favourite and familiar one with Goldsmith. To the same family, though marked by traits perfectly distinct, belong Mr. Honeywood; Moses Primrose; and the credulous Chinese Citizen who entrusts his watch to that beautiful young lady in the streets, who with so much generosity takes upon herself the trouble of getting it mended for him. There is as little of the mere farcical in Young Marlow as in any of these. The high comic intention is never lost in the merely ludicrous situation. In the transition from stammering modesty with Miss Hardcastle, to easy familiarity with the supposed barmaid, the character does not lose its identity; for the over-assumption of ease and the ridiculous want of it, are perceived to have the same origin. It is not simply one disguise flung aside for another. The constitutional timidity is kept always ludicrously prominent, but by fine and delicate touches. In like manner, Mr. Hardcastle and his wife have the same degree of what may be called comic dignity. The jovial old squire, with his love for every thing that's old, 'old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine,' not forgetting his own interminable old stories, is just the man to have his house mistaken for an inn; and the man to resent it too, with something festive and enjoying in the very robustness of his rage. There is altogether, let me add, an exuberant heartiness and breadth of genial humour in the comedy, which seems of right to overflow into Tony Lumpkin. He may be farcical, as such lumpish, roaring, uncouth animal-spirits have a right to be: but who would

abate a bit of Cousin Tony, stupid and cunning as he is, impudent yet sheepish, with his loutish love of low company, and his young-squire sense of his 'fortin'? There is never any misgiving about Goldsmith's fun and enjoyment. It is not obtained at the expense of any better thing. He does not snatch a joke out of a misery, or an ugliness, or a mortification; or any thing that, apart from the joke, would be likely to give pain: which, with all his airy wit and refinement, was too much the trick of Sheridan. Whether it be enjoyment or mischief going on in one of Goldsmith's comedies, the predominant impression is hearty, jovial, and sincere; and nobody feels the worse when Tony, after fearful joltings down Feather-bed-lane, over Up-anddown Hill, and across Heavy-tree Heath, lodges his mother in the horse-pond. The laugh clears the atmosphere all round it.

But Colman saw nothing of this, wonderful to say. No laughter, or too much laughter, seemed to be all one to him. He was not to be moved. He had the manuscript of the comedy in his hands for many months, and could not determine to say yes or no. Poor Goldsmith's early dream that poets were to find protection in the Covent Garden manager, had been doomed to have dire awakening. He was impelled at last to lay all his circumstances before him, describe of what vital moment to its writer the acting of this comedy had become, and make appeal from the manager's judgment to the mercy of the friend. But to even this he received a general and still evasive answer; reiterating but not speci

fying objections, and hinting the necessity of taking counsel with other advisers. Thus the matter stood in the middle of January 1773, when Goldsmith, with a galling sense that the best part of the season was passing, wrote with renewed earnestness to Colman.

"DEAR SIR, I entreat you'l relieve me from that state of suspense in which I have been kept for a long time. Whatever objections you have made or shall make to my play, I will endeavour to remove and not argue about them. To bring in any new judges either of its merit or faults I can never submit to. Upon a former occasion when my other play was before Mr. Garrick he offered to bring me before Mr. Whitehead's tribunal, but I refused the proposal with indignation: I hope I shall not experience as hard treatment from you as from him. I have, as you know, a large sum of money to make up shortly; by accepting my play I can readily satisfy my Creditor that way, at any rate I must look about to some certainty to be prepared. For God's sake take the play and let us make the best of it, and let me have the same measure at least which you have given as bad plays as mine. I am your friend and servant, OLIVER GOLDSMITH."

In answer to this, the manuscript was at last returned with many distasteful remarks written in upon the blank leaves, though with accompanying assurance that the promise of the theatre should be kept, and the comedy acted notwithstanding; but in the vexation of Colman's criticism, though now with a dreary misgiving of as ill success at Drury Lane, Goldsmith sent his manuscript a few days later, as he had received it, to Garrick. He had hardly done so when he recalled it as hastily. With no fresh cause for distrust of Garrick, it would seem; but because

Johnson had interfered, had pointed out the disadvantage to the play in any formal withdrawal from Covent Garden, and had himself gone to talk to Colman about it. This letter to Garrick was written early in February.

"DEAR SIR, I ask many pardons for the trouble I gave you yesterday. Upon more mature deliberation, and the advice of a sensible friend, I began to think it indelicate in me to throw upon you the odium of confirming Mr. Colman's sentence. I therefore request you will send my play back by my servant; for having been assured of having it acted at the other house, though I confess yours in every respect more to my wish, yet it would be folly in me to forego an advantage which lies in my power of appealing from Mr. Colman's opinion to the judgment of the town. I entreat if not too late, you will keep this affair a secret for some time. I am, dear Sir, your very humble servant, OLIVER GOLDSMITH."

Johnson described the spirit of his interview with Colman many years later, when, talking of the steep and thorny road through which his friend Goldsmith had had to make his way to fame, he reminded Reynolds that both his comedies had been once refused, his first by Garrick, his second by Colman, who was prevailed on at last by much solicitation, nay, a kind of force, to bring it 'on'. Reynolds replied with a striking illustration of the strange crotchets of judgment in such things, to the effect that Burke could see no merit in the Beggars' Opera: but in behalf of the new comedy, it is certain, the three distinguished friends were in hearty agreement; and it is from one of Johnson's letters to Boswell, on the 22nd of February, that we learn it is at last about

to be performed. Doctor Goldsmith has a new comedy, 'which is expected in the spring. No name is yet given it. 'The chief diversion arises from a stratagem by which a lover is made to mistake his future father-in-law's house for an inn. This, you see, borders upon farce. The dialogue is quick and gay, and the incidents are so prepared as not to seem improbable.' But though Colman had consented, it was with reservation of his original opinion. 'Doctor Goldsmith,' wrote Johnson ten days later to an American divine, afterwards a bishop, 'has a new comedy in rehearsal at Covent Garden, to which the manager predicts ill success. I hope he will be mistaken. I think it deserves a very kind reception.'

Its chances of a kind reception had received strong reinforcement not many days before. It had been some time noised about that Foote had a novelty in preparation at the Haymarket, founded on the Panton Street puppets, and the town was all on tip-toe to welcome it. Will your figures

'be as large as life, Mr. Foote,' asked a titled dame.

Oh

no, my lady,' said Foote, 'not much larger than Garrick.' The night of The Primitive Puppet-Show, the 15th of February, arrived; the whole length of the Haymarket was crammed with carriages; such was the impatience of the less fashionable crowd in waiting, that the doors were burst open from without; and to an audience breathless with expected merriment, Foote in due time presented himself. He had to offer them on that occasion, he said, a comedy called the Handsome Housemaid, or Piety in