantE  JBrifce. 


5  coat 


the  air,  and  the  third,  paste  button  of  Jackson's 
indented  the  wall  just  above  Baretti's  head  and  fell 
at  his  feet,  a  scrap  of  the  satin  of  the  coat  flying 
behind  it  like  the  little  pennon  on  a  lance. 

"  Heavens !  "  whispered  Goldsmith. 

"  Ah,  friend  Nicolo  was  always  a  great  humourist, " 
said  Baretti.  "  For  God's  sake,  Sandrino,  throw 
them  high  into  the  air.  The  rush  of  that  last  was 
like  a  bullet." 

Up  to  the  ceiling  flashed  another  button,  and 
fell  back  upon  the  coat  from  which  it  was  torn. 

And  still  Nicolo  fenced  away  with  that  look  of 
apprehension  on  his  face. 

"That  is  his  fun,"  said  Baretti.  "Oh,  body  of 
Bacchus !  A  great  humourist !  * 

The  next  button  that  Nicolo  cut  off  with  the 
point  of  his  sword  he  caught  in  his  left  hand  and 
threw  to  Goldsmith,  who  also  caught  it. 

The  look  of  triumph  vanished  from  Jackson's  face. 
He  drew  back,  but  his  antagonist  would  not  allow 
him  to  lower  his  sword,  but  followed  him  round 
the  room  untiringly.  He  had  ceased  his  pretence  of 
breathing  heavily,  but  apparently  his  right  arm  was 
tired,  for  he  had  thrown  his  sword  into  his  left 
hand,  and  was  now  fencing  from  that  side. 

Suddenly  the  air  became  filled  with  floating  scraps 
of  silk  and  satin.  They  quivered  to  right  and  left, 
like  butterflies  settling  down  upon  a  meadow;  they 
fluttered  about  by  the  hundred,  making  quite  a 
pretty  spectacle.  Jackson's  coat  and  waistcoat  were 
in  tatters,  and  with  such  consummate  dexterity  did 


3essamp  Bribe.  271 

the  fencing-master  cut  the  pieces  out  of  both  gar- 
ments, Goldsmith  utterly  failed  to  see  the  sword- 
play  that  produced  so  amazing  a  result.  Nicolo 
seemed  to  be  fencing  pretty  much  as  usual. 

And  then  a  curious  incident  occurred,  for  the  front 
part  of  one  of  the  man's  pockets  being  cut  away, 
a  packet  of  letters,  held  against  the  lining  by  a 
few  threads  of  silk,  became  visible,  and  in  another 
moment  Nicolo  had  spitted  them  on  his  sword,  and 
laid  them  on  a  table  in  a  single  flash.  Goldsmith 
knew  by  the  look  that  Jackson  cast  at  them  that 
they  were  the  batch  of  letters  which  he  had  re- 
ceived in  the  course  of  his  traffic  with  the  American 
rebels. 

"  Come,  Sandrino, "  said  Baretti,  affecting  to  yawn. 
"  Finish  the  rascal  off,  and  let  us  get  to  that  excel- 
lent bottle  of  Madeira  which  awaits  us.  Come,  Sir, 
the  carrion  is  not  worth  more  than  you  have  given 
him;  he  has  kept  us  from  our  wine  too  long 
already. " 

With  a  curiously  tricky  turn  of  the  wrist,  the 
master  cut  off  the  right  sleeve  of  the  man's  coat 
close  to  his  shoulder,  and  drew  it  in  a  flash  over 
his  sword.  The  disclosing  of  the  man's  naked  arm 
and  the  hiding  of  the  greater  part  of  his  weapon 
were  comical  in  the  extreme;  and  with  an  oath 
Jackson  dropped  his  sword  and  fell  in  a  heap  upon 
the  floor,  thoroughly  exhausted. 

Baretti  picked  up  the  sword,  broke  the  blade  across 
his  knee,  and  flung  the  pieces  into  a  corner,  the 
tattered  sleeve  still  entangled  in  the  guard. 


272  ftbe 

"John,"  shouted  Goldsmith  to  his  servant,  who 
was  not  far  off.  (He  had  witnessed  the  duel  through 
the  keyhole  of  the  door  until  it  became  too  exciting, 
and  then  he  had  put  his  head  into  the  room.)  "John, 
give  that  man  your  oldest  coat.  It  shall  never  be 
said  that  I  turned  a  man  naked  out  of  my  house." 
When  John  Eyles  had  left  the  room,  Oliver  turned 
to  the  half-naked,  panting  man.  "  You  are  possibly 
the  most  contemptible  bully  and  coward  alive,"  said 
he.  "You  did  not  hesitate  to  try  and  accomplish 
the  ruin  of  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world,  and  you 
came  here  with  intent  to  murder  me  because  I  suc- 
ceeded in  saving  her  from  your  clutches.  If  I  let 
you  go  now,  it  is  because  I  know  that  in  these 
letters,  which  I  mean  to  keep,  I  have  such  evidence 
against  you  as  will  hang  you  whenever  I  see  fit  to 
use  it,  and  I  promise  you  to  use  it  if  you  are  in 
this  country  at  the  end  of  two  days.  Now,  leave 
this  house,  and  thank  my  servant  for  giving  you 
his  coat  and  this  gentleman  "  —he  pointed  to  Nico- 
lo — "for  such  a  lesson  in  fencing  as,  I  suppose,  you 
never  before  received." 

The  man  rose,  painfully  and  laboriously,  and  took 
the  coat  with  which  John  Eyles  returned.  He  looked 
at  Goldsmith  from  head  to  foot. 

"  You  contemptible  cur !  "  he  said,  "  I  have  not  yet 
done  with  you.  You  have  not  stolen  the  second 
packet  of  letters ;  but,  by  the  Lord,  if  one  of  them 
passes  out  of  your  hands  it  will  be  avenged.  I  have 
friends  in  pretty  high  places,  let  me  tell  you." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,"  said  Baretti.     "The  gallows 


tfl 


Jessams  Bribe*  273 

is   a  high  enough  place  for  you  and  your  friends." 

The  ruffian  turned  upon  him  in  a  fury. 

"  Look  to  yourself,  you  foreign  hound !  "  he  said, 
his  face  becoming  livid,  and  his  lips  receding  from 
his  mouth  so  as  to  leave  his  wolf-fangs  bare  as 
before.  "Look  to  yourself.  You  broke  my  sword 
after  luring  me  on  to  be  made  a  fool  of  for  your 
sport.  Look  to  yourself!" 

"Turn  that  rascal  into  the  street,  John,"  cried 
Goldsmith,  and  John  bustled  forward.  There  was 
fighting  in  the  air.  If  it  came  to  blows  he  flattered 
himself  that  he  could  give  an  interesting  exhibition 
of  his  powers — not  quite  so  showy,  perhaps,  as  that 
given  by  the  Italian,  but  one  which  he  was  certain 
was  more  English  in  its  style. 

"No  one  shall  lay  a  hand  on  me,"  said  Jackson. 
"  Do  you  fancy  that  I  am  anxious  to  remain  in 
such  a  company  ?  " 

"Come,  Sir;  you  are  in  my  charge  now,"  said 
John,  hustling  him  to.  the  door.  "  Come — out  with 
you — sharp  ?  " 

,In  the  room  they  heard  the  sound  of  the  man 
descending  the  stairs  slowly  and  painfully.  They 
became  aware  of  his  pause  in  the  lobby  below  to 
put  on  the  coat  which  John  had  given  to  him,  and 
a  moment  later  they  saw  him  walk  in  the  direction 
of  the  Temple  lodge. 

Then  Goldsmith  turned  to  Signor  Nicolo,  who  was 
examining  one  of  the  prints  that  Hogarth  had  pre- 
sented to  his  early  friend,  who  had  hung  them  on 
his  wall. 

18 


274 

"You  came  at  an  opportune  moment,  my  friend," 
said  he.  "  You  have  not  only  saved  my  life,  you 
have  afforded  me  such  entertainment  as  I  never  have 
known  before.  Sir,  you  are  certainly  the  greatest 
living  master  of  your  art." 

"  The  best  swordsman  is  the  best  patriot,"  said 
Baretti. 

"That  is  why  so  many  of  your  countrymen  live 
in  England,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"Alas!  yes,"  said  Nicolo.  "  Happily  you  English- 
men are  not  good  patriots,  or  you  would  not  be 
able  to  live  in  England." 

"I  am  not  an  Englishman,"  said  Goldsmith.  "I 
am  an  Irish  patriot,  and  therefore  I  find  it  more 
convenient  to  live  out  of  Ireland.  Perhaps  it  is  not 
good  patriotism  to  say,  as  I  do,  'Better  to  live  in 
England  than  to  starve  in  Ireland.'  And  talking  of 
starving,  Sirs,  reminds  me  that  my  dinner-hour  is 
nigh.  What  say  you,  Sign  or  Nicolo?  What  say 
you,  Baretti?  Will  you  honour  me  with  your 
company  to  dinner  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor  an 
hour  hence?  We  shall  chat  over  the  old  days  at 
Pisa  and  the  prospects  of  the  Figli  della  Torre, 
Signor  Nicolo.  We  cannot  stay  here,  for  it  will 
take  my  servant  and  Mrs.  Ginger  a  good  two  hours 
to  sweep  up  the  fragments  of  that  rascal's  garments. 
Lord!  what  a  patchwork  quilt  Dr.  Johnson's  friend 
Mrs.  Williams  could  make  if  she  were  nigh!" 

"  Patchwork  should  not  only  be  made,  it  should 
be  used  by  the  blind,"  said  Baretti.  a Touching  the 
dinner  you  so  hospitably  propose,  I  have  no  engage- 


vibe  Sessami?  Bribe.  275 

ment  for  to-day,  and  I  dare  swear  that  Nicolo  has 
none  either." 

"  He  has  taken  part  in  one  engagement,  at  least, " 
said  Goldsmith. 

"  And  I  am  now  at  your  service,"  said  the  fencing- 
master. 

They  went  out  together,  Goldsmith  with  the  pre- 
cious letters  in  his  pocket — the  second  batch  he  put 
in  the  place  of  Mary  Horneck's  in  his  desk — and, 
parting  at  Fleet  Street,  they  agreed  to  meet  at  the 
Crown  and  Anchor  in  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IT  was  with  a  feeling  of  deep  satisfaction,  such  as 
he  had  never  before  known,  that  Goldsmith  walked 
westward  to  Mrs.  Horneck's  house.  All  the  exhila- 
ration that  he  had  experienced  by  watching  the 
extraordinary  exhibition  of  adroitness  on  the  part 
of  the  fencing-master  remained  with  him.  The 
exhibition  had,  of  course,  been  a  trifle  bizarre.  It 
had  more  than  a  suspicion  of  the  art  of  the  mounte- 
bank about  it.  For  instance,  Nicolo's  pretence  of 
being  overmatched  early  in  the  contest — breathing 
hard  and  assuming  a  terrified  expression — yielding 
his  ground  and  allowing  his  opponent  almost  to  run 
him  through — could  only  be  regarded  as  theatrical ; 
while  his  tricks  with  the  buttons  and  the  letters, 
though  amazing,  were  akin  to  the  devices  of  a  rope- 
dancer.  But  this  fact  did  not  prevent  the  whole 
scene  from  having  an  exhilarating  effect  upon  Gold- 
smith, more  especially  as  it  represented  his  repay- 
ment of  the  debt  which  he  owed  to  Jackson. 

And  now  to  this  feeling  was  added  that  of  the 
greatest  joy  of  his  life  in  having  it  in  his  power  to 
remove  from  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world  the 

terror   which   she   believed  to  be  hanging  over  her 

276 


Sessams  Bribe.  277 

head.  He  felt  that  every  step  which  he  was  taking" 
westward  was  bringing  him  nearer  to  the  realisation 
of  his  longing — his  longing  to  see  the  white  roses 
on  Mary's  cheeks  change  to  red  once  more. 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  him  to  learn  that 
Mary  had  gone  down  to  Barton  with  the  Bunburys. 
Her  mother,  who  met  him  in  the  hall,  told  him 
this  with  a  grave  face  as  she  brought  him  into  a 
parlour. 

"  I  think  she  expected  you  to  call  during  the 
past  ten  days,  Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  the  lady.  "I 
believe  that  she  was  more  than  a  little  disappointed 
that  you  could  not  find  time  to  come  to  her." 

"Was  she,  indeed?  Did  she  really  expect  me  to 
call  ?  "  he  asked.  This  fresh  proof  of  the  confidence 
which  the  Jessamy  Bride  reposed  in  him  was  very 
dear  to  him.  She  had  not  merely  entrusted  him 
with  her  enterprise  on  the  chance  of  his  being  able 
to  save  her;  she  had  had  confidence  in  his  ability 
to  save  her,  and  had  looked  for  his  coming  to  tell 
her  of  his  success. 

"She  seemed  very  anxious  to  see  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Horneck.  "  I  fear,  dear  Dr.  Goldsmith,  that  my  poor 
child  has  something  on  her  mind.  That  is  her  sister's 
idea  also.  And  yet  it  is  impossible  that  she  could 
have  any  secret  trouble;  she  has  not  been  out  of 
our  sight  since  her  visit  to  Devonshire  last  year. 
At  that  time  she  had,  I  believe,  some  silly,  girlish 
fancy — my  brother  wrote  to  me  that  there  had  been 
in  his  neighbourhood  a  certain  attractive  man,  an 
officer  who  had  returned  home  with  a  wound  received 


278  Ube  3essant£  UBrifce* 

in  the  war  with  the  American  rebels.  But  surely 
she  has  got  over  that  foolishness ! " 

"  Ah,  yes.  You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  Madam, 
she  has  got  over  that  foolishness,"  said  Goldsmith. 
"  You  may  take  my  word  for  it  that  when  she  sees 
me  the  roses  will  return  to  her  cheeks." 

"I  do  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Horneck.  "Yes,  you 
could  always  contrive  to  make  her  merry,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith. We  have  all  missed  you  lately;  we  feared 
that  that  disgraceful  letter  in  the  Packet  had  affected 
you.  That  was  why  my  son  called  upon  you  at  your 
rooms.  I  hope  he  assured  you  that  nothing  it  contained 
would  interfere  with  our  friendship." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  him  and  you,  my  dear 
Madam,"  said  he;  "but  I  have  seen  Mary  since 
that  thing  appeared." 

"To  be  sure  you  have.  Did  you  not  think  that 
she  looked  very  ill  ?  " 

"  Very  ill  indeed,  Madam ;  but  I  am  ready  to  give 
you  my  assurance  that  when  I  have  been  half  an 
hour  with  her  she  will  be  on  the  way  to  recovery. 
You  have  not,  I  fear,  much  confidence  in  my  skill 
as  a  doctor  of  medicine,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
whatever  your  confidence  in  this  direction  may 
amount  to,  it  is  a  great  deal  more  than  what  I  my- 
self have.  Still,  I  think  you  will  say  something 
in  my  favour  when  you  see  Mary's  condition  begin 
to  improve  from  the  moment  we  have  had  a  little 
chat  together." 

"  That  is  wherein  I  have  the  amplest  confidence 
in  you,  dear  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Your  chat  with  her 


Jessams  Bribe*  279 

will  do  more  for  her  than  all  the  medicine  the  most 
skilful  of  physicians  could  prescribe.  It  was  a  very 
inopportune  time  for  her  to  fall  sick." 

u  I  think  that  all  sicknesses  are  inopportune.  But 
why  Mary's?" 

"Well,  I  have  good  reason  to  believe,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, that  had  she  not  steadfastly  refused  to 
see  a  certain  gentleman  who  has  been  greatly 
attracted  by  her,  I  might  now  have  some  happy 
news  to  convey  to  you." 

