Upon
more mature deliberation, and the advice of a sensible friend, I began to
think it indelicate in me to throw upon you the odium of confirming Mr.
more mature deliberation, and the advice of a sensible friend, I began to
think it indelicate in me to throw upon you the odium of confirming Mr.
Oliver Goldsmith
" The company, of
course, prepared to be entertained by an absurdity; but their smiles were
wellnigh turned to tears, for he acquitted himself with a skill and pathos
that drew universal applause. He had, in fact, a delicate ear for music,
which had been jarred by the false notes of the ballad-singer; and there
were certain pathetic ballads, associated with recollections of his
childhood, which were sure to touch the springs of his heart. We have
another story of him, connected with ballad-singing, which is still more
characteristic. He was one evening at the house of Sir William Chambers, in
Berners Street, seated at a whist table with Sir William, Lady Chambers,
and Baretti, when all at once he threw down his cards, hurried out of the
room and into the street. He returned in an instant, resumed his seat, and
the game went on. Sir William, after a little hesitation, ventured to ask
the cause of his retreat, fearing he had been overcome by the heat of the
room. "Not at all," replied Goldsmith; "but in truth I could not bear to
hear that unfortunate woman in the street, half singing, half sobbing, for
such tones could only arise from the extremity of distress; her voice
grated painfully on my ear and jarred my frame, so that I could not rest
until I had sent her away. " It was in fact a poor ballad-singer, whose
cracked voice had been heard by others of the party, but without having the
same effect on their sensibilities. It was the reality of his fictitious
scene in the story of the "Man in Black"; wherein he describes a woman in
rags with one child in her arms and another on her back, attempting to sing
ballads, but with such a mournful voice that it was difficult to determine
whether she was singing or crying. "A wretch," he adds, "who, in the
deepest distress, still aimed at good-humor, was an object my friend was by
no means capable of withstanding. " The Man in Black gave the poor woman all
that he had--a bundle of matches. Goldsmith, it is probable, sent his
ballad-singer away rejoicing with all the money in his pocket.
Ranelagh was at that time greatly in vogue as a place of public
entertainment. It was situated near Chelsea; the principal room was a
rotunda of great dimensions, with an orchestra in the center and tiers of
boxes all round. It was a place to which Johnson resorted occasionally. "I
am a great friend to public amusements," said he, "for they keep people
from vice. " [Footnote: "Alas, sir! " said Johnson, speaking, when in another
mood, of grand houses, fine gardens, and splendid places of public
amusement; "alas, sir! these are only struggles for happiness. When I first
entered Ranelagh it gave an expansion and gay sensation to my mind, such as
I never experienced anywhere else. But, as Xerxes wept when he viewed his
immense army, and considered that not one of that great multitude would be
alive a hundred years afterward, so it went to my heart to consider that
there was not one in all that brilliant circle that was not afraid to go
home and think. "] Goldsmith was equally a friend to them, though perhaps
not altogether on such moral grounds. He was particularly fond of
masquerades, which were then exceedingly popular, and got up at Ranelagh
with great expense and magnificence. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who had likewise
a taste for such amusements, was sometimes his companion, at other times he
went alone; his peculiarities of person and manner would soon betray him,
whatever might be his disguise, and he would be singled out by wags,
acquainted with his foibles, and more successful than himself in
maintaining their incognito, as a capital subject to be played upon. Some,
pretending not to know him, would decry his writings, and praise those of
his contemporaries; others would laud his verses to the skies, but
purposely misquote and burlesque them; others would annoy him with
parodies; while one young lady, whom he was teasing, as he supposed, with
great success and infinite humor, silenced his rather boisterous laughter
by quoting his own line about "the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind. "
On one occasion he was absolutely driven out of the house by the
persevering jokes of a wag, whose complete disguise gave him no means of
retaliation.
His name appearing in the newspapers among the distinguished persons
present at one of these amusements, his old enemy, Kenrick, immediately
addressed to him a copy of anonymous verses, to the following purport.
TO DR. GOLDSMITH
ON SEEING HIS NAME IN THE LIST OF MUMMERS AT THE LATE MASQUERADE
"How widely different, Goldsmith, are the ways
Of doctors now, and those of ancient days!
Theirs taught the truth in academic shades,
Ours in lewd hops and midnight masquerades.
So changed the times! say, philosophic sage,
Whose genius suits so well this tasteful age,
Is the Pantheon, late a sink obscene,
Become the fountain of chaste Hippocrene?
Or do thy moral numbers quaintly flow,
Inspired by th' _Aganippe_ of Soho?
Do wisdom's sons gorge cates and vermicelli,
Like beastly Bickerstaffe or bothering Kelly?
Or art thou tired of th' undeserved applause
Bestowed on bards affecting Virtue's cause?
Is this the good that makes the humble vain,
The good philosophy should not disdain?
If so, let pride dissemble all it can,
A modern sage is still much less than man. "
Goldsmith was keenly sensitive to attacks of the kind, and meeting Kenrick
at the Chapter Coffee-house, called him to sharp account for taking such a
liberty with his name, and calling his morals in question, merely on
account of his being seen at a place of general resort and amusement.
Kenrick shuffled and sneaked, protesting that he meant nothing derogatory
to his private character. Goldsmith let him know, however, that he was
aware of his having more than once indulged in attacks of this dastard
kind, and intimated that another such outrage would be followed by personal
chastisement.
Kenrick having played the craven in his presence, avenged himself as soon
as he was gone by complaining of his having made a wanton attack upon him,
and by making coarse comments upon his writings, conversation and person.
