s at our dealers' in old silverware. Along the stem of the spoon are
written the words: "Anno 1609, Bin ick aldus ghekledt gheghaen"--"In
the year 1609 I went thus clad." The good Dutchman was released from
his Algerine captivity (I imagine his figure looks like that of a slave
amongst the Moors), and in his thank-offering to some godchild at home,
he thus piously records his escape.

* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work.

Was not poor Cervantes also a captive amongst the Moors? Did not
Fielding, and Goldsmith, and Smollett, too, die at the chain as well
as poor Hood? Think of Fielding going on board his wretched ship in
the Thames, with scarce a hand to bid him farewell; of brave Tobias
Smollett, and his life, how hard, and how poorly rewarded; of Goldsmith,
and the physician whispering, "Have you something on your mind?" and
the wild dying eyes answering, "Yes." Notice how Boswell speaks of
Goldsmith, and the splendid contempt with which he regards him. Read
Hawkins on Fielding, and the scorn with which Dandy Walpole and Bishop
Hurd speak of him. Galley-slaves doomed to tug the oar and wear the
chain, whilst my lords and dandies take their pleasure, and hear fine
music and disport with fine ladies in the cabin!

But stay. Was there any cause for this scorn? Had some of these great
men weaknesses which gave inferiors advantage over them? Men of letters
cannot lay their hands on their hearts, and say, "No, the fault was
fortune's, and the indifferent world's, not Goldsmith's nor Fielding's."
There was no reason why Oliver should always be thriftless; why Fielding
and Steele should sponge upon their friends; why Sterne should make love
to his neighbors' wives. Swift, for a long time, was as poor as any wag
that ever laughed: but he owed no penny to his neighbors: Addison, when
he wore his most threadbare coat, could hold his head up, and maintain
his dignity: and, I dare vouch, neither of those gentlemen, when they
were ever so poor, asked any man alive to pity their condition, and
have a regard to the weaknesses incidental to the literary profession.
Galley-slave, forsooth! If you are sent to prison for some error for
which the law awards that sort of laborious seclusion, so much the more
shame for you. If you are chained to the oar a prisoner of war, like
Cervantes, you have the pain, but not the shame, and the friendly
compassion of mankind to reward you. Galley-slaves, indeed! What man
has not h