"  The  gentleman's  name  is  Colonel  Gwyn,  I 
think?" 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  and  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Ah,  you  have  guessed  it,  then  ?  You  have 
perceived  that  the  gentleman  was  drawn  toward 
her  ?  "  said  the  lady,  smiling. 

"I  have  every  reason  to  believe  in  his  sincerity," 
said  Goldsmith.  "  And  you  think  that  if  Mary  had 
been  as  well  as  she  usually  has  been,  she  would 
have  listened  to  his  proposals,  Madam  ? " 

"  Why  should  she  not  have  done  so,  Sir  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Horneck. 

"  Why  not,  indeed?" 

"Colonel  Gwyn  would  be  a  very  suitable  match 
for  her,"  said  she.  "  He  is,  to  be  sure,  several 
years  her  senior ;  that,  however,  is  nothing." 

"  You  think  so — you  think  that  a  disparity  in  age 
should  mean  nothing  in  such  a  case  ?  "  said  Oliver, 
rather  eagerly. 

"  How  could  anyone  be  so  narrow-minded  as  to 
think  otherwise  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Horneck.  "  Whoever 


28o  ZTbe  Sessam^  Bribe* 

may  think  otherwise,  Sir,  I  certainly  do  not.  I 
hope  I  am  too  good  a  mother,  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Nay, 
I  could  not  stand  between  my  daughter  and 
happiness  on  such  a  pretext  as  a  difference  in  years. 
After  all,  Colonel  Gwyn  is  but  a  year  or  two  over 
thirty — thirty-seven,  I  believe — but  he  does  not  look 
more  than  thirty-five." 

"  No  one  more  cordially  agrees  with  you  than 
myself  on  the  point  to  which  you  give  emphasis, 
Madam,"  said  Goldsmith.  "And  you  think  that 
Mary  will  see  Colonel  Gwyn  when  she  returns  ?  " 

"I  hope  so;  and  therefore  I  hope,  dear  Sir,  that 
you  will  exert  yourself  so  that  the  bloom  will  be 
brought  back  to  her  cheeks, "  said  the  lady.  "  That 
is  your  duty,  Doctor;  remember  that,  I  pray.  You 
are  to  bring  back  the  bloom  to  her  cheeks  in  order 
that  Colonel  Gwyn  may  be  doubly  attracted  to  her." 

"I  understand — I  understand." 

He  spoke  slowly,  gravely. 

"  I  knew  you  would  help  us, "  said  Mrs.  Horneck, 
"  and  so  I  hope  that  you  will  lose  no  time  in 
coming  to  us  after  Mary's  return  to-morrow.  Your 
Jessamy  Bride  will,  I  trust,  be  a  real  bride  before 
many  days  have  passed. " 

Yes,  that  was  his  duty:  to  help  Mary  to  happi- 
ness. Not  for  him,  not  for  him  was  the  bloom  to 
be  brought  again  to  her  cheeks — not  for  him,  but 
for  another  man.  For  him  were  the  sleepless  nights, 
the  anxious  days,  the  hours  of  thought — all  the 
anxiety  and  all  the  danger  resulting  from  facing  an 
unscrupulous  scoundrel.  For  another  man  was  the 


Ube  Jessams  Bribe.  281 

joy  of  putting  his  lips  upon  the  delicate  bloom  of 
her  cheeks,  the  joy  of  taking  her  sweet  form  into 
his  arms,  of  dwelling  daily  in  her  smiles,  of  being 
for  evermore  beside  her,  of  feeling  hourly  the  pride 
of  so  priceless  a  possession  as  her  love. 

That  was  his  thought  as  he  walked  along  the 
Strand  with  bent  head;  and  yet,  before  he  had 
reached  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  he  said, 

"Even  so;  I  am  satisfied — I  am  satisfied." 

It  chanced  that  Dr.  Johnson  was  in  the  tavern 
with  Steevens,  and  Goldsmith  persuaded  both  to 
join  his  party.  He  was  glad  that  he  succeeded  in 
doing  so,  for  he  had  felt  it  was  quite  possible  that 
Baretti  might  inquire  of  him  respecting  the  object 
of  Jackson's  visit  to  Brick  Court,  and  he  could  not 
well  explain  to  the  Italian  the  nature  of  the  enter- 
prise which  he  had  so  successfully  carried  out  by 
the  aid  of  Mrs.  Abington.  It  was  one  thing  to  take 
Mrs.  Abington  into  his  confidence  and  quite  another 
to  confide  in  Baretti.  He  was  discriminating  enough 
to  be  well  aware  of  the  fact  that,  while  the  secret 
was  perfectly  safe  in  the  keeping  of  the  actress,  it 
would  be  by  no  means  equally  so  if  confided  to 
Baretti,  although  some  people  might  laugh  at  him 
for  entertaining  an  opinion  so  contrary  to  that  which 
was  generally  accepted  by  the  world,  Mrs.  Abing- 
ton being  a  woman  and  Baretti  a  man. 

He  had  perceived  long  ago  that  Baretti  was 
extremely  anxious  to  learn  all  about  Jackson — that 
he  was  wondering  how  he,  Goldsmith,  should  have 
become  mixed  up  in  a  matter  which  was  apparently 


282 

of  imperial  importance,  for  at  the  mention  of  the 
American  rebels  Baretti  had  opened  his  eyes.  He 
was,  therefore,  glad  that  the  talk  at  the  table  was 
so  general  as  to  prevent  any  allusion  being  made 
to  the  incidents  of  the  day. 

Dr.  Johnson  made  Signer  Nicolo  acquainted  with 
a  few  important  facts  regarding  the  use  of  the  sword 
and  the  limitations  of  that  weapon,  which  the  Italian 
accepted  with  wonderful  gravity;  and  when  Gold- 
smith, on  the  conversation  drifting  into  the  question 
of  patriotism  and  its  trials,  declared  that  a  successful 
patriot  was  susceptible  of  being  defined  as  a  man 
who  loved  his  country  for  the  benefit  of  himself, 
Dr.  Johnson  roared  out, 

"  Sir,  that   is   very  good.     If  Mr.    Boswell   were 

here — and   indeed,   Sir,    I    am    glad    that  he  is  not 

—he     would     say    that    your    definition     was    so 

good    as    to    make    him    certain    you  had  stolen  it 

from  me." 

"Nay,  Sir,  'tis  not  so  good  as  to  have  been  stolen 
from  you,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"Sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "I  did  not  say  that  it 
was  good  enough  to  have  been  stolen  from  me.  I  only 
said  that  it  was  good  enough  to  make  a  very  foolish 
person  suppose  that  it  was  stolen  from  me.  No 
sensible  person,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  would  believe,  first, 
that  you  would  steal;  secondly,  that  you  would  steal 
from  me;  thirdly,  that  I  would  give  you  a  chance 
of  stealing  from  me;  and  fourthly,  that  I  would 
compose  an  apophthegm  which  when  it  comes  to 
be  closely  examined  is  not  so  good  after  all.  Now, 


ZTbe  3e0sam£  3Brtfce«  283 


Sir,  are  you  satisfied  with  the  extent  of  my  agree- 
ment with  you?" 

"  Sir,  I  am  more  than  satisfied,"  said  Goldsmith, 
while  Nicolo,  the  cunning  master  of  fence,  sat  by 
with  a  puzzled  look  on  his  saffron  face.  This  was 
a  kind  of  fencing  of  which  he  had  no  previous 
experience. 

After  dining  Goldsmith  made  the  excuse  of  being 
required  at  the  theatre  to  leave  his  friends.  He 
was  anxious  to  return  thanks  to  Mrs.  Abington  for 
managing  so  adroitly  to  accomplish  in  a  moment 
all  that  he  had  hoped  to  do. 

He  found  the  lady  not  in  the  Green  Room  but 
in  her  dressing-room;  her  costume,  was  not,  how- 
ever, the  less  fascinating,  nor  was  her  smile  the  less 
subtle  as  she  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss.  He  knelt 
on  one  knee,  holding  her  hand  to  his  lips;  he  was 
too  much  overcome  to  be  able  to  speak,  and  she 
knew  it.  She  did  not  mind  how  long  he  held 
her  hand;  she  was  quite  accustomed  to  such  de- 
monstrations, though  few,  she  well  knew,  were  of 
equal  sincerity  to  those  of  Oliver  Goldsmith's. 

"Well,  my  poet,"  she  said  at  last,  "have  you 
need  of  my  services  to  banish  any  more  demons 
from  the  neighbourhood  of  your  friends  ?  " 

"I  was  right,"  he  managed  to  say  after  another 
pause.  u  Yes,  I  knew  I  was  not  mistaken  in  you, 
my  dear  lady." 

"  Yes  ;  you  knew  that  I  was  equal  to  combat  the 
wiles  of  the  craftiest  demon  that  ever  undertook 
the  slandering  of  a  fair  damsel,"  said  she.  "Well, 


284  'Ebe  Sessams  Bribe. 

Sir,  you  paid  me  a  doubtful  compliment — a  more 
doubtful  compliment  than  the  fair  damsel  paid  to 
you  in  asking  you  to  be  her  champion.  But  you 
have  not  told  me  of  your  adventurous  journey  with 
our  friend  in  the  hackney  coach." 

"Nay,"  he  cried;  "it  is  you  who  have  not  yet 
told  me  by  what  means  you  became  possessed  of 
the  letters  which  I  wanted — by  what  magic  you 
substituted  for  them  the  mock  act  of  the  comedy 
which  I  carried  with  me  into  the  supper-room." 

"Psha,  Sir!"  said  she;  "'twas  a  simple  matter 
after  all.  I  gathered  from  a  remark  the  fellow 
made  when  laying  his  cloak  across  the  chair,  that 
he  had  the  letters  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  that 
same  cloak.  He  gave  me  a  hint  that  a  certain 
Ned  Cripps,  who  shares  his  lodging,  is  not  to  be 
trusted,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  carry  about  with 
him  every  document  on  which  he  places  a  value. 
Well,  Sir,  my  well-known  loyalty  naturally  received 
a  great  shock  when  he  offered  to  drink  to  the 
American  rebels,  and  you  saw  that  I  left  the  table 
hastily.  A  minute  or  so  sufficed  me  to  discover 
the  wallet  with  the  letters,  but  then  I  was  at  my 
wits'  end  to  find  something  to  occupy  their  place 
in  the  receptacle.  Happily  my  eye  caught  the  roll 
of  your  manuscript,  which  lay  in  your  hat  on  the 
floor  beside  the  chair,  and  heigh !  presto !  the  trick 
was  played.  I  had  a  sufficient  appreciation  of 
dramatic  incident  to  keep  me  hoping  all  the  night 
that  you  would  be  able  to  get  possession  of  the 
wallet,  believing  it  contained  the  letters  for  which 


Tlbe  Sessamg  3Brlbe»  285 

you  were  in  search.  Lord,  Sir!  I  tried  to  picture 
your  face  when  you  drew  out  your  own  papers." 

The  actress  lay  back  on  her  couch  and  roared 
with  laughter,  Goldsmith  joining  in  quite  pleasantly. 

*  Ah ! "  he  said ;  "  I  can  fancy  that  I  see  at  this 
moment  the  expression  which  my  face  wore  at 
that  time.  But  the  sequel  to  the  story  is  the  most 
humorous.  I  succeeded  last  night  in  picking  the 
fellow's  pocket,  but  he  paid  me  a  visit  this  after- 
noon with  the  intent  of  recovering  what  he  termed 
his  property." 

"Oh,  lud  !  Call  you  that  humorous?  How  did 
you  rid  yourself  of  him  ?  " 

At  the  story  of  the  fight  which  had  taken  place 
in  Brick  Court,  Mrs.  Abington  laughed  heartily 
after  a  few  breathless  moments. 

"  By  my  faith,  Sir !  "  she  cried ;  "  I  would  give 
ten  guineas  to  have  been  there.  But  believe  me, 
Dr.  Goldsmith,"  she  added  a  moment  afterwards, 
"you  will  live  in  great  jeopardy  so  long  as  that 
fellow  remains  in  the  town." 

"  Nay,  my  dear,"  said.  he.  "  It  was  Baretti  whom 
he  threatened  as  he  left  my  room — not  I.  He 
knows  that  I  have  now  in  my  possession  such 
documents  as  would  hang  him." 

"  Why,  is  not  that  the  very  reason  why  he  should 
make  an  attempt  upon  your  life  ?  "  cried  the  actress. 
"  He  may  try  to  kill  Baretti  on  a  point  of  sentiment, 
but  assuredly  he  will  do  his  best  to  slaughter  you 
as  a  matter  of  business." 

"  Faith,  Madam,    since  you  put  it  that  way  I  do 


286 

believe  that  there  is  something  in  what  you  say," 
said  Goldsmith.  "  So  I  will  e'en  take  a  hackney- 
coach  to  the  Temple  and  get  the  stalwart  Ginger 
to  escort  me  to  the  very  door  of  my  chambers." 

"Do  so,  Sir.  I  am  awaiting  with  great  interest 
the  part  which  you  have  yet  to  write  for  me  in  a 
comedy/ 

"I  swear  to  you  that  it  will  be  the  best  part 
ever  written  by  me,  my  dear  friend.  You  have 
earned  my  everlasting  gratitude." 

u  Ah !  was  the  lady  so  grateful  as  all  that?  "  cried 
the  actress,  looking  at  him  with  one  of  those  arch 
smiles  of  hers  which  even  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
could  not  quite  translate  to  show  the  next  century 
what  manner  of  woman  was  the  first  Lady  Teazle, 
for  the  part  of  the  capricious  young  wife  of  the 
elderly  Sir  Peter  was  woven  around  the  fascinating 
country  girl's  smile  of  Mrs.  Abington. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

GOLDSMITH  kept  his  word.  He  took  a  hackney- 
coach  to  the  Temple,  and  was  alert  all  the  time  he 
was  driving  lest  Jackson  and  his  friends  might  be 
waiting  to  make  an  attack  upon  him.  He  reached 
his  chambers  without  any  adventure,  however,  and 
on  locking  his  doors,  took  out  the  second  parcel  of 
letters  and  set  himself  to  peruse  their  contents. 

He  had  no  need  to  read  them  all — the  first  that 
came  to  his  hand  was  sufficient  to  make  him  aware 
of  the  nature  of  the  correspondence.  It  was  perfectly 
plain  that  the  man  had  been  endeavouring  to  traffic 
with  the  rebels,  and  it  was  equally  certain  that  the 
rebel  leaders  had  shown  themselves  to  be  too 
honourable  to  take  advantage  of  the  offers  which 
he  had  made  to  them.  If  this  correspondence  had 
come  into  the  hands  of  Cornwallis  he  would  have 
hanged  the  fellow  on  the  nearest  tree  instead  of  merely 
turning  him  out  of  his  regiment  and  shipping  him 
back  to  England  as  a  suspected  traitor. 

As  he  locked  the  letters  once  again  in  his  desk 
he  felt  that  there  was  indeed  every  reason  to  fear 
that  Jackson  would  not  rest  until  he  had  obtained 

possession   of  such   damning   evidence   of  his  guilt. 

287 


288  llbe  3essam£ 

He  would  certainly  either  make  the  attempt  to  get 
back  the  letters,  or  leave  the  country,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  irretrievable  ruin  which  would  fall  upon 
him  if  any  one  of  the  packet  went  into  the  hands 
of  a  magistrate;  and  Goldsmith  was  strongly  of  the 
belief  that  the  man  would  adopt  the  former  course. 

Only  for  an  instant,  as  he  laid  down  the  com- 
promising document,  did  he  ask  himself  how  it  was 
possible  that  Mary  Horneck  should  ever  have  been 
so  blind  as  to  be  attracted  to  such  a  man,  and  to- 
believe  in  his  honesty. 