The scurrilous satire of Kenrick, however unmerited, may have checked
Goldsmith's taste for masquerades. Sir Joshua Reynolds, calling on the poet
one morning, found him walking about his room in somewhat of a reverie,
kicking a bundle of clothes before him like a football. It proved to be an
expensive masquerade dress, which he said he had been fool enough to
purchase, and as there was no other way of getting the worth of his money,
he was trying to take it out in exercise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
INVITATION TO CHRISTMAS--THE SPRING VELVET COAT--THE HAYMAKING WIG--THE
MISCHANCES OF LOO--THE FAIR CULPRIT--A DANCE WITH THE JESSAMY BRIDE
From the feverish dissipations of town, Goldsmith is summoned away to
partake of the genial dissipations of the country. In the month of
December, a letter from Mrs. Bunbury invites him down to Barton, to pass
the Christmas holidays. The letter is written in the usual playful vein
which marks his intercourse with this charming family. He is to come in his
"smart spring-velvet coat," to bring a new wig to dance with the haymakers
in, and, above all, to follow the advice of herself and her sister (the
Jessamy Bride), in playing loo. This letter, which plays so archly, yet
kindly, with some of poor Goldsmith's peculiarities, and bespeaks such real
ladylike regard for him, requires a word or two of annotation. The
spring-velvet suit alluded to appears to have been a gallant adornment
(somewhat in the style of the famous bloom-colored coat) in which Goldsmith
had figured in the preceding month of May--the season of blossoms--for, on
the 21st of that month we find the following entry in the chronicle of Mr.
William Filby, tailor: _To your blue velvet suit_, £21 10s. 9d. Also,
about the same time, a suit of livery and a crimson collar for the serving
man. Again we hold the Jessamy Bride responsible for this gorgeous splendor
of wardrobe.
The new wig no doubt is a bag-wig and solitaire, still highly the mode, and
in which Goldsmith is represented as figuring when in full dress, equipped
with his sword.
As to the dancing with the haymakers, we presume it alludes to some gambol
of the poet, in the course of his former visit to Barton; when he ranged
the fields and lawns a chartered libertine, and tumbled into the
fish-ponds.
As to the suggestions about loo, they are in sportive allusion to the
doctor's mode of playing that game in their merry evening parties;
affecting the desperate gambler and easy dupe; running counter to all rule;
making extravagant ventures; reproaching all others with cowardice; dashing
at all hazards at the pool, and getting himself completely loo'd, to the
great amusement of the company. The drift of the fair sisters' advice was
most probably to tempt him on, and then leave him in the lurch.
With these comments we subjoin Goldsmith's reply to Mrs. Bunbury, a fine
piece of off-hand, humorous writing, which has but in late years been given
to the public, and which throws a familiar light on the social circle at
Barton.
"Madam--I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candor
could require, but after all find so much to object to, and so much to
raise my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer. I am
not so ignorant, madam, as not to see there are many sarcasms contained in
it, and solecisms also. (Solecism is a word that comes from the town of
Soleis in Attica, among the Greeks, built by Solon, and applied as we use
the word Kidderminster for curtains from a town also of that name--but this
is learning you have no taste for! )--I say, madam, there are many sarcasms
in it, and solecisms also. But not to seem an ill-natured critic, I'll take
leave to quote your own words, and give you my remarks upon them as they
occur. You begin as follows:
"'I hope, my good doctor, you soon will be here,
And your spring-velvet coat very smart will appear,
To open our ball the first day of the year. '
"Pray, madam, where did you ever find the epithet 'good,' applied to the
title of doctor? Had you called me 'learned doctor,' or 'grave doctor,' or
'noble doctor,' it might be allowable, because they belong to the
profession. But, not to cavil at trifles, you talk of 'my spring-velvet
coat,' and advise me to wear it the first day in the year, that is, in the
middle of winter! --a spring-velvet coat in the middle of winter! ! ! That
would be a solecism indeed! and yet to increase the inconsistence, in
another part of your letter you call me a beau. Now, on one side or other
you must be wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of wearing a
spring-velvet in winter; and if I am not a beau, why then, that explains
itself. But let me go on to your two next strange lines:
"'And bring with you a wig, that is modish and gay,
To dance with the girls that are makers of hay. '
"The absurdity of making hay at Christmas you yourself seem sensible of:
you say your sister will laugh; and so indeed she well may! The Latins have
an expression for a contemptuous kind of laughter, 'naso contemnere
adunco'; that is, to laugh with a crooked nose. She may laugh at you in the
manner of the ancients if she thinks fit. But now I come to the most
extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions, which is, to take your and
your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption of the offer raises
my indignation beyond the bounds of prose; it inspires me at once with
verse and resentment. I take advice! and from whom? You shall hear.
"First let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set, and the word to be Loo:
All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fix'd in the center.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn
At never once finding a visit from Pam.
I lay down my stake, apparently cool,
While the harpies about me all pocket the pool.
I fret in my gizzard, yet, cautious and sly,
I wish all my friends may be bolder than I:
Yet still they sit snug, not a creature will aim
By losing their money to venture at fame.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold:
All play their own way, and they think me an ass,. . .
'What does Mrs. Bunbury? ' . . . 'I, Sir? I pass. '
'Pray what does Miss Horneck? take courage, come do,'. . .
'Who, I? let me see, sir, why I must pass too. '
Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the devil,
To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil.
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion,
I venture at all, while my avarice regards
The whole pool as my own. . . 'Come, give me five cards. '
'Well done! ' cry the ladies; 'Ah, doctor, that's good!
The pool's very rich,. . . ah! the doctor is loo'd! '
Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplext,
I ask for advice from the lady that's next:
'Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;
Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twice! '
'I advise,' cries the lady, 'to try it, I own. . . .
Ah! the doctor is loo'd! Come, doctor, put down. '
Thus, playing, and playing, I still grow more eager,
And so bold, and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.
Now, ladies, I ask, if law-matters you're skill'd in,
Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding:
For giving advice that is not worth a straw,
May well be call'd picking of pockets in law;
And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye,
Is, by quinto Elizabeth, Death without Clergy.
What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought!
By the gods, I'll enjoy it, tho' 'tis but in thought!
Both are plac'd at the bar, with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel, and nosegays before 'em;
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,
But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat.
