smith himself, in the
prefixed Advertisement. But more particularly, in the midst of all the
impossibilities taking place in and around the jail, when that
chameleon-like _deus ex machina_, Mr. Jenkinson, winds up the tale in
hot haste, Goldsmith pauses to put in a sort of apology. "Nor can I go
on without a reflection," he says gravely, "on those accidental
meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our
surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous
concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives!
How many seeming accidents must unite before we can be clothed or fed!
The peasant must be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind
fill the merchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual supply." This
is Mr. Thackeray's "simple rogue" appearing again in adult life.
Certainly, if our supply of food and clothing depended on such
accidents as happened to make the Vicar's family happy all at once,
there would be a good deal of shivering and starvation in the world.
Moreover it may be admitted that on occasion Goldsmith's fine instinct
deserts him; and even in describing those domestic relations which are
the charm of the novel, he blunders into the unnatural. When Mr.
Burchell, for example, leaves the house in consequence of a quarrel
with Mrs. Primrose, the Vicar questions his daughter as to whether she
had received from that poor gentleman any testimony of his affection
for her. She replies No; but remembers to have heard him remark that
he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man that was poor.
"Such, my dear," continued the Vicar, "is the common cant of all the
unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge properly
of such men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness
from one who has been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother
and I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which you
will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a
more prudent choice." Now it is not at all likely that a father,
however anxious to have his daughter well married and settled, would
ask her so delicate a question in open domestic circle, and would then
publicly inform her that she was expected to choose a husband on her
forthcoming visit to town.

Whatever may be said about any particular incident like this, the
atmosphere of the book is true. Goethe, to whom a German translation
of the _Vicar_ w