t, who reviewed
it in the _Critical Review_, appears to have kept his temper pretty
well for a Scotchman; but Kenrick, a hack employed by Griffiths to
maltreat the book in the _Monthly Review_, flourished his bludgeon in
a brave manner. The coarse personalities and malevolent insinuations
of this bully no doubt hurt Goldsmith considerably; but, as we look at
them now, they are only remarkable for their dulness. If Griffiths had
had another Goldsmith to reply to Goldsmith, the retort would have
been better worth reading: one can imagine the playful sarcasm that
would have been dealt out to this new writer, who, in the very act of
protesting against criticism, proclaimed himself a critic. But
Goldsmiths are not always to be had when wanted; while Kenricks can be
bought at any moment for a guinea or two a head.

Goldsmith had not chosen literature as the occupation of his life; he
had only fallen back on it, when other projects failed. But it is
quite possible that now, as he began to take up some slight position
as an author, the old ambition of distinguishing himself--which had
flickered before his imagination from time to time--began to enter
into his calculations along with the more pressing business of earning
a livelihood. And he was soon to have an opportunity of appealing to a
wider public than could have been expected for that erudite treatise
on the arts of Europe. Mr. Wilkie, a bookseller in St. Paul's
Churchyard, proposed to start a weekly magazine, price threepence, to
contain essays, short stories, letters on the topics of the day, and
so forth, more or less after the manner of the _Spectator_. He asked
Goldsmith to become sole contributor. Here, indeed, was a very good
opening; for, although there were many magazines in the field, the
public had just then a fancy for literature in small doses; while
Goldsmith, in entering into the competition, would not be hampered by
the dulness of collaborateurs. He closed with Wilkie's offer; and on
the 6th of October, 1759, appeared the first number of the _Bee_.

For us now there is a curious autobiographical interest in the opening
sentences of the first number; but surely even the public of the day
must have imagined that the new writer who was now addressing them,
was not to be confounded with the common herd of magazine-hacks. What
could be more delightful than this odd mixture of modesty, humour, and
an anxious desire to please?--"There is not, perhaps, a more
wh