When uncover'd, a buzz of inquiry runs round,
'Pray what are their crimes? '. . . 'They've been pilfering found. '
'But, pray, who have they pilfer'd? '. . . 'A doctor, I hear. '
_'What, yon solemn-faced, odd-looking man that stands near? '_
'The same. '. . . 'What a pity! how does it surprise one,
_Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on! '_
Then their friends all come round me with cringing and leering,
To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing.
First Sir Charles advances with phrases wellstrung,
'Consider, dear doctor, the girls are but young. '
'The younger the worse,' I return him again,
'It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain. '
'But then they're so handsome, one's bosom it grieves.
'What signifies _handsome_, when people are thieves? '
'But where is your justice? their cases are hard. '
'What signifies _justice_? I want the _reward_.
"'There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds; there's the parish of
St. Leonard Shoreditch offers forty pounds; there's the parish of Tyburn,
from the Hog-in-the-pound to St. Giles' watch-house, offers forty pounds--I
shall have all that if I convict them! '--
"'But consider their case,. . . it may yet be your own!
And see how they kneel! Is your heart made of stone! '
This moves! . . . so at last I agree to relent,
For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent. '
"I challenge you all to answer this: I tell you, you cannot. It cuts deep.
But now for the rest of the letter: and next--but I want room--so I believe
I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I don't value you
all!
"O. G. "
We regret that we have no record of this Christmas visit to Barton; that
the poet had no Boswell to follow at his heels, and take note of all his
sayings and doings. We can only picture him in our minds, casting off all
care; enacting the lord of misrule; presiding at the Christmas revels;
providing all kinds of merriment; keeping the card-table in an uproar, and
finally opening the ball on the first day of the year in his spring-velvet
suit, with the Jessamy Bride for a partner.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THEATRICAL DELAYS--NEGOTIATIONS WITH COLMAN--LETTER TO GARRICK--CROAKING OF
THE MANAGER--NAMING OF THE PLAY--SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER--FOOTE'S PRIMITIVE
PUPPET-SHOW, PIETY ON PATTENS--FIRST PERFORMANCE OF THE COMEDY--AGITATION
OF THE AUTHOR--SUCCESS--COLMAN SQUIBBED OUT OF TOWN
The gay life depicted in the two last chapters, while it kept Goldsmith in
a state of continual excitement, aggravated the malady which was impairing
his constitution; yet his increasing perplexities in money matters drove
him to the dissipation of society as a relief from solitary care. The
delays of the theater added to those perplexities. He had long since
finished his new comedy, yet the year 1772 passed away without his being
able to get it on the stage. No one, uninitiated in the interior of a
theater, that little world of traps and trickery, can have any idea of the
obstacles and perplexities multiplied in the way of the most eminent and
successful author by the mismanagement of managers, the jealousies and
intrigues of rival authors, and the fantastic and impertinent caprices of
actors. A long and baffling negotiation was carried on between Goldsmith
and Colman, the manager of Covent Garden; who retained the play in his
hands until the middle of January (1773), without coming to a decision. The
theatrical season was rapidly passing away, and Goldsmith's pecuniary
difficulties were augmenting and pressing on him. We may judge of his
anxiety by the following letter:
"_To George Colman, Esq. _
"DEAR SIR--I entreat you'll relieve me from that state of suspense in which
I have been kept for a long time. Whatever objections you have made or
shall make to my play, I will endeavor to remove and not argue about them.
To bring in any new judges, either of its merits or faults, I can never
submit to. Upon a former occasion, when my other play was before Mr.
Garrick, he offered to bring me before Mr. Whitehead's tribunal, but I
refused the proposal with indignation: I hope I shall not experience as
harsh treatment from you as from him. I have, as you know, a large sum of
money to make up shortly; by accepting my play, I can readily satisfy my
creditor that way; at any rate, I must look about to some certainty to be
prepared. For God's sake take the play, and let us make the best of it, and
let me have the same measure, at least, which you have given as bad plays
as mine. I am your friend and servant,
"OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "
Colman returned the manuscript with the blank sides of the leaves scored
with disparaging comments and suggested alterations, but with the
intimation that the faith of the theater should be kept, and the play acted
notwithstanding. Goldsmith submitted the criticisms to some of his friends,
who pronounced them trivial, unfair, and contemptible, and intimated that
Colman, being a dramatic writer himself, might be actuated by jealousy. The
play was then sent, with Colman's comments written on it, to Garrick; but
he had scarce sent it when Johnson interfered, represented the evil that
might result from an apparent rejection of it by Covent Garden, and
undertook to go forthwith to Colman, and have a talk with him on the
subject. Goldsmith, therefore, penned the following note to Garrick:
"DEAR SIR--I ask many pardons for the trouble I gave you yesterday.
Upon
more mature deliberation, and the advice of a sensible friend, I began to
think it indelicate in me to throw upon you the odium of confirming Mr.
Colman's sentence. I therefore request you will send my play back by my
servant; for, having been assured of having it acted at the other house,
though I confess yours in every respect more to my wish, yet it would be
folly in me to forego an advantage which lies in my power of appealing from
Mr. Colman's opinion to the judgment of the town. I entreat, if not too
late, you will keep this affair a secret for some time.
"I am, dear sir, your very humble servant,
"OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "
The negotiation of Johnson with the manager of Covent Garden was effective.
"Colman," he says, "was prevailed on at last, by much solicitation, nay, a
kind of force," to bring forward the comedy. Still the manager was
ungenerous; or, at least, indiscreet enough to express his opinion, that it
would not reach a second representation. The plot, he said, was bad, and
the interest not sustained; "it dwindled, and dwindled, and at last went
out like the snuff of a candle. " The effect of his croaking was soon
apparent within the walls of the theater. Two of the most popular actors,
Woodward and Gentleman Smith, to whom the parts of Tony Lumpkin and Young
Marlow were assigned, refused to act them; one of them alleging, in excuse,
the evil predictions of the manager. Goldsmith was advised to postpone the
performance of his play until he could get these important parts well
supplied. "No," said he, "I would sooner that my play were damned by bad
players than merely saved by good acting. "
Quick was substituted for Woodward in Tony Lumpkin, and Lee Lewis, the
harlequin of the theater, for Gentleman Smith in Young Marlow; and both did
justice to their parts.