He  knew  enough  of  the  nature  of  womankind  to- 
be  aware  of  the  glamour  which  attaches  to  a  soldier 
who  has  been  wounded  in  fighting  the  enemies  of 
his  country.  If  Mary  had  been  less  womanly  than 
she  showed  herself  to  be,  he  would  not  have  loved 
her  so  well  as  he  did.  Her  womanly  weaknesses 
were  dear  to  him,  and  the  painful  evidence  that  he 
had  of  the  tenderness  of  her  heart  only  made  him 
feel  that  she  was  all  the  more  a  woman,  and  there- 
fore all  the  more  to  be  loved. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  before  he 
set  out  once  more  for  the  Hornecks'.  He  meant  to 
see  Mary,  and  then  go  on  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's 
to  dine.  There  was  to  be  that  night  a  meeting  of 
the  Royal  Academy,  which  he  would  attend  with 
the  President,  after  Sir  Joshua's  usual  five  o'clock 
dinner.  It  occurred  to  him  that,  as  Baretti  would 
also  most  probably  be  at  the  meeting,  he  would  do 
well  to  make  him  acquainted  with  the  dangerous 
character  of  Jackson,  so  that  Baretti  might  take  due 


Ufoe  3essams  Bribe.  289 

precautions  against  any  attack  that  the  desperate 
man  might  be  induced  to  make  upon  him.  No 
doubt  Baretti  would  make  a  good  point  in  conver- 
sation with  his  friends  of  the  notion  of  Oliver  Gold- 
smith's counselling  caution  to  anyone :  but  the  latter 
was  determined  to  give  the  Italian  his  advice  on  this 
matter,  whatever  the  consequences  might  be. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  he  was  unable  to 
carry  out  his  intention  in  full,  for  on  visiting  Mrs. 
Horneck,  he  learned  that  Mary  would  not  return 
from  Barton  until  late  that  night,  and  at  the  meeting 
of  the  Academy  Baretti  failed  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. 

He  mentioned  to  Sir  Joshua  that  he  had  something 
of  importance  to  communicate  to  the  Italian,  and 
that  he  was  somewhat  uneasy  at  not  having  a  chance 
of  carrying  out  his  intention  in  this  respect. 

"  You  would  do  well,  then,  to  come  to  my  house 
for  supper,"  said  Reynolds.  "  I  think  it  is  very 
probable  that  Baretti  will  look  in,  if  only  to  apo- 
logise for  his  absence  from  the  meeting.  Miss 
Kauffman  has  promised  to  come,  and  I  have  secured 
Johnson  and  Whitefoord  as  well." 

Goldsmith  agreed,  and  while  Johnson  and  An- 
gelica Kauffman  walked  in  front,  he  followed  with 
Reynolds  some  distance  behind — not  so  far,  how- 
ever, as  to  be  out  of  the  range  of  Johnson's  voice. 
Johnson  was  engaged  in  a  discourse  with  his  sweet 
companion — he  was  particularly  fond  of  such  com- 
panionship— on  the  dignity  inseparable  from  a  classic 
style  in  painting,  and  the  enormity  of  painting  men 


Bribe* 

and  women  in  the  habiliments  of  their  period  and 
country.  Angelica  KaufFman  was  not  a  painter  who 
required  any  considerable  amount  of  remonstrance 
from  preceptors  to  keep  her  feet  from  straying  11 
regard  to  classical  traditions.  The  artist  who  gave 
the  purest  Greek  features  and  the  Roman  toga  alike 
to  the  Prodigal  Son  and  King  Edward  III.  could 
not  be  said  to  be  capable  of  greatly  erring  from 
Dr.  Johnson's  precepts. 

All  through  supper  the  sage  continued  his  dis- 
course at  intervals  of  eating,  giving  his  hearty  com- 
mendation to  Sir  Joshua's  conscientious  adherence 
to  classical  traditions,  and  shouting  down  Goldsmith's 
mild  suggestion  that  it  might  be  possible  to  adhere 
to  these  traditions  so  faithfully  as  to  inculcate  a 
certain  artificiality  of  style  which  might  eventually 
prove  detrimental  to  the  best  interests  of  art. 

"  What,  Sir ! "  cried  Johnson,  rolling  like  a  three- 
decker  swinging  at  anchor,  and  pursing  out  his  lips, 
"would  you  contend  that  a  member  of  Parliament 
should  be  painted  for  posterity  in  his  every-day 
clothes — that  the  King  should  be  depicted  as  an 
ordinary  gentleman  ?  " 

a  Why,  yes,  Sir,  if  the  King  were  an  ordinary  gen- 
tleman," replied  Goldsmith. 

Whitefoord,  who  never  could  resist  the  chance  of 
making  a  pun,  whispered  to  Oliver  that  in  respect 
of  some  Kings  there  was  more  of  the  ordinary  than 
the  gentleman  about  them,  and  when  Miss  Reynolds 
insisted  on  his  phrase  being  repeated  to  her,  John- 
son became  grave. 


3essam£  Bribe.  291 

"Sir,"  he  cried,  turning-  once  more  to  Goldsmith, 
*  there  is  a  very  flagrant  example  of  what  you  would 
bring  about.  When  a  monarch,  even  depicted  in 
his  robes  and  with  the  awe-inspiring  insignia  of 
his  exalted  position,  is  not  held  to  be  beyond  the 
violation  of  a  punster,  what  would  he  be  if  shown 
in  ordinary  garb?  But  you,  Sir,  in  your  aims  after 
what  you  call  the  natural,  would,  I  believe,  consider 
seriously  the  advisability  of  the  epitaphs  in  West- 
minster Abbey  being  written  in  English." 

"And  why  not,  Sir?"  said  Goldsmith;  then,  with 
a  twinkle,  he  added,  "  For  my  own  part,  Sir,  I  hope 
that  I  may  live  to  read  my  own  epitaph  in  West- 
minster Abbey  written  in  English." 

Everyone  laughed,  including — when  the  bull  had 
been  explained  to  her — Angelica  Kauffman. 

After  supper  Sir  Joshua  put  his  fair  guest  into 
her  chair,  shutting  its  door  with  his  own  hands,  and 
shortly  afterwards  Johnson  and  Whitefoord  went  off 
together.  But  still  Goldsmith,  at  the  suggestion  of 
Reynolds,  lingered  in  the  hope  that  Baretti  would 
call.  He  had  probably  been  detained  at  the  house 
of  a  friend,  Reynolds  said,  and  if  he  should  pass 
Leicester  Square  on  his  way  home,  he  would  certainly 
call  to  explain  the  reason  of  his  absence  from  the 
meeting. 

When  another  half-hour  had  passed,  however,  Gold- 
smith rose  and  said  that  as  Sir  Joshua's  bed-time 
was  at  hand,  it  would  be  outrageous  for  him  to  wait 
any  longer.  His  host  accompanied  him  to  the  hall, 
-and  Ralph  helped  him  on  with  his  cloak.  He  was 


292  Ube  SessamE  USrifce, 

in  the  act  of  receiving  his  hat  from  the  hand  of  the 
servant  when  the  hall-bell  was  rung  with  startling 
violence.  The  ring  was  repeated  before  Ralph  could 
take  the  few  steps  to  the  door. 

u  If  that  is  Baretti  who  rings,  his  business  must 
be  indeed  urgent,"  said  Goldsmith. 

In  another  moment  the  *door  was  opened,  and  the 
light  of  the  lamp  showed  the  figure  of  Steevens  in 
the  porch.  He  hurried  past  Ralph,  crying  out  so 
as  to  reach  the  ear  of  Reynolds, 

" A  dreadful  thing  has  happened  to-night,  Sir! 
Baretti  was  attacked  by  two  men  in  the  Haymar- 
ket,  and  he  killed  one  of  them  with  his  knife.  He 
has  been  arrested,  and  will  be  charged  with  mur- 
der before  Sir  John  Fielding  in  the  morning.  I 
heard  of  the  terrible  business  just  now,  and  lost  no 
time  coming  to  you." 

"  Merciful  Heaven !  "  cried  Goldsmith.  "  I  was 
waiting  for  Baretti  in  order  to  warn  him." 

"  You  could  not  have  any  reason  for  warning 
him  against  such  an  attack  as  was  made  upon  him," 
said  Steevens.  "  It  seems  that  the  fellow  whom 
Baretti  was  unfortunate  enough  to  kill  was  one  of 
a  very  disreputable  gang  well  known  to  the  con- 
stables. It  was  a  Bow  Street  runner  who  stated 
what  his  name  was." 

"And  what  was  his  name?"  asked  Reynolds. 

"Richard  Jackson,"  replied  Steevens.  "Of 
course  we  never  heard  the  name  before.  The 
attack  upon  Baretti  was  the  worst  that  could  be- 
imagined. " 


Jessamp  Bribe*  293 

"  The  world  is  undoubtedly  rid  of  a  great  rascal," 
said  Goldsmith. 

"  Undoubtedly ;  but  that  fact  will  not  save  our 
friend  from  being  hanged,  should  a  jury  find  him 
guilty,"  said  Steevens.  "  We  must  make  an  effort 
to  avert  so  terrible  a  thing.  That  is  why  I  came 
here  now:  I  tried  to  speak  to  Baretti,  but  the  con- 
stables would  not  give  me  permission.  They  car- 
ried my  name  to  him,  however,  and  he  sent  out  a 
message  asking  me  to  go  without  delay  to  Sir 
Joshua  and  you,  as  well  as  Dr.  Johnson  and  Mr. 
Garrick.  He  hopes  you  may  find  it  convenient  to 
attend  before  Sir  John  Fielding  at  Bow  Street  in 
the  morning." 

"That  we  shall,"  said  Sir  Joshua.  "He  shall 
have  the  best  legal  advice  available  in  England; 
and,  meantime,  we  shall  go  to  him  and  tell 
him  that  he  may  depend  on  our  help,  such  as 
it  is." 

The  coach  in  which  Steevens  had  come  to  Lei- 
cester Square  was  still  waiting,  and  in  it  they  all 
drove  to  where  Baretti  was  detained  in  custody. 
The  constables  would  not  allow  them  to  see  the 
prisoner,  but  they  offered  to  convey  to  him  any 
message  which  his  friends  might  have,  and  also  to 
carry  back  to  them  his  reply. 

Goldsmith  was  extremely  anxious  to  get  from 
Baretti's  own  lips  an  account  of  the  assault  which 
had  been  made  upon  him;  but  he  could  not  induce 
the  constables  to  allow  him  even  into  his  presence. 
They,  however,  bore  in  his  message  to  the  effect 


294  ^be  3essam$  Bribe, 

that  he  might  depend  on  the  help  of  all  his  friends 
in  his  emergency. 

Sir  Joshua  sent  for  the  watchmen  by  whom  the 
arrest  had  been  effected,  and  they  stated  that  Baretti 
had  been  seized  by  the  crowd — a  far  from  reputable 
crowd — so  soon  as  it  was  known  that  a  man  had 
been  stabbed,  and  he  had  been  handed  over  to  the 
constables,  while  a  surgeon  examined  the  man's 
wound,  but  was  able  to  do  nothing  for  him ;  he 
had  expired  in  the  surgeon's  hands. 

Baretti's  statement  made  to  the  watch  was  that 
he  was  on  his  way  to  the  meeting  of  the  Aca- 
demy, and  being  very  late,  he  was  hurrying  through 
the  Haymarket,  when  a  woman  jostled  him,  and  at 
the  same  instant  two  men  rushed  out  from  the  en- 
trance to  Jermyn  Street  and  attacked  him  with 
heavy  sticks.  One  of  the  men  closed  with  him  to 
prevent  his  drawing  his  sword,  but  he  succeeded  in 
freeing  one  arm,  and  in  defending  himself  with  the 
small  fruit-knife  which  he  invariably  carried  about 
with  him,  as  was  the  custom  in  France  and  Italy, 
where  fruit  is  the  chief  article  of  diet,  he  had  un- 
doubtedly stabbed  his  assailant,  and  by  a  great  mis- 
chance he  must  have  severed  an  artery. 

The  Bow-Street  runner  who  had  seen  the  dead 
body  told  Reynolds  and  his  friends  that  he  recog- 
nised the  man  as  one  Jackson,  who  had  formerly 
held  a  commission  in  the  Army,  and  had  been  serv- 
ing in  America,  when,  being  tried  by  court-martial 
for  some  irregularities,  he  had  been  sent  to  Eng- 
land by  Cornwallis.  He  had  been  living  by  his 


Ube  Sessams  JBribe,  295 

wits  for  some  months,  and  had  recently  joined  a 
very  disreputable  gang,  who  occupied  a  house  in 
Whetstone  Park. 

"So  far  from  our  friend  having  been  guilty  of  a 
criminal  offence,  it  seems  to  me  that  he  has  rid  the 
country  of  a  vile  rogue,"  said  Goldsmith. 

"  If  the  jury  take  that  view  of  the  business  they'll 
acquit  the  gentleman,"  said  the  Bow  Street  runner. 
"But  I  fancy  the  judge  will  tell  them  that  it's 
the  business  only  of  the  hangman  to  rid  the  country 
of  its  rogues." 

Goldsmith  could  not  but  perceive  that  the  man 
had  accurately  defined  the  view  which  the  law  was 
supposed  to  take  of  the  question  of  getting  rid  of 
the  rogues,  and  his  reflections  as  he  drove  to  his 
chambers,  having  parted  from  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
and  Steevens,  made  him  very  unhappy.  He  could 
not  help  feeling  that  Baretti  was  the  victim  of  his, 
Goldsmith's,  want  of  consideration.  What  right 
had  he,  he  asked  himself,  to  drag  Baretti  into  a 
matter  in  which  the  Italian  had  no  concern?  He 
felt  that  a  man  of  the  world  would  certainly  have  acted 
with  more  discretion,  and  if  anything  happened  to 
Baretti  he  would  never  forgive  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


AFTER  a  very  restless  night,  he  hastened  to  John- 
son, but  found  that  Johnson  had  already  gone  to 
Garrick's  house,  and  at  Garrick's  house  Goldsmith 
learned  that  Johnson  and  Garrick  had  driven  to 
Edmund  Burke's ;  so  it  was  plain  that  Baretti's  friends 
were  losing  no  time  in  setting  about  helping  him. 
They  all  met  in  the  Bow  Street  Police  Court,  and 
Goldsmith  found  that  Burke  had  already  instructed 
a  lawyer  on  behalf  of  Baretti.  His  tender  heart 
was  greatly  moved  at  the  sight  of  Baretti  when  the 
latter  was  brought  into  Court,  and  placed  in  the 
dock,  with  a  constable  on  each  side.  But  the 
prisoner  himself  appeared  to  be  quite  collected, 
and  seemed  proud  of  the  group  of  notable  per- 
sons who  had  come  to  show  their  friendship  for 
him.  He  smiled  at  Reynolds  and  Goldsmith, 
and,  when  the  witnesses  were  being  examined, 
polished  the  glasses  of  his  spectacles  with  the 
greatest  composure.  He  appeared  to  be  confident 
that  Sir  John  Fielding  would  allow  him  to  go 
free  when  evidence  was  given  that  Jackson 
had  been  a  man  of  notoriously  bad  character,  and 

he  seemed   greatly  surprised   when   the  magistrate 

296 


Ube  Sessam^  Bvifce.  297 

announced  that  he    was   returning  him  for  trial  la/ 
the  next  sessions. 

Goldsmith  asked  Sir  John  Fielding  for  permission 
to  accompany  the  prisoner  in  the  coach  that  was 
taking  him  to  Newgate,  and  his  request  was  granted. 

He  clasped  Baretti's  hand  with  tears  in  his  eyes 
when  they  set  out  on  this  melancholy  drive,  saying, 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  will  never  forgive  myself  for 
having  brought  you  to  this." 

