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 knowledge as to what playgoers desired to have presented 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 transaction. But the shrieks of the shallow critics who had condemned the introduction of the low-life personages into that play were still ringing in his ears; so, when he found that the leading characteristics 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 influential 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 suggestions 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. 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 determined to do his best to cause his prophecies to be realized. At rehearsal he provoked Goldsmith almost beyond endurance by his sneers, and actually encouraged 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 conversation, 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 determination 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.

“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. Bulk-ley 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 something 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 himself and to his art, and 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 my fault if this comedy of yours does not turn out a success. You have been badly treated, Dr. Goldsmith, 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 fortnight 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 success of this play, for it will be a success, in spite of the untoward circumstances incidental to its birth.”

He bowed several times around the company, and he did it so awkwardly that he immediately gained the sympathy and good-will 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 forthcoming,” said Goldsmith. “Lord, sir, I am too good a Christian not to know that if an accident was to happen to my bantling before it is christened it would be damned to a certainty.”

The rehearsal this day was the most promising that had yet taken place. Col-man did not put in an appearance, consequently the disheartening influence 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 consolation in life is love.

After an hour's fluent writing he laid down the pen and once again rested his head on his hand. He had not the courage to read what he had written. His desk was full of such verses, written with unaffected sincerity when every one 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 chronicler of the loves of others, but it is thought madness 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 receives no pity—no pity on earth—no pity in heaven.”

He bowed his head down to his hands, and remained in that attitude for an hour. Then he suddenly sprang to his feet. He caught up the paper which he had just covered with verses, and was in 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!”

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.