Great interest was taken by Goldsmith's friends in the success of his
piece. The rehearsals were attended by Johnson, Cradock, Murphy, Reynolds
and his sister, and the whole Horneck connection, including, of course, the
"Jessamy Bride," whose presence may have contributed to flutter the anxious
heart of the author. The rehearsals went off with great applause, but that
Colman attributed to the partiality of friends. He continued to croak, and
refused to risk any expense in new scenery or dresses on a play which he
was sure would prove a failure.
The time was at hand for the first representation, and as yet the comedy
was without a title. "We are all in labor for a name for Goldy's play,"
said Johnson, who, as usual, took a kind of fatherly protecting interest in
poor Goldsmith's affairs. The Old House a New Inn was thought of for a
time, but still did not please. Sir Joshua Reynolds proposed The Belle's
Stratagem, an elegant title, but not considered applicable, the
perplexities of the comedy being produced by the mistake of the hero, not
the stratagem of the heroine. The name was afterward adopted by Mrs. Cowley
for one of her comedies. The Mistakes of a Night was the title at length
fixed upon, to which Goldsmith prefixed the words She Stoops to Conquer.
The evil bodings of Colman still continued; they were even communicated in
the box office to the servant of the Duke of Gloucester, who was sent to
engage a box. Never did the play of a popular writer struggle into
existence through more difficulties.
In the meantime Foote's Primitive Puppet-show, entitled the Handsome
Housemaid, or Piety on Pattens, had been brought out at the Haymarket on
the 15th of February. All the world, fashionable and unfashionable, had
crowded to the theater. The street was thronged with equipages--the doors
were stormed by the mob. The burlesque was completely successful, and
sentimental comedy received its quietus. Even Garrick, who had recently
befriended it, now gave it a kick, as he saw it going down hill, and sent
Goldsmith a humorous prologue to help his comedy of the opposite school.
Garrick and Goldsmith, however, were now on very cordial terms, to which
the social meetings in the circle of the Hornecks and Bunburys may have
contributed.
On the 15th of March the new comedy was to be performed. Those who had
stood up for its merits, and been irritated and disgusted by the treatment
it had received from the manager, determined to muster their forces, and
aid in giving it a good launch upon the town. The particulars of this
confederation, and of its triumphant success, are amusingly told by
Cumberland in his memoirs.
"We were not over-sanguine of success, but perfectly determined to struggle
hard for our author. We accordingly assembled our strength at the
Shakespeare Tavern, in a considerable body, for an early dinner, where
Samuel Johnson took the chair at the head of a long table, and was the life
and soul of the corps: the poet took post silently by his side, with the
Burkes, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Fitzherbert, Caleb Whitefoord, and a phalanx
of North British, predetermined applauders, under the banner of Major
Mills, all good men and true. Our illustrious president was in inimitable
glee; and poor Goldsmith that day took all his raillery as patiently and
complacently as my friend Boswell would have done any day or every day of
his life. In the meantime, we did not forget our duty; and though we had a
better comedy going, in which Johnson was chief actor, we betook ourselves
in good time to our separate and allotted posts, and waited the awful
drawing up of the curtain. As our stations were preconcerted, so were our
signals for plaudits arranged and determined upon in a manner that gave
every one his cue where to look for them, and how to follow them up.
"We had among us a very worthy and efficient member, long since lost to his
friends and the world at large, Adam Drummond, of amiable memory, who was
gifted by nature with the most sonorous, and, at the same time, the most
contagious laugh that ever echoed from the human lungs. The neighing of the
horse of the son of Hystaspes was a whisper to it; the whole thunder of the
theater could not drown it. This kind and ingenious friend fairly
forewarned us that he knew no more when to give his fire than the cannon
did that was planted on a battery. He desired, therefore, to have a flapper
at his elbow, and I had the honor to be deputed to that office. I planted
him in an upper box, pretty nearly over the stage, in full view of the pit
and galleries, and perfectly well situated to give the echo all its play
through the hollows and recesses of the theater. The success of our
maneuver was complete. All eyes were upon Johnson, who sat in a front row
of a side box; and when he laughed, everybody thought themselves warranted
to roar. In the meantime, my friend followed signals with a rattle so
irresistibly comic that, when he had repeated it several times, the
attention of the spectators was so engrossed by his person and performances
that the progress of the play seemed likely to become a secondary object,
and I found it prudent to insinuate to him that he might halt his music
without any prejudice to the author; but alas! it was now too late to rein
him in; he had laughed upon my signal where he found no joke, and now,
unluckily, he fancied that he found a joke in almost everything that was
said; so that nothing in nature could be more malapropos than some of his
bursts every now and then were. These were dangerous moments, for the pit
began to take umbrage; but we carried our point through, and triumphed not
only over Colman's judgment, but our own. "
Much of this statement has been condemned as exaggerated or discolored.
Cumberland's memoirs have generally been characterized as partaking of
romance, and in the present instance he had particular motives for
tampering with the truth. He was a dramatic writer himself, jealous of the
success of a rival, and anxious to have it attributed to the private
management of friends. According to various accounts, public and private,
such management was unnecessary, for the piece was "received throughout
with the greatest acclamations. "
Goldsmith, in the present instance, had not dared, as on a former occasion,
to be present at the first performance. He had been so overcome by his
apprehensions that, at the preparatory dinner he could hardly utter a word,
and was so choked that he could not swallow a mouthful. When his friends
trooped to the theater, he stole away to St. James' Park: there he was
found by a friend between seven and eight o'clock, wandering up and down
the Mall like a troubled spirit. With difficulty he was persuaded to go to
the theater, where his presence might be important should any alteration be
necessary. He arrived at the opening of the fifth act, and made his way
behind the scenes. Just as he entered there was a slight hiss at the
improbability of Tony Lumpkin's trick on his mother, in persuading her she
was forty miles off, on Crackskull Common, though she had been trundled
about on her own grounds. "What's that? what's that! " cried Goldsmith to
the manager, in great agitation. "Pshaw! doctor," replied Colman,
sarcastically, "don't be frightened at a squib, when we've been sitting
these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder! " Though of a most forgiving
nature Goldsmith did not easily forget this ungracious and ill-timed sally.