"Psha,  Sir!"  said  Baretti.  "Tis  not  you,  but 
the  foolish  laws  of  this  country  that  must  be  held 
accountable  for  the  situation  of  the  moment.  In 
what  country  except  this  could  a  thing  so  ridicu- 
lous occur?  A  gross  ruffian  attacks  me,  and  in 
the  absence  of  any  civil  force  for  the  protection  of 
the  people,  I  am  compelled  to  protect  myself  from 
his  violence.  It  so  happens  that  instead  of  the  fel- 
low killing  me,  I  by  accident  kill  him,  and  lo !  a 
pigheaded  magistrate  sends  me  to  be  tried  for  my 
life!  Mother  of  God!  that  is  what  is  called  the 
course  of  justice  in  this  country!  The  course  of 
idiotcy  it  had  much  better  be  called!  " 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,"  said  Goldsmith.  "When 
you  appear  before  a  judge  and  jury  you  will  most 
certainly  be  acquitted.  But  can  you  forgive  me 
for  being  the  cause  of  this  great  inconvenience 
to  you?" 

"  I  can  easily  forgive  you,  having  no  reason  to 
hold  you  in  any  way  responsible  for  this  contre- 
temps," said  Baretti.  "  But  I  cannot  forgive  that 
very  foolish  person  who  sat  on  the  bench  at  Bow 


298  Tlbe  Jessami?  JBrifce* 

Street  and  failed  to  perceive  that  my  act  had  saved 
his  constables  and  his  hangman  a  considerable 
amount  of  trouble!  Heavens!  that  such  carrion  as 
the  fellow  whom  I  killed  should  be  regarded  sacred 
—as  sacred  as  though  he  were  an  Archbishop! 
Body  of  Bacchus!  was  there  ever  a  contention  so 
ridiculous?  " 

"  You  will  only  be  inconvenienced  for  a  week  or 
two,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Goldsmith.  "It  is  quite 
impossible  that  you  could  be  convicted — oh,  quite 
impossible.  You  shall  have  the  best  counsel  avail- 
able, and  Reynolds  and  Johnson  and  Beauclerk  will 
speak  for  you." 

But  Baretti  declined  to  be  pacified  by  such  assur- 
ances. He  continued  railing  against  England  and 
English  laws  until  the  coach  arrived  at  Newgate. 

It  was  with  a  very  sad  heart  that  Goldsmith, 
when  he  was  left  alone  in  the  coach,  gave  direc- 
tions to  be  driven  to  the  Horneck's  house  in  West- 
minster. On  leaving  his  chambers  in  the  morning, 
he  had  been  uncertain  whether  it  was  right  for  him 
to  go  at  once  to  Bow  Street  or  to  see  Mary  Hor- 
neck.  He  felt  that  he  should  relieve  Mary  from  the 
distress  of  mind  from  which  she  had  suffered  for  so 
long,  but  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  should 
let  nothing  come  between  him  and  his  duty  in  re- 
spect of  the  man  who  was  suffering  by  reason  of 
his  friendship  for  him,  Goldsmith.  Now,  however, 
that  he  had  discharged  his  duty  so  far  as  he  could 
in  regard  to  Baretti,  he  lost  no  time  in  going  to 
the  Jessamy  Bride. 


Jes0am£  KBrifce.  299 

Mrs.  Horneck  again  met  him  in  the  hall.  Her 
face  was  very  grave,  and  the  signs  of  recent  tears 
were  visible  on  it. 

"  Dear  Dr.  Goldsmith, "  she  said,  "  I  am  in  deep 
distress  about  Mary." 

"  How  so,  Madam  ? "  he  gasped,  for  a  dreadful 
thought  had  suddenly  come  to  him.  Had  he  arrived 
at  this  house  only  to  hear  that  the  girl  was  at  the 
point  of  death? 

"  She  returned  from  Barton  last  night,  seeming 
even  more  depressed  than  when  she  left  town," 
said  Mrs.  Horneck.  "But  who  could  fancy  that 
her  condition  was  so  low  as  to  be  liable  to  such 
complete  prostration  as  was  brought  about  by  my 
son's  announcement  of  this  news  about  Signer 
Baretti?" 

"It  prostrated  her?" 

"  Why,  when  Charles  read  out  an  account  of  the 
unhappy  affair  which  is  printed  in  one  of  the  papers, 
Mary  listened  breathlessly,  and  when  he  came  to 
the  name  of  the  man  who  was  killed,  she  sank  from 
her  chair  to  the  floor  in  a  swoon,  just  as  though  the 
man  had  been  one  of  her  friends,  instead  of  one 
whom  none  of  us  could  ever  possibly  have  met. " 

"And  now?" 

"Now  she  is  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room  awaiting  your  coming  with  strange  impatience 
— I  told  her  that  you  had  been  here  yesterday  and 
also  the  day  before.  She  has  been  talking  very 
strangely  since  she  awoke  from  her  faint — accusing 
herself  of  bringing  her  friends  into  trouble,  but  ever- 


300  zrbe 

more  crying  out,  '  Why  does  he  not  come — why  does 
he  not  come  to  tell  me  all  that  there  is  to  be  told  ? '  She 
meant  you,  dear  Dr.  Goldsmith.  She  has  somehow 
come  to  think  of  you  as  able  to  soothe  her  in  this 
curious  imaginary  distress  from  which  she  is  suf- 
fering quite  as  acutely  as  if  it  were  a  real  sorrow. 
Oh,  I  was  quite  overcome  when  I  saw  the  poor 
child  lying  as  if  she  were  dead  before  my  eyes! 
Her  condition  is  the  more  sad  as  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  Colonel  Gwyn  means  to  call  to-day." 

"  Never  mind  Colonel  Gwyn  for  the  present, 
Madam,"  said  Goldsmith.  "Will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  lead  me  to  her  room.  Have  I  not  told 
you  that  I  am  confident  that  I  can  restore  her  to 
health?" 

"Ah,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  if  you  could! — ah,  if  you 
only  could !  But  alas,  alas !  " 

He  followed  her  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room 
where  he  had  had  his  last  interview  with  Mary. 
Even  before  the  door  was  opened  the  sound  of 
sobbing  within  the  room  came  to  his  ears. 

"Now,  my  dear  child,"  said  her  mother  with  an 
affectation  of  cheerfulness,  "you  see  that  Dr.  Gold- 
smith has  kept  his  word.  He  has  come  to  his 
Jessamy  Bride." 

The  girl  started  up,  but  the  struggle  she  had 
to  do  so  showed  him  most  pathetically  how  weak 
she  was. 

"  Ah,  he  is  come — he  is  come ! "  she  cried. 
"  Leave  him  with  me,  mother ;  he  has  much  to 
tell  me." 


ube  Sessams  Bribe,  301 

"Yes,"  said  he;   "I  have  much." 

Mrs.  Horneck  left  the  room  after  kissing  the  girl's 
forehead. 

She  had  hardly  closed  the  door  before  Mary 
caught  Goldsmith's  hand  spasmodically  in  both  her 
own — he  felt  how  they  were  trembling — as  she 
cried, 

u  The  terrible  thing  that  has  happened !  He  is 
dead — you  know  it,  of  course?  Oh,  it  is  terrible 
—terrible!  But  the  letters! — they  will  be  found 
upon  him  or  at  the  place  where  he  lived,  and  it 
will  be  impossible  to  keep  my  secret  longer.  Will 
his  friends — he  had  evil  friends,  I  know — will  they 
print  them,  do  you  think?  Ah,  I  see  by  your  face 
that  you  believe  they  will  print  the  letters,  and  I 
shall  be  undone — undone !  " 

"  My  dear, "  he  said,  "  you  might  be  able  to  bear 
the  worst  news  that  I  could  bring  you;  but  will 
you  be  able  to  bear  the  best  ?  " 

"The  best!     Ah,  what  is  the  best?" 

"It  is  more  difficult  to  prepare  for  the  best  than 
for  the  worst,  my  child.  You  are  very  weak, 
but  you  must  not  give  way  to  your  weakness." 

She  stared  at  him  with  wistful,  expectant  eyes. 
Her  hands  were  clasped  more  tightly  than  ever 
upon  his  own.  He  saw  that  she  was  trying  to 
speak,  but  failing  to  utter  a  single  word. 

He  waited  for  a  few  moments  and  then  drew  out 
of  his  pocket  the  packet  of  her  letters,  and  gave  it 
to  her.  She  looked  at  it  strangely  for  certainly  a 
minute.  She  could  not  realise  the  truth.  She  could 


302  zrbe  jcssamy 

only  gaze  mutely  at  the  packet.  He  perceived  that 
that  gradual  dawning  of  the  truth  upon  her  meant 
the  saving  of  her  life.  He  knew  that  she  would 
not  now  be  overwhelmed  with  the  joy  of  being  saved. 

Then  she  gave  a  sudden  cry.  The  letters  dropped 
from  her  hand.  She  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck 
and  kissed  him  again  and  again  on  the  cheeks. 
Quite  as  suddenly  she  ceased  kissing  him  and 
laughed — not  hysterically,  but  joyously,  as  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  with  scarcely  an  effort  and  walked  across 
the  room  to  the  window  that  looked  upon  the  street. 
He  followed  her  with  his  eyes  and  saw  her  gazing 
out.  Then  she  turned  round  with  another  laugh 
that  rippled  through  the  room.  How  long  was  it 
since  he  had  heard  her  laugh  in  that  way? 

She  came  toward  him,  and  then  he  knew  that  he 
had  had  his  reward,  for  her  cheeks  that  had  been 
white  were  now  glowing  with  the  roses  of  June, 
and  her  eyes  that  had  been  dim  were  sparkling 
with  gladness. 

"  Ah, "  she  cried,  putting  out  both  her  hands  to 
him.  "  Ah,  I  knew  that  I  was  right  in  telling  you 
my  secret  and  in  asking  you  to  help  me.  I  knew 
that  you  would  not  fail  me  in  my  hour  of  need, 
and  you  shall  be  dear  to  me  for  evermore  for  hav- 
ing helped  me.  There  is  no  one  in  the  world  like 
you,  dear  Oliver  Goldsmith.  I  have  always  felt 
that — so  good,  so  true,  so  full  of  tenderness  and 
that  sweet  simplicity  which  has  made  the  greatest 
and  best  people  in  the  world  love  you,  as  I  love 
you,  dear,  dear  friend!  Oh,  you  are  a  friend  to 


Jessamg  Bribe*  303 

be  trusted — a  friend  who  would  be  ready  to  die 
for  his  friend.  Gratitude — you  do  not  want  gratitude. 
It  is  well  that  you  do  not  want  gratitude,  for  what 
could  gratitude  say  to  you  for  what  you  have  done? 
You  have  saved  me  from  death — from  worse  than 
death — and  I  know  that  the  thought  that  you  have 
done  so  will  be  your  greatest  reward.  I  will  always 
be  near  you,  that  you  may  see  me  and  feel  that  I 
live  only  because  you  stretched  out  your  kind  hand 
and  drew  me  out  of  the  deep  waters — the  waters 
that  had  well-nigh  closed  over  my  head." 

He  sat  before  her,  looking  up  to  the  sweet  face 
that  looked  down  upon  him.  His  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  The  world  had  dealt  hardly  with  him;  but 
he  felt  that  his  life  had  not  been  wholly  barren  of 
gladness,  since  he  had  lived  to  see — even  through 
the  dimness  of  tears — so  sweet  a  face  looking  into 
his  own  with  eyes  full  of  the  light  of — was  it  the 
gratitude  of  a  girl?  Was  it  the  love  of  a  woman? 

He  could  not  speak.  He  could  not  even  return 
the  pressure  of  the  small  hands  that  clasped  his 
own  with  all  the  gracious  pressure  of  the  tendrils 
of  a  climbing  flower. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me — no  word  to 
give  me  at  this  moment  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  whisper, 
and  her  head  was  bent  closer  to  his,  and  her  fingers 
seemed  to  him  to  tighten  somewhat  around  his  own. 

"  What  word?  "  said  he.  "  Ah,  my  child,  what 
word  should  come  from  such  a  man  as  I  to  such  a 
woman  as  you?  No,  I  have  no  word.  Such  com- 
plete happiness  as  is  mine  at  this  moment  does  not 


304  Hbe  Sessamp  Bribe. 


seek  to  find  expression  in  words.  You  have  given 
me  such  happiness  as  I  never  hoped  for  in  my  life. 
You  have  understood  me — you  alone,  and  that  to 
such  as  I  means  happiness." 

She  dropped  his  hands  so  suddenly  as  almost  to 
suggest  that  she  had  flung  them  away  from  her. 
She  took  an  impatient  step  or  two  in  the  direction 
of  the  window. 

"  You  talk  of  my  understanding  you,"  she  said 
in  a  voice  that  had  a  sob  in  it.  "  Yes,  but  have 
you  no  thought  of  understanding  me?  Is  it  only 
a  man's  nature  that  is  worth  trying  to  understand? 
Is  a  woman's  not  worthy  of  a  thought?" 

He  started  up  and  seemed  about  to  stretch  his 
arms  out  to  her,  but  with  a  sudden  drawing  in  of 
his  breath  he  put  his  hands  behind  his  back  and 
locked  the  fingers  of  both  together. 

Thus  he  stood  looking  at  her  while  she  had  her 
face  averted,  not  knowing  the  struggle  that  was 
going  on  between  the  two  powers  that  are  ever  in 
the  throes  of  conflict  within  the  heart  of  a  man  who 
loves  a  woman  well  enough  to  have  no  thought  of 
himself — no  thought  except  for  her  happiness. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last.  "No,  my  dear,  dear  child; 
I  have  no  word  to  say  to  you!  I  fear  to  speak  a 
word.  The  happiness  that  a  man  builds  up  for 
himself  may  be  destroyed  by  the  utterance  of  one 
word.  I  wish  to  remain  happy — watching  your 
happiness — in  silence.  Perhaps  I  may  understand 
you — I  may  understand  something  of  the  thought 
which  gratitude  suggests  to  you." 


Jessams  Bribe.  305 

*  Ah,  gratitude !  "  said  she  in  a  tone  that  was  sad 
even  in  its  scornfulness.  She  had  not  turned  her 
head  toward  him. 

"  Yes,  I  may  understand  something  of  your  nature 
—the  sweetest,  the  tenderest  that  ever  made  a  wo- 
man blessed;  but  I  understand  myself  better,  and 
I  know  in  what  direction  lies  my  happiness — in  what 
direction  lies  your  happiness." 

"  Ah !  are  you  sure  that  they  are  two — that  they 
are  separate  ?  "  said  she.  And  now  she  moved  her 
head  slowly  so  that  she  was  looking  into  his  face. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  She  could  not  see  the 
movement  of  his  hands.  He  still  held  them  behind 
him.  At  last  he  said  slowly, 

"I  am  sure,  my  dear  one.  Ah,  I  am  but  too 
sure.  Would  to  God  there  were  a  chance  of  my 
being  mistaken !  Ah,  dear,  dear  child,  it  is  my  lot 
to  look  on  happiness  through  another  man's  eyes. 
And,  believe  me,  there  is  more  happiness  in  doing 
so  than  the  world  knows  of.  No,  no!  Do  not 
speak — for  God's  sake,  do  not  speak  to  me!  Do 
not  say  those  words  which  are  trembling  on  your 
lips,  for  they  mean  unhappiness  to  both  of  us." 

She  continued  looking  at  him ;  then  suddenly, 
with  a  little  cry,  she  turned  away,  and  throwing 
herself  down  on  the  sofa,  burst  into  tears,  with  her 
face  upon  one  of  the  arms,  which  her  hands  held 
tightly. 

