37 
artful is the conclusion of Goldsmith’s famous novel. Sophia has 
been married to Sir W. Thornhill, and George to Miss Wilmot, 
and Olivia’s marriage to the squire has been satisfactorily proved : 
“When we were to sit down to dinner, our ceremonies were going to be 
renewed. The question was whether my elder daughter, as being a matron, 
should not sit above the two young brides ; but the debate was cut short by 
Sir George, who proposed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every 
gentleman by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, 
excepting my wife, who I could perceive was not perfectly satisfied, as she 
expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table and carving 
the meat for all the company. But notwithstanding this, it is impossible to 
describe our good humour. I can’t say whether we had more wit among us now 
than usual, but I am certain we had more laughing, which answered the end 
as well, One jest I particularly remember: old Mr, Wilmot, drinking to 
“Moses, whose head was turned another way, my son replied: ‘Madam, I 
thank you.’ Upon which the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the 
company, observed that he was thinking of his mistress. At which jest I 
thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. As soon 
as dinner was over, according to my old custom, I requested that the table 
might be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family assembled 
once more by a cheerful fireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the 
rest of the company by their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the 
grave to wish for—all my cares were over, my pleasure was unspeakable. It 
now only remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former 
submission in adversity.” 
And so the curtain falls between us and that fireside circle. It 
is a simple scene, simply described, but it possesses us with a sense 
of their happiness—the quiet happiness of the old father—the 
rather fussy happiness of the mother—and the boisterous happi- 
ness of the young people—better than twenty pages of fine writing 
could do. It is a prose companion of Wordsworth’s more 
sombre picture of the family in some upland village, listening to 
the Christmas Waits :— 
** How touching when at midnight sweep 
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 
To hear, and fall again to sleep ; 
Or at an earlier call to mark, 
By blazing fire, the still suspense 
Of self-complacent innocence, 