If Colman was indeed actuated by the paltry motives ascribed to him in his
treatment of this play, he was most amply punished by its success, and by
the taunts, epigrams, and censures leveled at him through the press, in
which his false prophecies were jeered at; his critical judgment called in
question; and he was openly taxed with literary jealousy. So galling and
unremitting was the fire, that he at length wrote to Goldsmith, entreating
him "to take him off the rack of the newspapers"; in the meantime, to
escape the laugh that was raised about him in the theatrical world of
London, he took refuge in Bath during the triumphant career of the comedy.
The following is one of the many squibs which assailed the ears of the
manager:
TO GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.
ON THE SUCCESS OF DR. GOLDSMITH'S NEW COMEDY
"Come, Coley, doff those mourning weeds,
Nor thus with jokes be flamm'd;
Tho' Goldsmith's present play succeeds,
His next may still be damn'd.
"As this has 'scaped without a fall,
To sink his next prepare;
New actors hire from Wapping Wall,
And dresses from Rag Fair.
"For scenes let tatter'd blankets fly,
The prologue Kelly write;
Then swear again the piece must die
Before the author's night.
"Should these tricks fail, the lucky elf,
To bring to lasting shame,
E'en write _the best you can yourself_,
And print it in _his name_. "
The solitary hiss, which had startled Goldsmith, was ascribed by some of
the newspaper scribblers to Cumberland himself, who was "manifestly
miserable" at the delight of the audience, or to Ossian Macpherson, who was
hostile to the whole Johnson clique, or to Goldsmith's dramatic rival,
Kelly. The following is one of the epigrams which appeared:
"At Dr. Goldsmith's merry play,
All the spectators laugh, they say;
The assertion, sir, I must deny,
For Cumberland and Kelly cry.
"_Ride, si sapis_. "
Another, addressed to Goldsmith, alludes to Kelly's early apprenticeship to
stay-making:
"If Kelly finds fault with the _shape_ of your muse,
And thinks that too loosely it plays,
He surely, dear doctor, will never refuse
To make it a new _Pair of Stays_! "
Cradock had returned to the country before the production of the play; the
following letter, written just after the performance, gives an additional
picture of the thorns which beset an author in the path of theatrical
literature:
"MY DEAR SIR--The play has met with a success much beyond your expectations
or mine. I thank you sincerely for your epilogue, which, however, could not
be used, but with your permission shall be printed. The story in short is
this. Murphy sent me rather the outline of an epilogue than an epilogue,
which was to be sung by Miss Catley, and which she approved; Mrs. Bulkley
hearing this, insisted on throwing up her part" (Miss Hardcastle) "unless,
according to the custom of the theater, she were permitted to speak the
epilogue. In this embarrassment I thought of making a quarreling epilogue
between Catley and her, debating _who_ should speak the epilogue; but
then Mrs. Catley refused after I had taken the trouble of drawing it out. I
was then at a loss indeed; an epilogue was to be made, and for none but
Mrs. Bulkley. I made one, and Colman thought it too bad to be spoken; I was
obliged, therefore, to try a fourth time, and I made a very mawkish thing,
as you'll shortly see. Such is the history of my stage adventures, and
which I have at last done with. I cannot help saying that I am very sick of
the stage; and though I believe I shall get three tolerable benefits, yet I
shall, on the whole, be a loser, even in a pecuniary light; my ease and
comfort I certainly lost while it was in agitation.
"I am, my dear Cradock, your obliged and obedient servant, OLIVER
GOLDSMITH.
"P. S. --Present my most humble respects to Mrs. Cradock. "
Johnson, who had taken such a conspicuous part in promoting the interests
of poor "Goldy," was triumphant at the success of the piece. "I know of no
comedy for many years," said he, "that has so much exhilarated an audience;
that has answered so much the great end of comedy--making an audience
merry. "
Goldsmith was happy, also, in gleaning applause from less authoritative
sources. Northcote, the painter, then a youthful pupil of Sir Joshua
Reynolds; and Ralph, Sir Joshua's confidential man, had taken their
stations in the gallery to lead the applause in that quarter. Goldsmith
asked Northcote's opinion of the play. The youth modestly declared he could
not presume to judge in such matters. "Did it make you laugh? " "Oh.
exceedingly! " "That is all I require," replied Goldsmith; and rewarded him
for his criticism by box-tickets for his first benefit night.
The comedy was immediately put to press, and dedicated to Johnson in the
following grateful and affectionate terms:
"In inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to
compliment you as myself. It may do me some honor to inform the public that
I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of
mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a
character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. "
The copyright was transferred to Mr. Newbery, according to agreement, whose
profits on the sale of the work far exceeded the debts for which the author
in his perplexities had pre-engaged it. The sum which accrued to Goldsmith
from his benefit nights afforded but a slight palliation of his pecuniary
difficulties. His friends, while they exulted in his success, little knew
of his continually increasing embarrassments, and of the anxiety of mind
which kept tasking his pen while it impaired the ease and freedom of spirit
necessary to felicitous composition.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A NEWSPAPER ATTACK--THE EVANS AFFRAY--JOHNSON'S COMMENT
The triumphant success of She Stoops to Conquer brought forth, of course,
those carpings and cavilings of underling scribblers which are the thorns
and briers in the path of successful authors.
Goldsmith, though easily nettled by attacks of the kind, was at present too
well satisfied with the reception of his comedy to heed them; but the
following anonymous letter, which appeared in a public paper, was not to be
taken with equal equanimity:
[FOR THE LONDON PACKET. ]
"TO DR. GOLDSMITH.
"_Vous vous noyez par vanité_.