After  a  time  he  went  to  her  side  and  laid  a  hand 
upon  her  hair. 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  up  to  him  with 

20 


streaming  eyes.  She  put  a  hand  out  to  him,  saying 
in  a  low  but  clear  voice, 

"  You  are  right.  Oh,  I  know  you  are  right.  I 
will  not  speak  that  word;  but  I  can  never  cease  to 
think  of  you  as  the  best — the  noblest — the  truest  of 
men.  You  have  been  my  best  friend — my  only 
friend — and  there  is  no  dearer  name  that  a  man 
can  be  called  by  a  woman." 

He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead, 
but  spoke  no  word. 

A  moment  afterwards  Mrs.  Horneck  entered  the 
room. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother ! "  cried  the  girl,  starting  up, 
"  I  knew  that  I  was  right — I  knew  that  Dr.  Gold- 
smith would  be  able  to  help  me.  Ah,  I  am  a  new 
girl  since  he  came  to  see  me.  I  feel  that  I  am 
well  once  more — that  I  shall  never  be  ill  again! 
Oh,  he  is  the  best  doctor  in  the  world!  " 

"  Why,  what  a  transformation  there  is  already !  " 
said  her  mother.  "Ah,  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  always 
my  dear  girl's  friend !  " 

"  Friend — friend !  "  she  said  slowly,  almost  gravely. 
"  Yes,  he  was  always  my  friend,  and  he  will  be  so 
for  ever — my  friend — our  friend." 

"Always,  always,"  said  Mrs.  Horneck.  "I  am 
doubly  glad  to  find  that  you  have  cast  away  your 
fit  of  melancholy,  my  dear,  because  Colonel  Gwyn 
has  just  called  and  expresses  the  deepest  anxiety 
regarding  your  condition.  May  I  not  ask  him  to 
come  up  in  order  that  his  mind  may  be  relieved  by 
seeing  you  ?  " 


ZIlx  5essam£  Bribe.  307 

"No,  no!  I  will  not  see  Colonel  Gwyn  to-day," 
cried  the  girl.  "  Send  him  away — send  him  away. 
I  do  not  want  to  see  him.  I  want  to  see  no  one 
but  our  good  friend  Oliver  Goldsmith.  Ah,  what 
did  Colonel  Gwyn  ever  do  for  me  that  I  should 
wish  to  see  him  ?  " 

"My  dear  Mary " 

"  Send  him  away,  dear  mother.  I  tell  you  that 
indeed  I  am  not  yet  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able 
to  have  a  visitor.  Dr.  Goldsmith  has  not  yet  given 
me  a  good  laugh,  and  till  you  come  and  find  us 
laughing  together  as  we  used  to  laugh  in  the  old 
days,  you  cannot  say  that  I  am  myself  again/ 

"  I  will  not  do  anything  against  your  inclinations, 
child,"  said  Mrs.  Horneck.  "I  will  tell  Colonel 
Gwyn  to  renew  his  visit  to  you  next  week." 

"  Do,  dear  mother,"  cried  the  girl,  laughing.  "  Say 
next  week,  or  next  year,  sweetest  of  mothers,  or — 
best  of  all— say  that  he  had  better  come  bye  and  bye, 
and  then  add,  in  the  true  style  of  Mr.  Garrick,  that 
'bye  and  bye  is  easily  said.'" 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

As  he  went  to  his  chambers  to  dress  before  going 
to  dine  with  the  Dillys  in  the  Poultry,  he  was  hap- 
pier than  he  had  been  for  years.  He  had  seen  the 
light  return  to  the  face  that  he  loved  more  than  all 
the  faces  in  the  world,  and  he  had  been  strong 
enough  to  put  aside  the  temptation  to  hear  her  con- 
fess that  she  returned  the  love  which  he  bore  her, 
but  which  he  had  never  confessed  to  her.  He  felt 
happy  to  know  that  the  friendship  which  had  been 
so  great  a  consolation  to  him  for  several  years — the 
friendship  for  the  family  who  had  been  so  good  and 
so  considerate  to  him — was  the  same  now  as  it  had 
always  been.  He  felt  happy  in  the  reflection  that 
he  had  spoken  no  word  that  would  tend  to  jeopar- 
dise that  friendship.  He  had  seen  enough  of  the 
world  to  be  made  aware  of  the  fact  that  there  is  no 
more  potent  destroyer  of  friendship  than  love.  He 
had  put  aside  the  temptation  to  speak  a  word  of 
love;  nay,  he  had  prevented  her  from  speaking 
what  he  believed  would  be  a  word  of  love,  although 
the  speaking  of  that  word  would  have  been  the 
sweetest  sound  that  had  ever  fallen  upon  his  ears. 

And  that  was  how  he  came  to  feel  happy. 

308 


Jessams  Bribe*  309 

And  yet,  that  same  night,  when  he  was  sitting 
alone  in  his  room,  he  found  a  delight  in  adding  to 
that  bundle  of  manuscripts  which  he  had  dedicated 
to  her  and  which  some  weeks  before  he  had 
designed  to  destroy.  He  added  poem  after  poem 
to  the  verses  which  Johnson  had  rightly  interpreted 
— verses  pulsating  with  the  love  that  was  in  his 
heart — verses  which  Mary  Horneck  could  not  fail 
to  interpret  aright  should  they  ever  come  before 
her  eyes. 

"But  they  shall  never  come  before  her  eyes," 
he  said.  "  Ah,  never — never !  It  is  in  my 
power  to  avert  at  least  that  unhappiness  from 
her  life." 

And  yet  before  he  went  to  sleep  he  had  a  thought 
that  perhaps  one  day  she  might  read  those  verses 
of  his — yes,  perhaps  one  day.  He  wondered  if  that 
day  was  far  off  or  nigh. 

When  he  had  been  by  her  side,  after  Colonel 
Gwyn  had  left  the  house,  he  had  told  her  the  story 
of  the  recovery  of  her  letters ;  he  did  not,  however, 
think  it  necessary  to  tell  her  how  the  man  had 
come  to  entertain  his  animosity  to  Baretti ;  and  she 
thus  regarded  the  latter's  killing  of  Jackson  as  an 
accident. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  day  or  two  he  began 
to  think  if  it  might  not  be  well  for  him  to  con- 
sult with  Edmund  Burke  as  to  whether  it  would 
be  to  the  advantage  of  Baretti  or  otherwise  to 
submit  evidence  as  to  the  threats  made  use  of  by 
Jackson  in  regard  to  Baretti.  He  thought  that  it 


might  be  possible  to  do  so  without  introducing  the 
name  of  Mary  Horneck.  But  Burke,  after  hearing 
the  story — no  mention  of  the  name  of  Mary  Horneck 
being  made  by  Goldsmith — came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  would  be  unwise  to  introduce  at  the  trial 
any  question  of  animosity  on  the  part  of  the  man 
who  had  been  killed,  lest  the  jury  might  be  led  to 
infer — as,  indeed,  they  might  have  some  sort  of 
reason  for  doing — that  the  animosity  on  Jackson's 
part  meant  animosity  on  Baretti's  part.  Burke 
considered  that  a  defence  founded  upon  the  plea  of 
accident  was  the  one  which  was  most  likely  to 
succeed  in  obtaining  from  a  jury  a  verdict  of 
acquittal.  If  it  could  be  shown  that  the  man  had 
attacked  Baretti  as  impudently  as  some  of  the 
witnesses  for  the  Crown  were  ready  to  admit  that 
he  did,  Burke  and  his  legal  advisers  thought  that 
the  prisoner  had  a  good  chance  of  obtaining  a 
verdict. 

The  fact  that  neither  Burke  nor  anyone  else 
spoke  with  confidence  of  the  acquittal  had,  however , 
a  deep  effect  upon  Goldsmith.  His  sanguine  nature 
had  caused  him  from  the  first  to  feel  certain  of 
Baretti's  safety;  and  anyone  who  reads  nowadays 
an  account  of  the  celebrated  trial  would  undoubtedly 
be  inclined  to  think  that  his  assurance  in  this  matter 
was  fully  justified.  That  there  should  have  been 
any  suggestion  of  premeditation  in  the  unfortunate 
act  of  self-defence  on  the  part  of  Baretti  seems 
amazing  to  a  modern  reader  of  the  case  as  stated 
by  the  Crown.  But  as  Edmund  Burke  said  about 


311 

that  time  in  the  House  of  Commons,  England  was 
a  gigantic  shambles.  The  barest  evidence  against  a 
prisoner  was  considered  sufficient  to  bring  him  to 
the  gallows  for  an  offence  which  nowadays,  if  proved 
against  him  on  unmistakable  testimony,  would  only 
entail  his  incarceration  for  a  week.  Women  were 
hanged  for  stealing  bread  to  keep  their  children  from 
that  starvation  which  was  the  result  of  the  kidnapping 
of  their  husbands  to  serve  in  the  navy;  and  yet 
Burke's  was  the  only  influential  voice  that  was  lifted 
up  against  a  system  in  comparison  with  which 
slavery  was  not  only  tolerable,  but  commendable. 

Baretti  was  indeed  the  only  one  of  that  famous 
circle  of  which  Johnson  was  the  centre  who  felt  con- 
fident that  he  would  be  acquitted.  For  all  his  rail- 
ing against  the  detestable  laws  of  the  detestable 
country — which,  however,  he  found  preferable  to 
his  own — he  ridiculed  the  possibility  of  his  being 
found  guilty.  It  was  Johnson  who  considered  it 
within  the  bounds  of  his  duty  to  make  the  Italian 
understand  that,  however  absurd  was  the  notion  of 
his  being  carted  to  the  gallows,  the  likelihood  was 
that  he  would  experience  the  feelings  incidental  to 
such  an  excursion. 

He  went  full  of  this  intention  with  Reynolds  to 
visit  the  prisoner  at  Newgate,  and  it  may  be  taken 
for  granted  that  he  discharged  his  duty  with  his 
usual  emphasis.  It  is  recorded,  however,  on  the  ex- 
cellent authority  of  Boswell,  that  Baretti  was  quite 
unmoved  by  the  admonition  of  the  sage;  for,  taking 
his  hand  and  the  hand  of  Reynolds  in  his  own,  he 


3i2  irbe  Jessams  Bribe* 

merely  said,  "With  two  such  friends  beside  me 
what  need  I  fear?" 

It  is  also  on  the  authority  of  Boswell  we  learn 
that  Johnson  was  guilty  of  what  appears  to  us  now-a- 
days  as  a  very  gross  breach  of  good  taste  as  well 
as  of  good  feeling,  when,  on  the  question  of  the 
likelihood  of  Baretti's  failing  to  obtain  a  verdict  be- 
ing discussed,  he  declared  that  if  one  of  his  friends 
were  fairly  hanged  he  should  not  suffer,  but  eat  his 
dinner  just  the  same  as  usual.  It  is  fortunate  how- 
ever, that  we  know  something  of  the  systems  adopted 
by  Johnson  when  pestered  by  the  idiotic  insis- 
tence of  certain  trivial  matters  by  Boswell,  and  the 
record  of  Johnson's  pretence  to  appear  a  callous 
man  of  the  world  probably  deceived  no  one  in  the 
world  except  the  one  man  whom  it  was  meant  to 
silence. 

But,  however  callous  Dr.  Johnson  may  have  pre- 
tended to  be — however  insincere  Tom  Davies  the 
bookseller  may — according  to  Johnson — have  been, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  poor  Goldsmith  was  in 
great  trepidation  until  the  trial  was  over.  He  gave 
evidence  in  favour  of  Baretti,  though  Boswell,  true 
to  his  detestation  of  the  man  against  whom  he  en- 
tertained an  envy  that  showed  itself  every  time  he 
mentioned  his  name,  declined  to  mention  this  fact, 
taking  care,  however,  that  Johnson  got  full  credit 
for  appearing  in  the  witness-box  with  Burke,  Gar- 
rick,  and  Beauclerk. 

Baretti  was  acquitted,  the  jury  being  satisfied  that, 
as  the  fruit-knife  was  a  weapon  which  was  con- 


Zlbe  Jessams  :!Brffce*  313 

stantly  carried  by  Frenchmen  and  Italians,  they  might 
possibly  go  so  far  as  to  assume  that  it  had  not  been 
bought  by  the  prisoner  solely  with  the  intention  of 
murdering  the  man  who  had  attacked  him  in  the 
Haymarket.  The  carrying  of  the  fruit-knife  seems 
rather  a  strange  turning-point  of  a  case  heard  at  a 
period  when  the  law  permitted  men  to  carry  swords 
presumably  for  their  own  protection. 

Goldsmith's  mind  was  set  at  ease  by  the  acquittal 
of  Baretti,  and  he  joined  in  the  many  attempts  that 
were  made  to  show  the  sympathy  which  was  felt — 
or,  as  Boswell  would  have  us  believe  Johnson  thought, 
was  simulated — by  his  friends  for  Baretti.  He  gave 
a  dinner  in  honour  of  the  acquittal,  inviting  Johnson 
Burke,  Garrick,  and  a  few  others  of  the  circle,  and 
he  proposed  the  health  of  their  guest,  which,  he 
said,  had  not  been  so  robust  of  late  as  to  give  all 
his  friends  an  assurance  that  he  would  live  to  a 
ripe  old  age.  He  also  toasted  the  jury  and  the 
counsel,  as  well  as  the  turnkeys  of  Newgate  and 
the  usher  of  the  Old  Bailey. 

When  the  trial  was  over,  however,  he  showed 
that  the  strain  to  which  he  had  been  subjected  was 
too  great  for  him.  His  health  broke  down,  and  he 
was  compelled  to  leave  his  chambers  and  hurry  off 
to  his  cottage  on  the  Edgware  Road,  hoping  to  be 
benefited  by  the  change  to  the  country,  and  trust- 
ing also  to  be  able  to  make  some  progress  with 
the  many  works  which  he  had  engaged  himself  to 
complete  for  the  booksellers.  He  had,  in  addition, 
his  comedy  to  write  for  Garrick,  and  he  was  not 


314  'Ebe  3essam£  Buibe* 

unmindful  of  his  promise  to  give  Mrs.  Abington  a 
part  worthy  of  her  acceptance. 

He  returned  at  rare  intervals  to  town,  and  never 
failed  at  such  times  to  see  his  Jessamy  Bride,  with 
whom  he  had  resumed  his  old  relations  of  friend- 
ship. When  she  visited  her  sister  at  Barton  she 
wrote  to  him  in  her  usual  high  spirits.  Little  Co- 
medy also  sent  him  letters  full  of  the  fun  in  which 
she  delighted  to  indulge  with  him,  and  he  was 
never  too  busy  to  reply  in  the  same  strain.  The 
pleasant  circle  at  Bunbury's  country  house  wished 
to  have  him  once  again  in  their  midst,  to  join  in 
their  pranks,  and  to  submit,  as  he  did  with  such 
goodwill,  to  their  practical  jests. 

He  did  not  go  to  Barton.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  that  was  one  of  the  pleasures  of  life- 
which  he  should  forego.  At  Barton  he  knew  that 
he  would  see  Mary  day  by  day,  and  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  be  near  her  constantly  and  yet 
refrain  from  saying  the  words  which  would  make 
both  of  them  miserable.  He  had  conquered  himself 
once,  but  he  was  not  sure  that  he  would  be  as 
strong  a  second  time. 

This  perpetual  struggle  in  which  he  was  en- 
gaged— this  constant  endeavour  to  crush  out  of  his 
life  the  passion  which  alone  made  life  endurable  to 
him,  left  him  worn  and  weak ;  so  it  was  not  sur- 
prising that,  when  a  coach  drove  up  to  his  cottage 
one  day,  after  many  months  had  passed,  and  Mrs. 
Horneck  stepped  out,  she  was  greatly  shocked  at 
the  change  in  his  appearance. 


