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 his oar to pull?  There is that wonderful old stroke-oar in the Queen’s galley.  How many years has he pulled?  Day and night, in rough water or smooth, with what invincible vigor and surprising gayety he plies his arms.  There is in the same Galere Capitaine, that well-known, trim figure, the bow-oar; how he tugs, and with what a will!  How both of them have been abused in their time!  Take the Lawyer’s galley, and that dauntless octogenarian in command; when has he ever complained or repined about his slavery?  There is the Priest’s galley—­black and lawn sails—­do any mariners out of Thames work harder?  When lawyer, and statesman, and divine, and writer are snug in bed, there is a ring at the poor Doctor’s bell.  Forth he must go, in rheumatism or snow; a galley-slave bearing his galley-pots to quench the flames of fever, to succor mothers and young children in their hour of peril, and, as gently and soothingly as may be, to carry the hopeless patient over to the silent shore.  And have we not just read of the actions of the Queen’s galleys and their brave crews in the Chinese waters?  Men not more worthy of human renown and honor to-day in their victory, than last year in their glorious hour of disaster.  So with stout hearts may we ply the oar, messmates all, till the voyage is over, and the Harbor of Rest is found.