"SIR--The happy knack which you have learned of puffing your own
compositions, provokes me to come forth. You have not been the editor of
newspapers and magazines not to discover the trick of literary
_humbug_; but the gauze is so thin that the very foolish part of the
world see through it, and discover the doctor's monkey face and cloven
foot. Your poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. Would man
believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told that for hours the great
Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque orang-outang's figure in a
pier-glass? Was but the lovely H--k as much enamored, you would not sigh,
my gentle swain, in vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will this
same bard of Bedlam ring the changes in the praise of Goldy! But what has
he to be either proud or vain of? The Traveler is a flimsy poem, built upon
false principles--principles diametrically opposite to liberty. What is The
Good-Natured Man but a poor, water-gruel dramatic dose? What is The
Deserted Village but a pretty poem of easy numbers, without fancy, dignity,
genius, or fire? And, pray, what may be the last _speaking pantomime_,
so praised by the doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of stuff, the
figure of a woman with a fish's tail, without plot, incident, or intrigue?
We are made to laugh at stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry
for wit, and grimace for humor; wherein every scene is unnatural and
inconsistent with the rules, the laws of nature and of the drama; viz. , two
gentlemen come to a man of fortune's house, eat, drink, etc. , and take it
for an inn. The one is intended as a lover for the daughter; he talks with
her for some hours; and, when he sees her again in a different dress, he
treats her as a bar-girl, and swears she squinted. He abuses the master of
the house, and threatens to kick him out of his own doors. The squire, whom
we are told is to be a fool, proves to be the most sensible being of the
piece; and he makes out a whole act by bidding his mother lie close behind
a bush, persuading her that his father, her own husband, is a highwayman,
and that he has come to cut their throats; and, to give his cousin an
opportunity to go off, he drives his mother over hedges, ditches, and
through ponds. There is not, sweet, sucking Johnson, a natural stroke in
the whole play but the young fellow's giving the stolen jewels to the
mother, supposing her to be the landlady. That Mr. Colman did no justice to
this piece, I honestly allow; that he told all his friends it would be
damned, I positively aver; and, from such ungenerous insinuations, without
a dramatic merit, it rose to public notice, and it is now the ton to go and
see it, though I never saw a person that either liked it or approved it,
any more than the absurd plot of Home's tragedy of Alonzo. Mr. Goldsmith,
correct your arrogance, reduce your vanity, and endeavor to believe, as a
man, you are of the plainest sort; and as an author, but a mortal piece of
mediocrity.
"Brise le miroir infidèle
Qui vous cache la vérité.
"TOM TICKLE. "
It would be difficult to devise a letter more calculated to wound the
peculiar sensibilities of Goldsmith. The attacks upon him as an author,
though annoying enough, he could have tolerated; but then the allusion to
his "grotesque" person, to his studious attempts to adorn it; and, above
all, to his being an unsuccessful admirer of the lovely H--k (the Jessamy
Bride), struck rudely upon the most sensitive part of his highly sensitive
nature. The paragraph, it was said, was first pointed out to him by an
officious friend, an Irishman, who told him he was bound in honor to resent
it; but he needed no such prompting. He was in a high state of excitement
and indignation, and accompanied by his friend, who is said to have been a
Captain Higgins, of the marines, he repaired to Paternoster Row, to the
shop of Evans, the publisher, whom he supposed to be the editor of the
paper. Evans was summoned by his shopman from an adjoining room. Goldsmith
announced his name. "I have called," added he, "in consequence of a
scurrilous attack made upon me, and an unwarrantable liberty taken with the
name of a young lady. As for myself, I care little; but her name must not
be sported with. "
Evans professed utter ignorance of the matter, and said he would speak to
the editor. He stooped to examine a file of the paper, in search of the
offensive article; whereupon Goldsmith's friend gave him a signal, that now
was a favorable moment for the exercise of his cane. The hint was taken as
quick as given, and the cane was vigorously applied to the back of the
stooping publisher. The latter rallied in an instant, and, being a stout,
high-blooded Welshman, returned the blows with interest. A lamp hanging
overhead was broken, and sent down a shower of oil upon the combatants; but
the battle raged with unceasing fury. The shopman ran off for a constable;
but Dr. Kenrick, who happened to be in the adjacent room, sallied forth,
interfered between the combatants, and put an end to the affray. He
conducted Goldsmith to a coach, in exceedingly battered and tattered
plight, and accompanied him home, soothing him with much mock
commiseration, though he was generally suspected, and on good grounds, to
be the author of the libel.
Evans immediately instituted a suit against Goldsmith for an assault, but
was ultimately prevailed upon to compromise the matter, the poet
contributing fifty pounds to the Welsh charity.
Newspapers made themselves, as may well be supposed, exceedingly merry with
the combat. Some censured him severely for invading the sanctity of a man's
own house; others accused him of having, in his former capacity of editor
of a magazine, been guilty of the very offenses that he now resented in
others. This drew from him the following vindication:
"_To the Public_.
"Lest it should be supposed that I have been willing to correct in others
an abuse of which I have been guilty myself, I beg leave to declare, that,
in all my life, I never wrote or dictated a single paragraph, letter, or
essay in a newspaper, except a few moral essays under the character of a
Chinese, about ten years ago, in the 'Ledger,' and a letter, to which I
signed my name in the 'St. James' Chronicle. ' If the liberty of the press,
therefore, has been abused, I have had no hand in it.
"I have always considered the press as the protector of our freedom, as a
watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak against the encroachments of
power. What concerns the public most properly admits of a public
discussion. But, of late, the press has turned from defending public
interest to making inroads upon private life; from combating the strong to
overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure for its abuse, and
the protector has become the tyrant of the people. In this manner the
freedom of the press is beginning to sow the seeds of its own dissolution;
the great must oppose it from principle, and the weak from fear; till at
last every rank of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, content
with security from insults.