ZTbe  3essam£  Bribe*  315 

a  Good  Heaven,  Dr.  Goldsmith !  "  she  cried  when 
she  entered  his  little  parlour,  "  you  are  killing" 
yourself  by  your  hard  work.  Sir  Joshua  said  he 
was  extremely  apprehensive  in  regard  to  your 
health  the  last  time  he  saw  you,  but  were  he  to 
see  you  now,  he  would  be  not  merely  apprehensive 
but  despairing." 

"  Nay,  my  dear  Madam, "  he  said.  "  I  am  only 
suffering  from  a  slight  attack  of  an  old  enemy  of 
mine.  I  am  not  so  strong  as  I  used  to  be ;  but 
let  me  assure  you  that  I  feel  much  better  since 
you  have  been  good  enough  to  give  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  you  at  my  humble  home.  When 
I  caught  sight  of  you  stepping  out  of  the  coach  I 
received  a  great  shock  for  a  moment:  I  feared 
that — ah,  I  cannot  tell  you  all  that  I  feared." 

"  However  shocked  you  were,  dear  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
you  were  not  so  shocked  as  I  was  when  you  appeared 
before  me, "  said  the  lady.  "  Why,  dear  Sir,  you 
are  killing  yourself.  Oh,  we  must  change  all  this. 
You  have  no  one  here  to  give  you  the  attention 
which  your  condition  requires." 

a  What,  Madam !  Am  not  I  a  physician  myself  ?  " 
said  he,  making  a  pitiful  attempt  to  assume  his 
old  manner. 

"Ah,  Sir!  every  moment  I  am  more  shocked," 
said  she.  "I  will  take  you  in  hand.  I  came  here 
to  beg  of  you  to  go  to  Barton  in  my  interests, 
but  now  I  will  beg  of  you  to  go  thither  in  your 
own. " 

"To  Barton?     Oh,  my  dear  Madam — -" 


316  ZTbe  Sessams 

"Nay,  Sir,  I  insist!  Ah!  I  might  have  known 
you  better  than  to  fancy  I  should  easier  prevail  upon 
you  by  asking  you  to  go  to  advance  your  own 
interests  rather  mine.  You  were  always  more  ready 
to  help  others  than  to  help  yourself." 

"  How  is  it  possible,  dear  lady,  that  you  need  my 
poor  help?  " 

"  Ah!  I  knew  the  best  way  to  interest  you.  Dear 
friend,  I  know  of  no  one  who  could  be  of  the  same 
help  to  us  as  you." 

"There  is  no  one  who  would  be  more  willing, 
Madam. " 

"  You  have  proved  it  long  ago,  Dr.  Goldsmith. 
When  Mary  had  that  mysterious  indisposition,  was 
not  her  recovery  due  to  you?  She  announced  that 
it  was  you,  and  you  only,  who  had  brought  her 
back  to  life." 

"  Ah !  my  dear  Jessamy  Bride  was  always  gene- 
rous. Surely  she  is  not  again  in  need  of  my 
help?" 

"  It  is  for  her  sake  I  come  to  you  to-day,  Dr. 
Goldsmith.  I  am  sure  that  you  are  interested  in 
her  future — in  the  happiness  which  we  all  are  anxious 
to  secure  for  her." 

"Happiness?     What  happiness,  dear  Madam?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  all,  Sir.  I  look  on  you  as  one 
of  our  family — nay,  I  can  talk  with  you  more  con- 
fidentially than  I  can  with  my  own  son." 

"  You  have  ever  been  indulgent  to  me,  Mrs. 
Horneck. " 

"And  you  have  ever  been  generous.  Sir;  that  is 


ZTbe  Jessams  iJBribe,  317 

why  I  am  here  to-day.  I  know  that  Mary  writes 
to  you.  I  wonder  if  she  has  yet  told  you  that 
Colonel  Gwyn  made  her  an  offer  with  my  consent." 

"  No ;  she  has  not  told  me  that. " 

He  spoke  slowly,  rising  from  his  chair,  but  endea- 
vouring to  restrain  the  emotion  which  he  felt. 

"  It  is  not  unlike  Mary  to  treat  the  matter  as  if 
it  were  finally  settled  and  so  not  worthy  of  another 
thought,"  said  Mrs.  Horneck. 

"  Finally  settled  ?  "  repeated  Goldsmith.  "  Then 
she  has  accepted  Colonel  G wyn's  proposal  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,  Sir,  she  rejected  it,"  said  the 
mother. 

He  resumed  his  seat.  Was  the  emotion  which 
he  experienced  at  that  moment  one  of  gladness? 

"  Yes,  she  rejected  a  suitor  whom  we  all  consi- 
dered most  eligible, "  said  the  lady.  "  Colonel  Gwyn 
is  a  man  of  good  family,  and  his  own  character  is 
irreproachable.  He  is  in  every  respect  a  most  ad- 
mirable man,  and  I  am  convinced  that  my  dear 
child's  happiness  would  be  assured  with  him — and 
yet  she  sends  him  away  from  her." 

"  That  is  possibly  because  she  knows  her  own 
mind— her  own  heart,  I  should  rather  say;  and  that 
heart  is  the  purest  in  the  world." 

"Alas!  she  is  but  a  girl." 

"Nay,  to  my  mind,  she  is  something  more  than 
a  girl.  No  man  that  lives  is  worthy  of  her." 

"  That  may  be  true,  dear  friend ;  but  no  girl 
would  thank  you  to  act  too  rigidly  on  that  assumption 
— an  assumption  which  would  condemn  her  to  live 


318  TTbe  Jessainy 

and  die  an  old  maid.  Now,  my  dear  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
I  want  you  to  take  a  practical  and  not  a  poetical 
view  of  a  matter  which  so  closely  concerns  the 
future  of  one  who  is  dear  to  me,  and  in  whom  I 
am  sure  you  take  a  great  interest." 

"  I  would  do  anything  for  her  happiness. " 

"  I  know  it.  Well,  you  have  long  been  aware, 
I  am  sure,  that  she  regards  you  with  the  greatest 
respect  and  esteem — nay,  if  I  may  say  it,  with 
affection  as  well." 

"  Ah  !   affection — affection  for  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  it.  If  you  were  her  brother  she 
could  not  have  a  warmer  regard  for  you.  And 
that  is  why  I  have  come  to  you  to-day  to  beg  of 
you  to  yield  to  the  entreaties  of  your  friends  at 
Barton  and  pay  them  a  visit.  Mary  is  there,  and 
I  hope  you  will  see  your  way  to  use  your  influence 
with  her  on  behalf  of  Colonel  Gvvyn." 

"What!  I,  Madam?" 

"Has  my  suggestion  startled  you?  It  should  not 
have  done  so.  I  tell  you,  my  friend,  there  is  no 
one  to  whom  I  could  go  in  this  way,  save  your- 
self. Indeed,  there  is  no  one  else  who  would  be 
worth  going  to,  for  no  one  possesses  the  influence 
over  her  which  you  have  always  had.  I  am  convinced, 
Dr.  Goldsmith,  that  she  would  listen  to  your 
persuasion  while  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  that  of  any- 
one else.  You  will  lend  us  your  influence,  will 
you  not,  dear  friend?" 

u  I  must  have  time  to  think — to  think.  How  can 
I  answer  you  at  once  in  this  matter?  Ah,  you 


SessamE  Bribe,  319 

cannot    know    what    my    decision    means    to    me." 

He  had  left  his  chair  once  more  and  was 
standing  against  the  fireplace  looking  into  the 
empty  grate. 

"  You  are  wrong,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "  You 
are  wrong;  I  know  what  is  in  your  thoughts — in 
your  heart.  You  fear  that  if  Mary  were  married 
she  would  stand  on  a  different  footing  in  respect 
to  you?" 

"  Ah !  a  different  footing !  " 

"  I  think  that  you  are  in  error  in  that  respect,  * 
said  the  lady.  "  Marriage  is  not  such  a  change  as 
some  people  seem  to  fancy  it  is.  Is  not  Katherine 
the  same  to  you  now  as  she  was  before  she  married 
Charles  Bunbury  ? " 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  little  smile  upon 
his  face.  How  little  she  knew  of  what  was  in 
his  heart! 

"Ah,  yes,  my  dear  Little  Comedy  is  unchanged," 
said  he. 

"And  your  Jessamy  Bride  would  be  equally  un- 
changed," said  Mrs.  Horneck. 

"But  where  lies  the  need  for  her  to  marry  at 
once?"  he  inquired.  "If  she  were  in  love  with 
Colonel  Gwyn  there  would  be  no  reason  why  they 
should  not  marry  at  once;  but  if  she  does  not 
love  him " 

"  Who  can  say  that  she  does  not  love  him  ? n 
cried  the  lady.  "Oh,  my  dear  Dr.  Goldsmith,  a 
young  woman  is  herself  the  worst  judge  of  all  the 
world  of  whether  or  not  she  loves  one  prarticula 


320  Ube  3essani£  Bribe* 

man.  I  give  you  my  word,  Sir,  I  was  married  for 
five  years  before  I  knew  that  I  loved  my  husband. 
When  I  married  him  I  know  that  I  was  under  the 
impression  that  I  actually  disliked  him.  Marriages 
are  made  in  heaven,  they  say,  and  very  properly, 
for  heaven  only  knows  whether  a  woman  really 
loves  a  man  and  a  man  a  woman.  Neither  of  the 
persons  in  the  contract  is  capable  of  pronouncing" 
a  just  opinion  on  the  subject." 

"  I  think  that  Mary  should  know  what  is  in  her 
own  heart." 

"  Alas !  alas !  I  fear  for  her.  It  is  because  I  fear 
for  her  I  am  desirous  of  seeing  her  married  to  a 
good  man — a  man  with  whom  her  future  happiness 
would  be  assured.  You  have  talked  of  her  heart, 
my  friend :  alas !  that  is  just  why  I  fear  for  her.  I 
know  how  her  heart  dominates  her  life  and  prevents 
her  from  exercising  her  judgment.  A  girl  who  is 
ruled  by  her  heart  is  in  a  perilous  way.  I  wonder 
if  she  told  you  what  her  uncle,  with  whom  she  was 
sojourning  in  Devonshire,  told  me  about  her  meet- 
ing a  certain  man  there — my  brother  did  not  make 
me  acquainted  with  his  name — and  being  so  carried 
away  with  some  plausible  story  he  told  that  she 
actually  fancied  herself  in  love  with  him — actually, 
until  my  brother,  learning  that  the  man  was  a  dis- 
reputable fellow,  put  a  stop  to  an  affair  that  could 
only  have  had  a  disastrous  ending.  Ah!  her  heart ..." 

"  Yes,  she  told  me  all  that.  Undoubtedly  she  is 
dominated  by  her  heart." 

"  That  is,  I  repeat,  why  I  tremble  for  her  future. 


Sessams  Bribe*  321 

If  she  were  to  meet — at  some  time,  when  perhaps  I 
might  not  be  near  her — another  adventurer  like  the 
fellow  whom  she  met  in  Devonshire,  who  can  say 
that  she  would  not  fancy  she  loved  him?  "What 
disaster  might  result!  Dear  friend,  would  you  desire 
to  save  her  from  the  fate  of  your  Olivia  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  he  said, 

"  Madam,  I  will  do  as  you  ask  me.  I  will  go  to 
Mary  and  endeavour  to  point  out  to  her  that  it  is 
her  duty  to  marry  Colonel  Gwyn." 

"  I  knew  you  would  grant  my  request,  my  dear, 
dear  friend,"  cried  the  mother,  catching  his  hand 
and  pressing  it.  "  But  I  would  ask  of  you  not  to 
put  the  proposal  to  her  quite  in  that  way.  To 
suggest  that  a  girl  with  a  heart  should  marry  a 
particular  man  because  her  duty  lies  in  that  direc- 
tion would  be  foolishness  itself.  Duty?  The  word 
is  abhorrent  to  the  ear  of  a  young  woman  whose 
heart  is  ripe  for  love." 

"  You  are  a  woman." 

"  I  am  one  indeed;  I  know  what  are  a  woman's 
thoughts — her  longings — her  hopes — and  alas!  her 
self-deceptions.  A  woman's  heart . .  .  ah,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, you  once  put  into  a  few  lines  the  whole 
tragedy  of  a  woman's  life.  What  experience  was 
it  urged  you  to  write  those  lines? — 

'When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly. 
And  finds  too  late  .  .  .' 

To  think  that  one  day,  perhaps,  a  child  of  mine 
should  sing  that  song  of  poor  Olivia's ! " 

21 


322  ZTbe  3essam£  Bribe* 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  Mary  had  already  quoted 
the  lines  in  his  hearing.  He  bowed  his  head, 
saying, 

"I  will  go  to  her." 

"You  will  be  saving  her — ah,  Sir,  will  you  not 
be  saving  yourself,"  cried  Mrs.  Horneck. 

He  started  slightly. 

"  Saving  myself?  What  can  your  meaning  be, 
Mrs.  Horneck?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  was  shocked  beyond  measure  when 
I  entered  this  room  and  saw  you, "  she  replied.  "  You 
are  ill,  Sir;  you  are  very  ill,  and  the  change  to  the 
garden  at  Barton  will  do  you  good.  You  have  been 
neglecting  yourself — yes,  and  someone  who  will  nurse 
you  back  to  life.  Oh,  Barton  is  the  place  for  you!  " 

"There  is  no  place  I  should  like  better  to  die 
at,"  said  he. 

"  To  die  at  ?  "  she  said.  "  Nonsense,  Sir !  You 
are,  I  trust,  far  from  death  still.  Nay,  you  will 
find  life,  and  not  death  there.  Life  is  there  for  you." 

"Your  daughter  Mary  is  there,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

HE  wrote  that  very  evening,  after  Mrs.  Horneck 
had  taken  her  departure,  one  of  his  merry  letters 
to  Katherine  Bunbury,  telling  her  that  he  had  re- 
solved to  yield  gracefully  to  her  entreaties  to  visit 
her,  and  meant  to  leave  for  Barton  the  next  day. 
When  that  letter  was  written  he  gave  himself  up  to 
his  thoughts. 

All  his  thoughts  were  of  Mary.  He  was  going  to 
place  a  barrier  between  her  and  him  self.  He  was  going 
to  give  himself  a  chance  of  life  by  making  it  impossible 
for  him  to  love  her.  This  writer  of  books  had  brought 
himself  to  think  that  if  Mary  Horneck  were  to  marry 
Colonel  Gwyn  he,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  would  come  to 
think  of  her  as  he  thought  of  her  sister — with  the 
affection  which  exists  between  good  friends. 

While  her  mother  had  been  talking  to  him  about 
her  and  her  loving  heart,  he  had  suddenly  become 
possessed  of  the  truth :  it  was  her  sympathetic  heart 
that  had  led  her  to  make  the  two  mistakes  of  her 
life.  First,  she  had  fancied  that  she  loved  the  im- 
postor whom  she  had  met  in  Devonshire,  and  then 
she  had  fancied  that  she  loved  him,  Oliver  Gold- 
smith. He  knew  what  she  meant  by  the  words 

323 


324  Ube 


which  she  had  spoken  in  his  presence.  He  knew  that 
if  he  had  not  been  strong  enough  to  answer  her  as 
he  had  done  that  day,  she  would  have  told  him  that 
she  loved  him. 

Her  mother  was  right.  She  was  in  great  danger 
through  her  liability  to  follow  the  promptings  of  her 
heart.  If  already  she  had  made  two  such  mistakes 
as  he  had  become  aware  of,  into  what  disaster  might 
not  she  be  led  in  the  future? 