"How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are
indiscriminately abused, and by which vice consequently escapes in the
general censure, I am unable to tell; all I could wish is that, as the law
gives us no protection against the injury, so it should give calumniators
no shelter after having provoked correction. The insults which we receive
before the public, by being more open, are the more distressing; by
treating them with silent contempt we do not pay a sufficient deference to
the opinion of the world. By recurring to legal redress we too often expose
the weakness of the law, which only serves to increase our mortification by
failing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider himself
as the guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his influence
can extend, should endeavor to prevent its licentiousness becoming at last
the grave of its freedom.
"OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "
Boswell, who had just arrived in town, met with this article in a newspaper
which he found at Dr. Johnson's. The doctor was from home at the time, and
Bozzy and Mrs. Williams, in a critical conference over the letter,
determined from the style that it must have been written by the
lexicographer himself. The latter on his return soon undeceived them.
"Sir," said he to Boswell, "Goldsmith would no more have asked me to have
wrote such a thing as that for him than he would have asked me to feed him
with a spoon, or do anything else that denoted his imbecility. Sir, had he
shown it to any one friend, he would not have been allowed to publish it.
He has, indeed, done it very well; but it is a foolish thing well done. I
suppose he has been so much elated with the success of his new comedy that
he has thought everything that concerned him must be of importance to the
public. "
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
BOSWELL IN HOLY WEEK--DINNER AT OGLETHORPE'S--DINNER AT PAOLI'S--THE
POLICY OF TRUTH--GOLDSMITH AFFECTS INDEPENDENCE OF ROYALTY--PAOLI'S
COMPLIMENT--JOHNSON'S EULOGIUM ON THE FIDDLE--QUESTION ABOUT
SUICIDE--BOSWELL'S SUBSERVIENCY
The return of Boswell to town to his task of noting down the conversations
of Johnson enables us to glean from his journal some scanty notices of
Goldsmith. It was now Holy Week, a time during which Johnson was
particularly solemn in his manner and strict in his devotions. Boswell, who
was the imitator of the great moralist in everything, assumed, of course,
an extra devoutness on the present occasion. "He had an odd mock solemnity
of tone and manner," said Miss Burney (afterward Madame D'Arblay), "which
he had acquired from constantly thinking, and imitating Dr. Johnson. " It
would seem, that he undertook to deal out some secondhand homilies, _à la
Johnson_, for the edification of Goldsmith during Holy Week. The poet,
whatever might be his religious feeling, had no disposition to be schooled
by so shallow an apostle. "Sir," said he in reply, "as I take my shoes from
the shoemaker, and my coat from the tailor, so I take my religion from the
priest. "
Boswell treasured up the reply in his memory or his memorandum book. A few
days afterward, the 9th of April, he kept Good Friday with Dr. Johnson, in
orthodox style; breakfasted with him on tea and crossbuns; went to church
with him morning and evening; fasted in the interval, and read with him in
the Greek Testament; then, in the piety of his heart, complained of the
sore rebuff he had met with in the course of his religious exhortations to
the poet, and lamented that the latter should indulge in "this loose way of
talking. " "Sir," replied Johnson, "Goldsmith knows nothing--he has made up
his mind about nothing. "
This reply seems to have gratified the lurking jealousy of Boswell, and he
has recorded it in his journal.
course, prepared to be entertained by an absurdity; but their smiles were
wellnigh turned to tears, for he acquitted himself with a skill and pathos
that drew universal applause. He had, in fact, a delicate ear for music,
which had been jarred by the false notes of the ballad-singer; and there
were certain pathetic ballads, associated with recollections of his
childhood, which were sure to touch the springs of his heart. We have
another story of him, connected with ballad-singing, which is still more
characteristic. He was one evening at the house of Sir William Chambers, in
Berners Street, seated at a whist table with Sir William, Lady Chambers,
and Baretti, when all at once he threw down his cards, hurried out of the
room and into the street. He returned in an instant, resumed his seat, and
the game went on. Sir William, after a little hesitation, ventured to ask
the cause of his retreat, fearing he had been overcome by the heat of the
room. "Not at all," replied Goldsmith; "but in truth I could not bear to
hear that unfortunate woman in the street, half singing, half sobbing, for
such tones could only arise from the extremity of distress; her voice
grated painfully on my ear and jarred my frame, so that I could not rest
until I had sent her away. " It was in fact a poor ballad-singer, whose
cracked voice had been heard by others of the party, but without having the
same effect on their sensibilities. It was the reality of his fictitious
scene in the story of the "Man in Black"; wherein he describes a woman in
rags with one child in her arms and another on her back, attempting to sing
ballads, but with such a mournful voice that it was difficult to determine
whether she was singing or crying. "A wretch," he adds, "who, in the
deepest distress, still aimed at good-humor, was an object my friend was by
no means capable of withstanding. " The Man in Black gave the poor woman all
that he had--a bundle of matches. Goldsmith, it is probable, sent his
ballad-singer away rejoicing with all the money in his pocket.
Ranelagh was at that time greatly in vogue as a place of public
entertainment. It was situated near Chelsea; the principal room was a
rotunda of great dimensions, with an orchestra in the center and tiers of
boxes all round. It was a place to which Johnson resorted occasionally. "I
am a great friend to public amusements," said he, "for they keep people
from vice. " [Footnote: "Alas, sir! " said Johnson, speaking, when in another
mood, of grand houses, fine gardens, and splendid places of public
amusement; "alas, sir! these are only struggles for happiness. When I first
entered Ranelagh it gave an expansion and gay sensation to my mind, such as
I never experienced anywhere else. But, as Xerxes wept when he viewed his
immense army, and considered that not one of that great multitude would be
alive a hundred years afterward, so it went to my heart to consider that
there was not one in all that brilliant circle that was not afraid to go
home and think. "] Goldsmith was equally a friend to them, though perhaps
not altogether on such moral grounds. He was particularly fond of
masquerades, which were then exceedingly popular, and got up at Ranelagh
with great expense and magnificence. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who had likewise
a taste for such amusements, was sometimes his companion, at other times he
went alone; his peculiarities of person and manner would soon betray him,
whatever might be his disguise, and he would be singled out by wags,
acquainted with his foibles, and more successful than himself in
maintaining their incognito, as a capital subject to be played upon. Some,
pretending not to know him, would decry his writings, and praise those of
his contemporaries; others would laud his verses to the skies, but
purposely misquote and burlesque them; others would annoy him with
parodies; while one young lady, whom he was teasing, as he supposed, with
great success and infinite humor, silenced his rather boisterous laughter
by quoting his own line about "the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind. "
On one occasion he was absolutely driven out of the house by the
persevering jokes of a wag, whose complete disguise gave him no means of
retaliation.