Yes ;  her  mother  was  right.  Safety  for  a  girl  with 
so  tender  a  heart  was  to  be  found  only  in  marriage 
— marriage  with  such  a  man  as  Colonel  Gwyn  un- 
doubtedly was.  He  recollected  the  details  of  Colonel 
Gwyn's  visit  to  himself,  and  how  favourably  impressed 
he  had  been  with  the  man.  He  undoubtedly  possessed 
every  trait  of  character  that  goes  to  constitute  a  good 
man  and  a  good  husband.  Above  all,  he  was  devoted 
to  Mary  Horneck,and  there  was  no  man  who  would 
be  better  able  to  keep  her  from  the  dangers  which 
surrounded  her. 

Yes,  he  would  go  to  Barton  and  carry  out  Mrs. 
Horneck's  request.  He  would,  moreover,  be  careful 
to  refrain  from  any  mention  of  the  word  duty, 
which  would,  the  lady  had  declared,  if  introduced 
into  his  argument,  tend  to  frustrate  his  intention. 

He  went  down  to  Barton  by  coach  the  next  day. 
He  felt  very  ill  indeed,  and  he  was  not  quite  so 
confident  as  Mrs.  Horneck  that  the  result  of  his  visit 
would  be  to  restore  him  to  perfect  health.  His  last 
thought  before  leaving  was  that  if  Mary  was  made  happy 
nothing  else  was  worth  a  moment's  consideration. 


Jessams  JBribe.  325 

She  met  him  with  a  chaise  driven  by  Bunbury, 
at  the  cross  roads,  where  the  coach  set  him  down; 
and  he  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that  she  was 
even  more  shocked  than  her  mother  had  been  at 
his  changed  appearance.  While  still  on  the  top  of 
the  coach  he  saw  her  face  lighted  with  pleasure 
the  instant  she  caught  sight  of  him.  She  waved 
her  hand  toward  him,  and  Bunbury  waved  his  whip. 
But  the  moment  he  had  swung  himself  painfully  and 
laboriously  to  the  ground,  he  saw  the  look  of  amaze- 
ment both  on  her  face  and  on  that  of  her  brother- 
in-law. 

She  was  speechless,  but  it  was  not  in  the  nature 
of  Bunbury  to  be  so. 

"  Good  Lord !  Noll,  what  have  you  been  doing 
to  yourself?  "  he  cried.  "  Why,  you're  not  like  the 
same  man.  Is  he,  Mary?  " 

Mary  only  shook  her  head. 

"  I  have  been  ill, "  said  Oliver.  "  But  I  am  better 
already,  having  seen  you  both  with  your  brown 
country  faces.  How  is  my  Little  Comedy?  Is  she 
ready  to  give  me  another  lesson  in  loo  ? " 

"  She  will  give  you  what  you  need  most,  you 
may  be  certain,"  said  Bunbury,  while  the  groom 
was  strapping  on  his  carpet-bag.  "  Oh,  yes;  we 
will  take  care  that  you  get  rid  of  that  student's 
face  of  yours,"  he  continued.  "Yes,  and  those 
sunken  eyes!  Good  Lord!  what  a  wreck  you  are! 
But  we'll  build  you  up  again,  never  fear!  Barton 
is  the  place  for  you  and  such  as  you,  my  friend." 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  better  already,"  cried  Goldsmith; 


326  ftfoe  Jessam^ 

and  then,  as  the  chaise  drove  off,  he  glanced  at  the- 
girl  sitting  opposite  to  him.  Her  face  had  become 
pale,  her  eyes  were  dim.  She  had  spoken  no  word  to 
him;  she  was  not  even  looking  at  him.  She  was  gazing 
over  the  hedgerows  and  the  ploughed  fields. 

Bunbury  rattled  away  in  unison  with  the  rattling 
of  the  chaise  along  the  uneven  road.  He  roared 
with  laughter  as  he  recalled  some  of  the  jests  which 
had  been  played  upon  Goldsmith  when  he  had  last 
been  at  Barton ;  but  though  Oliver  tried  to  smile 
in  response,  Mary  was  silent.  When  the  chaise 
arrived  at  the  house,  however,  and  Little  Comedy 
welcomed  her  guest  at  the  great  door,  her  high 
spirits  triumphed  over  even  the  depressing  effect  of  her 
husband's  artificial  hilarity.  She  did  not  betray 
the  shock  which  she  experienced  on  observing  how 
greatly  changed  her  friend  was  since  he  had  been 
with  her  and  her  sister  at  Ranelagh.  She  met  him 
with  a  laugh  and  a  cry  of  "You  have  never  come 
to  us  without  your  scratch-wig?  If  you  have  forgot 
it,  you  will  e'en  have  to  go  back  for  it." 

The  allusion  to  the  merriment  which  had  made 
the  house  noisy  when  he  had  last  been  at  Barton 
caused  Oliver  to  brighten  up  somewhat;  and  later 
on,  at  dinner,  he  yielded  to  the  influence  of  Kath- 
erine  Bunbury's  splendid  vitality.  Other  guests  were 
at  the  table,  and  the  genial  chat  quickly  became 
general.  After  dinner,  he  sang  several  of  his  Irish 
songs  for  his  friends  in  the  drawing-room,  Mary 
playing  an  accompaniment  on  the  harpsichord. 
Before  he  went  to  his  bed-room  he  was  ready  to 


ZIbe  Sessams  3Bribe.  327 

confess  that  Mrs.  Horneck  had  judged  rightly  what 
would  be  the  effect  upon  himself  of  his  visit  to  the 
house  he  loved.  He  felt  better — better  than  he  had 
been  for  months. 

In  the  morning  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  Mary 
seemed  to  have  recovered  her  usual  spirits.  She 
walked  round  the  grounds  with  him  and  her  sister 
after  breakfast,  and  laughed  without  reservation  at 
the  latter's  amusing  imitation,  after  the  manner  of 
Garrick,  of  Colonel  Gwyn's  declaration  of  his  passion, 
and  of  Mary's  reply  to  him.  She  had  caught  very 
happily  the  manner  of  the  suitor,  though  of  course 
she  made  a  burlesque  of  the  scene,  especially  in 
assuming  the  fluttered  demureness  which  she 
declared  she  had  good  reason  for  knowing  had 
frightened  the  lover  so  greatly  as  to  cause  him  to 
talk  of  the  evil  results  of  drinking  tea,  when  he  had 
meant  to  talk  about  love. 

She  had  such  a  talent  for  this  form  of  fun,  and 
she  put  so  much  character  into  her  casual  travesties 
of  everyone  whom  she  sought  to  imitate,  she  never 
gave  offence,  as  a  less  adroit  or  less  discriminating 
person  would  be  certain  to  have  done.  Mary 
laughed  even  more  heartily  than  Goldsmith  at 
the  account  her  sister  gave  of  the  imaginary 
scene. 

Goldsmith  soon  found  that  the  proposal  of  Colonel 
Gwyn  had  passed  into  the  already  long  list  of 
family  jests,  and  he  saw  that  he  was  expected  to 
understand  the  many  allusions  daily  made  to  the 
incident  of  his  rejection.  A  new  nickname  had 


328  Ube  Sessams  Bribe, 


been  found  by  her  brother-in-law  for  Mary,  and  o 
course  Katherine  quickly  discovered  one  that  was 
extremely  appropriate  to  Colonel  Gwyn;  and  thus, 
with  sly  glances  and  good-humoured  mirth,  the 
hours  passed  as  they  had  always  done  in  the  house 
which  had  ever  been  so  delightful  to  at  least  one 
of  the  guests. 

He  could  not  help  feeling,  however,  before  his 
visit  had  reached  its  fourth  day,  that  the  fact  of  their 
treating  in  this  humorous  fashion  an  incident  which 
Mrs.  Horneck  had  charged  him  to  take  very 
seriously,  was  extremely  embarrassing  to  his  mission. 
How  was  he  to  ask  Mary  to  treat  as  the  most 
serious  incident  in  her  life  the  one  which  was  every 
day  treated  before  her  eyes  with  levity  by  her 
sister  and  her  husband? 

And  yet  he  felt  daily  the  truth  of  what  Mrs. 
Horneck  had  said  to  him  —  that  Mary's  acceptance 
of  Colonel  Gwyn  would  be  an  assurance  of  her  future 
such  as  might  not  be  so  easily  found  again.  He 
feared  to  think  what  might  be  in  store  for  a  girl 
who  had  shown  herself  to  be  ruled  only  by  her 
own  sympathetic  heart. 

He  resolved  to  speak  to  her  without  delay 
respecting  Colonel  Gwyn,  and  though  he  was 
afraid  that  at  first  she  might  be  disposed  to  laugh 
at  his  attempt  to  put  a  more  serious  complexion 
upon  her  rejection  of  the  suitor  whom  her  mother 
considered  most  eligible,  he  had  no  doubt  that  he 
could  bring  her  to  regard  the  matter  with  some 
degree  of  gravity. 


Ube  Sessams  Bribe*  329 

The  opportunity  for  making  an  attempt  in  this 
direction  occurred  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth 
day  of  his  visit.  He  found  himself  alone  with  Mary 
in  the  still-room.  She  had  just  put  on  an  apron  in 
order  to  fasten  new  covers  on  the  jars  of  preserved 
walnuts.  As  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  many- 
scented  room,  surrounded  by  bottles  of  distilled 
waters,  jars  of  preserved  fruits,  and  great  Wor- 
cester bowls  of  pot-pourri,  with  bundles  of  sweet 
herbs  and  drying  lavenders  suspended  from  the 
ceiling,  Charles  Bunbury,  passing  along  the  corridor 
with  his  dogs,  glanced  in. 

"  What  a  housewife  we  have  become !  "  he  cried. 
"  Quite  right,  my  dear :  the  head  of  the  Gwyn  house- 
hold will  have  need  to  be  deft." 

Mary  laughed,  throwing  a  sprig  of  thyme  at  him, 
and  Oliver  spoke  before  the  dogs'  paws  sounded 
on  the  polished  oak  of  the  staircase. 

"I  am  afraid,  my  Jessamy  Bride,"  said  he,  "that 
I  do  not  enter  into  the  spirit  of  this  jest  about 
Colonel  Gwyn  so  heartily  as  your  sister  or  her 
husband." 

" 'Tis  very  foolish  on  their  part,"  said  she.  "But 
Little  Comedy  is  ever  on  the  watch  for  a  subject 
for  her  jests,  and  Charles  is  an  active  abettor  of 
her  in  her  folly.  This  particular  jest  is,  I  think,  a 
trifle  threadbare  by  now." 

"  Colonel  Gwyn  is  a  gentleman  who  deserves  the 
respect  of  everyone,"  said  he. 

"Indeed,  I  agre&you,"  she  cried.  "I  agree  with 
you  heartily.  I  do  not  know  a  man  whom  I 


330  Ube  Jessams  JBribe. 


respect  more  highly.  Had  I  not  every  right  to 
feel  flattered  by  his  attention  ?  " 

"  No  —  no  ;  you  have  no  reason  to  feel  flattered 
by  the  attention  of  any  man  from  the  Prince  down 
—or  should  I  say  up  ?  "  he  replied. 

"Twould  be  treason  to  say  so,"  she  laughed. 
"  Well,  let  poor  Colonel  Gwyn  be.  What  a  pity 
'tis  Sir  Isaac  Newton  did  not  discover  a  new  way 
of  treating  walnuts  for  pickling!  That  discovery 
would  have  been  more  valuable  to  us  than  his 
theory  of  gravitation,  which,  I  hold,  never  saved  a 
poor  woman  a  day's  work." 

"I  do  not  want  to  let  Colonel  Gwyn  be,"  said  he 
quietly.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  came  down  here 
specially  to  talk  of  him." 

"Ah,  I  perdeive  that  you  have  been  speaking 
with  my  mother,"  said  she,  continuing  her  work. 

"  Mary,  my  dear,  I  have  been  thinking  about  you 
very  earnestly  of  late,"  said  he. 

"Only  of  late!"  she  cried.  "Ah!  I  flattered  my- 
self that  I  had  some  of  your  thoughts  long  ago  as 
well." 

"  I  have  always  thought  of  you  with  the  truest 
affection,  dear  child.  But  latterly  you  have  never 
been  out  of  my  thoughts." 

She  ceased  her  work  and  looked  towards  him 
gratefully  —  attentively.  He  left  his  seat  and  went 
to  her  side. 

"My  sweet  Jessamy  Bride,"  said  he,  "I  have 
thought  of  your  future  with  great  uneasiness  of 
heart.  I  feel  towards  you  as  —  as  —  perhaps  a  father 


331 

might  feel,  or  an  elder  brother.  My  happiness  in 
the  future  is  dependent  upon  yours,  and  alas !  I  fear 
for  you;  the  world  is  full  of  snares." 

"  I  know  that, "  said  she  quietly.  "  Ah,  you  know 
that  I  have  had  some  experience  of  the  snares.  If 
you  had  not  come  to  my  help  what  shame  would 
have  been  mine !  " 

"Dear  child,  there  was  no  blame  to  be  attached 
to  you  in  that  painful  affair, "  said  he.  "  It  was  your 
tender  heart  that  led  you  astray  at  first,  and  thank 
God  you  have  the  same  good  heart  in  your  bosom. 
But  alas!  'tis  just  the  tenderness  of  your  heart  that 
makes  me  fear  for  you." 

"Nay:  it  can  become  as  steel  upon  occasions," 
said  she.  "  Did  not  I  send  Colonel  Gwyn  away 
from  me  ?  " 

"You  were  wrong  to  do  so,  my  Mary,"  he  said. 
"Colonel  Gwyn  is  a  good  man — he  is  a  man  with 
whom  your  future  would  be  sure.  He  would  be 
able  to  shelter  you  from  all  dangers — from  the  dangers 
into  which  your  own  heart  may  lead  you  again  as 
it  led  you  before." 

"  You  have  come  here  to  plead  the  cause  of 
Colonel  Gwyn  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Yes, "  he  replied.  "  I  believe  him  to  be  a  good 
man.  I  believe  that  as  his  wife  you  would  be  safe 
from  all  the  dangers  which  surround  such  a  girl  as 
you  in  the  world." 

"Ah!  my  dear  friend,"  she  cried,  "I  have  seen 
enough  of  the  world  to  know  that  a  woman  is  not 
sheltered  from  the  dangers  of  the  world  from  the 


332  Ube  Scssamp 


ise  that 


day  she  marries.     Nay,  is  it  not  often  the  case 
the  dangers  only  begin  to  beset  her  on  that  day  ?  " 

"  Often — often.  But  it  would  not  be  so  with  you, 
dear  child — at  least,  not  if  you  marry  Colonel  Gwyn." 

"  Even  if  I  do  not  love  him  ?  Ah !  I  fear  that 
you  have  become  a  worldly  man  all  at  once,  Dr. 
Goldsmith.  You  counsel  a  poor  weak  girl  from  the 
standpoint  of  her  match-making  mother." 

"  Nay,  God  knows,  my  sweet  Mary,  what  it  costs 
me  to  speak  to  you  in  this  way,  God  knows  how 
much  sweeter  it  would  be  for  me  to  be  able  to 
think  of  you  always  as  I  think  of  you  now — bound 
to  no  man — the  dearest  of  all  my  friends.  I  know 
it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  occupy  the  same 
position  as  I  now  do  in  regard  to  you  if  you  were 
married.  Ah!  I  have  seen  that  there  is  no  more 
potent  divider  of  friendship  than  marriage." 

"  And  yet  you  urge  upon  me  to  marry  Colonel 
Gwyn?  " 

"  Yes — yes — I  say  I  do  think  it  would  mean  the 
assurance  of  your — your  happiness — yes,  happiness 
in  the  future." 

"  Surely  no  man  ever  had  so  good  a  heart  as 
you !  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  ready  to  sacrifice  your- 
self— I  mean  you  are  ready  to  forego  all  the  pleasure 
which  our  meeting,  as  we  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  meeting  for  the  past  four  years,  gives  you,  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  me  on  the  way  to  happiness — or 
what  you  fancy  will  be  happiness." 

"  I  am  ready,  my  dear  child :  you  know  what  the 
sacrifice  means  to  me." 


TIbe  3essam£  Bribe*  333 

"I  do,"  she  said  after  a  pause.  "I  do,  because 
I  know  what  it  would  mean  to  me.  But  you  shall 
not  be  called  to  make  that  sacrifice.  I  will  not 
marry  Colonel  Gwyn." 

"Nay — nay — do  not  speak  so  definitely,"  he  said. 

"I  will  speak  definitely,"  she  cried.  u  Yes,  the 
time  is  come  for  me  to  speak  definitely.  I  might 
agree  to  marry  Colonel  Gwyn  in  the  hope  of  being- 
happy  if  I  did  not  love  someone  else;  but  loving 
someone  else  with  all  my  heart,  I  dare  not— oh!  I 
dare  not  even  entertain  the  thought  of  marrying 
Colonel  Gwyn." 

"  You  love  someone  else  ?  "  he  said  slowly,  wonder- 
ingly.  For  a  moment  there  went  through  his  mind 
the  thought — 

"  Her  heart  has  led  her  astray  once  again."" 

"  I  love  someone  else  with  all  my  heart  and  all 
my  strength,"  she  cried;  "I  love  one  who  is  worthy 
of  all  the  love  of  the  best  that  lives  in  the  world. 
I  love  one  who  is  cruel  enough  to  wish  to  turn  me 
away  from  his  heart,  though  that  heart  of  his  has 
known  the  secret  of  mine  for  long." 

Now  he  knew  what  she  meant.  He  put  his 
hands  together  before  her,  saying  in  a  hushed 
voice, 

"  Ah,  child — child — spare  me  that  pain — let  me  go 
from  you." 

"Not  till  you  hear  me,"  she  said.  "Ah!  cannot 
you  perceive  that  I  love  you — only  you,  Oliver 
Goldsmith?" 

"  Hush — for  God's  sake !  "  he  cried. 


334 

"I  will  not  hush,"  she  said.  "I  will  speak  tor 
love's  sake — for  the  sake  of  that  love  which  I  bear 
you — for  the  sake  of  that  love  which  I  know  you 
return. " 

"  Alas— alas !  " 

"  I  know  it.  Is  there  any  shame  in  such  a  girl 
as  I  am  confessing  her  love  for  such  a  man  as  you? 
I  think  that  there  is  none.  The  shame  before 
Heaven  would  be  in  my  keeping  silence— in  marrying 
a  man  I  do  not  love.  Ah!  I  have  known  you 
as  no  one  else  has  known  you.  I  have  understood 
your  nature — so  sweet — so  simple — so  great — so 
true.  I  thought  last  year  when  you  saved  me  from 
worse  than  death  that  the  feeling  which  I  had  for 
you  might  perhaps  be  gratitude;  but  now  I  have 
come  to  know  the  truth." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm,  saying  in  a  whis- 
per, 

"Stop — stop — for  God's  sake,  stop!  I — I — do 
not  love  you." 

She  looked  at  him  and  laughed  at  first.  But  as 
his  head  fell,  her  laugh  died  away.  There  was  a 
long  silence,  during  which  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  him,  as  he  stood  before  her  looking  at  the  floor. 

"You  do  not  love  me?"  she  said  in  a  slow  whis- 
per. "Will  you  say  those  words  again  with  your 
eyes  looking  into  mine  ?  " 

"Do  not  humiliate  me  further,"  he  said.  "Have 
some  pity  upon  me." 

"No — no;  pity  is  not  for  me,"  she  said.  "If  you 
spoke  the  truth  when  you  said  those  words,  speak 


3essam£  Bribe*  335 

it  again  now.     Tell  me  again  that  you  do  not  love  me." 

"You  say  you  know  me,"  he  cried,  "and  yet 
you  think  it  possible  that  I  could  take  advantage 
of  this  second  mistake  that  your  kind  and  sympa- 
thetic heart  has  made  for  your  own  undoing.  Look 
there — there — into  that  glass,  and  see  what  a  terrible 
mistake  your  heart  has  made." 

He  pointed  to  a  long  narrow  mirror  between  the 
windows.  It  reflected  an  exquisite  face  and  figure 
by  the  side  of  a  face  on  which  long  suffering  and 
struggle,  long  years  of  hardship  and  toil,  had  left 
their  mark — a  figure  attenuated  by  want  and  ill- 
health. 

"  Look  at  that  ludicrous  contrast,  my  child,"  he 
.said,  "  and  you  will  see  what  a  mistake  your  heart 
has  made.  Have  I  not  heard  the  jests  which  have 
been  made  when  we  were  walking  together  ?  Have 
I  not  noticed  the  pain  they  gave  you?  Do  you 
think  me  capable  of  increasing  that  pain  in  the  fu- 
ture? Do  you  think  me  capable  of  bringing  upon 
your  family,  who  have  been  kinder  than  any  living 
beings  to  me,  the  greatest  misfortune  that  could 
befall  them?  Nay,  nay,  my  dear  child;  you  can- 
not think  that  I  could  be  so  base." 

"I  will  not  think  of  anything  except  that  I  love 
the  man  who  is  best  worthy  of  being  loved  of  all 
men  in  the  world,"  said  she.  "Ah,  Sir,  cannot  you 
perceive  that  your  attitude  toward  me  now  but 
strengthens  my  affection  for  you?" 

"  Mary — Mary — this  is  madness !  " 

"  Listen   to   me,"    she  said.     "  I  feel  that  you  re- 


336  Ube  Jessams  Bribe* 

turn  my  affection;  but  I  will  put  you  to  the  test. 
If  you  can  look  into  my  face  and  tell  me  that  you 
do  not  love  me  I  will  marry  Colonel  Gwyn." 

There  was  another  pause  before  he  said, 

"  Have  I  not  spoken  once  ?  Why  should  you  urge 
me  on  to  so  painful  an  ordeal?  Let  me  go — let 
me  go." 

"  Not  until  you  answer  me — not  until  I  have  proved 
you.  Look  into  my  eyes,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  and 
speak  those  words  to  me  that  you  spoke  just  now." 

"Ah,  dear  child " 

"  You  cannot  speak  those  words." 

There  was  another  long  silence.  The  terrible 
struggle  that  was  going  on  in  the  heart  of  that  man 
whose  words  are  now  so  dear  to  the  hearts  of  so 
many  million  men  and  women,  was  maintained  in 
silence.  No  one  but  himself  could  hear  the  temp- 
ter's voice  whispering  to  him  to  put  his  arms  round 
the  beautiful  girl  that  stood  before  him,  and  kiss 
her  on  her  cheeks,  which  were  now  rosy  with  ex- 
pectation. 

He  lifted  up  his  head.  His  lips  moved.  He  put 
out  a  hand  to  her  a  little  way,  but  with  a  moan 
he  drew  it  back.  Then  he  looked  into  her  eyes, 
and  said  slowly, 

"  It  is  the  truth.  I  do  not  love  you  with  the 
heart  of  a  lover." 

"That  is  enough.  Leave  me!  My  heart  is  bro- 
ken!" 

She  fell  into  a  chair,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 


Ube  Sessams  Bribe.  337 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment;  then,  with  a 
cry  of  agony,  he  went  out  of  the  room — out  of  the 
house. 

In  his  heart,  as  he  wandered  on  to  the  high  road, 
there  was  not  much  of  the  exultation  of  a  man  who 
knows  that  he  has  overcome  an  unworthy  impulse. 


22 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

CHARLES  BUNBURY  and  his  dogs  returned  from 
their  ramble  in  time  for  the  midday  meal;  but 
Goldsmith  did  not  appear  at  the  table.  The  meal 
was  usually  an  informal  one,  however,  and  upon 
previous  occasions  he  had  not  been  present  when 
he  had  strolled  further  afield  than  he  intended;  so 
that  now  no  particular  comment  was  made  upon 
his  absence.  Bunbury  said  he  fancied  he  had  seen 
him  hurrying  along  the  coach  road  in  the  distance, 
and  thought  it  possible  that  he  might  have  had  a 
packet  to  send  to  London  by  the  coach. 

When,  however,  he  did  not  return  toward  night, 
Charles  Bunbury  and  his  wife  became  alarmed. 
They  learned  that  he  had  only  taken  his  hat  and 
cloak  from  the  hall  as  he  went  out;  he  had  left  no 
line  to  tell  them  that  he  did  not  mean  to  return. 

Bunbury  questioned  Mary  about  him.  Had  he 
not  been  with  her  in  the  still-room,  he  inquired. 

She  told  him  the  truth — as  much  of  the  truth  as 
she  could  tell. 

"I  am  afraid  that  his  running  away  was  due 
to  me,"  she  said.  "If  so,  I  shall  never  forgive 

myself. " 

338 


Sessams  ffirifce,  339 

"What  can  be  your  meaning,  my  dear?"  he 
inquired.  "I  thought  that  you  and  he  had  always 
been  the  closest  friends." 

"If  we  had  not  been  such  friends  we  should 
never  have  quarrelled,"  said  she.  "You  know  that 
our  mother  has  had  her  heart  set  upon  my 
acceptance  of  Colonel  Gwyn.  Well,  she  went  to 
see  Goldsmith  at  his  cottage,  and  begged  of  him 
to  come  to  me  with  a  view  of  inducing  me  to 
accept  the  proposal  of  Colonel  Gwyn." 

"I  heard  nothing  of  that,"  said  he,  with  a  look 
of  astonishment.  "  And  so  I  suppose  when  he  began 
to  be  urgent  in  his  pleading  you  got  annoyed  and 
said  something  that  offended  him?" 

She  held  down  her  head. 

"You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  said  he. 
"  Have  you  not  seen  long  ago  that  that  man  is  no 
more  than  a  child  in  simplicity?" 

"I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  said  she.  al  shall 
never  forgive  myself  for  my  harshness." 

"That  will  not  bring  him  back,"  said  her  brother- 
in-law.  "  Oh !  it  is  always  the  best  of  friends  who 
part  in  this  fashion." 

Two  days  afterwards  he  told  his  wife  that  he 
was  going  to  London.  He  had  so  sincere  an  attach- 
ment for  Goldsmith,  his  wife  knew  very  well 
that  he  felt  that  sudden  departure  of  his  very 
deeply,  and  that  he  would  try  and  induce  him  to 
return. 

But  when  Bunbury  came  back  after  the  lapse  of 
a  couple  of  days,  he  came  back  alone.  His  wife 


340  Ube  3essam£ 

met  him  in   the   chaise   when   the  coach  came  up. 
His  face  was  very  grave. 

"I  saw  the  poor  fellow,"  he  said.  "I  found  him 
at  his  chambers  in  Brick  Court.  He  is  very  ill 
indeed." 

"  What,  too  ill  to  be  moved?  "  she  cried. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Far  too  ill  to  be  moved,"  he  said.  "I  never 
saw  a  man  in  worse  condition.  He  declared,  how- 
ever, that  he  has  often  had  as  severe  attacks  before 
now,  and  that  he  has  no  doubt  he  will  recover.  He 
sent  his  love  to  you  and  to  Mary.  He  hopes  you 
will  forgive  him  for  his  rudeness,  he  says." 

"  His  rudeness !  his  rudeness !  "  said  Katherine,  her 
eyes  streaming  with  tears.     "  Oh,  my  poor  friend— 
my  poor  friend !  " 

She  did  not  tell  her  sister  all  that  her  husband 
had  said  to  her.  Mary  was,  of  course,  very  anxious 
to  hear  how  Oliver  was,  but  Katherine  only  said 
Charles  had  seen  him  and  found  him  very  ill.  The 
doctor  who  was  in  attendance  on  him  had  promised 
to  write  if  he  thought  it  advisable  for  him  to  have 
a  change  to  the  country. 

The  next  morning  the  two  sisters  were  sitting 
together  when  the  postboy's  horn  sounded.  They 
started  up  simultaneously,  awaiting  a  letter  from 
the  doctor. 

No  letter  arrived,  only  a  narrow  parcel,  clumsily 
sealed,  addressed  to  Miss  Horneck  in  a  strange 
handwriting. 

When  she  had  broken  the  seals  she  gave  a  cry, 


Ube  Jessams  Bribe.  341 

for  the  packet  contained  sheet  after  sheet  in  Gold- 
smith's hand — poems  addressed  to  her— the  love- 
songs  which  his  heart  had  been  singing  to  her  through 
the  long  hopeless  years. 

She  glanced  at  one,  then  at  another,  and  another, 
with  beating  heart. 

She  started  up,  crying, 

"Ah!  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it!  He  loves  me — he 
loves  me  as  I  love  him — only  his  love  is  deep 
while  mine  was  shallow!  Oh,  my  dear  love — he 
loves  me,  and  now  he  is  dying !  Ah !  I  know 
that  he  is  dying,  or  he  would  not  have  sent  me 
these:  he  would  have  sacrificed  himself — nay,  he 
has  sacrificed  himself  for  me — for  me !  " 

She  threw  herself  on  a  sofa  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

"My  dear — dear  sister,"  said  Katherine,  "is  it 
possible  that  you — you ?" 

"That  I  loved  him,  do  you  ask?"  cried  Mary, 
raising  her  head.  "Yes,  I  loved  him — I  love  him 
still — I  shall  never  love  anyone  else,  and  I  am 
going  to  him  to  tell  him  so.  Ah !  God  will  be  good 
— God  will  be  good.  My  love  shall  live  until  I 
go  to  him." 

"  My  poor  child !  "  said  her  sister.  "  I  could  never 
have  guessed  your  secret.  Come  away.  We  will 
go  to  him  together." 

They  left  by  the  coach  that  day,  and  early  the 
next  morning  they  went  together  to  Brick  Court. 

A  woman  weeping  met  them  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  They  recognised  Mrs.  Abington. 


342  ftbe  5essam£  Bribe* 

*  Do  not  tell  me  that  I  am  too  late — for  God's 
sake  say  that  he  still  lives ! "  cried  Mary. 

The  actress  took  her  handkerchief  from  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  speak.  She  did  not  even  shake  her 
head.  She  only  looked  at  the  girl,  and  the  girl 
understood. 

She  threw  herself  into  her  sister's  arms. 

"He  is  dead!"  she  cried.  "But,  thank  God,  he 
did  not  die  without  knowing  that  one  woman  in 
the  world  loved  him  truly  for  his  own  sake." 

"  That  surely  is  the  best  thought  that  a  man  can 
have  going  into  the  Presence,"  said  Mrs.  Abing- 
ton.  "  Ah,  my  child,  I  am  a  wicked  woman,  but 
I  know  that  while  you  live  your  fondest  reflection 
will  be  that  the  thought  of  your  love  soothed  the 
last  hours  of  the  truest  man  that  ever  lived.  Ah, 
there  was  none  like  him — a  man  of  such  sweet 
simplicity  that  every  word  he  spoke  came  from  his 
heart.  Let  others  talk  about  his  works;  you  and 
I  love  the  man,  for  we  know  that  he  was  greater 
and  not  less  than  these  works.  And  now  he  is  in 
the  presence  of  God,  telling  the  Son  Who  on  earth  was 
born  of  a  woman  that  he  had  all  a  woman's  love." 

Mary  put  her  arm  about  the  neck  of  the  actress 
and  kissed  her. 

She  went  with  her  sister  among  the  weeping  men 
and  women — he  had  been  a  friend  to  all — up  the 
stairs  and  into  the  darkened  room. 

She   fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

THE  END. 


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