His name appearing in the newspapers among the distinguished persons
present at one of these amusements, his old enemy, Kenrick, immediately
addressed to him a copy of anonymous verses, to the following purport.
TO DR. GOLDSMITH
ON SEEING HIS NAME IN THE LIST OF MUMMERS AT THE LATE MASQUERADE
"How widely different, Goldsmith, are the ways
Of doctors now, and those of ancient days!
Theirs taught the truth in academic shades,
Ours in lewd hops and midnight masquerades.
So changed the times! say, philosophic sage,
Whose genius suits so well this tasteful age,
Is the Pantheon, late a sink obscene,
Become the fountain of chaste Hippocrene?
Or do thy moral numbers quaintly flow,
Inspired by th' _Aganippe_ of Soho?
Do wisdom's sons gorge cates and vermicelli,
Like beastly Bickerstaffe or bothering Kelly?
Or art thou tired of th' undeserved applause
Bestowed on bards affecting Virtue's cause?
Is this the good that makes the humble vain,
The good philosophy should not disdain?
If so, let pride dissemble all it can,
A modern sage is still much less than man. "
Goldsmith was keenly sensitive to attacks of the kind, and meeting Kenrick
at the Chapter Coffee-house, called him to sharp account for taking such a
liberty with his name, and calling his morals in question, merely on
account of his being seen at a place of general resort and amusement.
Kenrick shuffled and sneaked, protesting that he meant nothing derogatory
to his private character. Goldsmith let him know, however, that he was
aware of his having more than once indulged in attacks of this dastard
kind, and intimated that another such outrage would be followed by personal
chastisement.
Kenrick having played the craven in his presence, avenged himself as soon
as he was gone by complaining of his having made a wanton attack upon him,
and by making coarse comments upon his writings, conversation and person.
The scurrilous satire of Kenrick, however unmerited, may have checked
Goldsmith's taste for masquerades. Sir Joshua Reynolds, calling on the poet
one morning, found him walking about his room in somewhat of a reverie,
kicking a bundle of clothes before him like a football. It proved to be an
expensive masquerade dress, which he said he had been fool enough to
purchase, and as there was no other way of getting the worth of his money,
he was trying to take it out in exercise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
INVITATION TO CHRISTMAS--THE SPRING VELVET COAT--THE HAYMAKING WIG--THE
MISCHANCES OF LOO--THE FAIR CULPRIT--A DANCE WITH THE JESSAMY BRIDE
From the feverish dissipations of town, Goldsmith is summoned away to
partake of the genial dissipations of the country. In the month of
December, a letter from Mrs. Bunbury invites him down to Barton, to pass
the Christmas holidays. The letter is written in the usual playful vein
which marks his intercourse with this charming family. He is to come in his
"smart spring-velvet coat," to bring a new wig to dance with the haymakers
in, and, above all, to follow the advice of herself and her sister (the
Jessamy Bride), in playing loo. This letter, which plays so archly, yet
kindly, with some of poor Goldsmith's peculiarities, and bespeaks such real
ladylike regard for him, requires a word or two of annotation. The
spring-velvet suit alluded to appears to have been a gallant adornment
(somewhat in the style of the famous bloom-colored coat) in which Goldsmith
had figured in the preceding month of May--the season of blossoms--for, on
the 21st of that month we find the following entry in the chronicle of Mr.
William Filby, tailor: _To your blue velvet suit_, £21 10s. 9d. Also,
about the same time, a suit of livery and a crimson collar for the serving
man. Again we hold the Jessamy Bride responsible for this gorgeous splendor
of wardrobe.
The new wig no doubt is a bag-wig and solitaire, still highly the mode, and
in which Goldsmith is represented as figuring when in full dress, equipped
with his sword.
As to the dancing with the haymakers, we presume it alludes to some gambol
of the poet, in the course of his former visit to Barton; when he ranged
the fields and lawns a chartered libertine, and tumbled into the
fish-ponds.
As to the suggestions about loo, they are in sportive allusion to the
doctor's mode of playing that game in their merry evening parties;
affecting the desperate gambler and easy dupe; running counter to all rule;
making extravagant ventures; reproaching all others with cowardice; dashing
at all hazards at the pool, and getting himself completely loo'd, to the
great amusement of the company. The drift of the fair sisters' advice was
most probably to tempt him on, and then leave him in the lurch.
With these comments we subjoin Goldsmith's reply to Mrs. Bunbury, a fine
piece of off-hand, humorous writing, which has but in late years been given
to the public, and which throws a familiar light on the social circle at
Barton.
"Madam--I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candor
could require, but after all find so much to object to, and so much to
raise my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer. I am
not so ignorant, madam, as not to see there are many sarcasms contained in
it, and solecisms also. (Solecism is a word that comes from the town of
Soleis in Attica, among the Greeks, built by Solon, and applied as we use
the word Kidderminster for curtains from a town also of that name--but this
is learning you have no taste for! )--I say, madam, there are many sarcasms
in it, and solecisms also. But not to seem an ill-natured critic, I'll take
leave to quote your own words, and give you my remarks upon them as they
occur. You begin as follows:
"'I hope, my good doctor, you soon will be here,
And your spring-velvet coat very smart will appear,
To open our ball the first day of the year. '
"Pray, madam, where did you ever find the epithet 'good,' applied to the
title of doctor? Had you called me 'learned doctor,' or 'grave doctor,' or
'noble doctor,' it might be allowable, because they belong to the
profession. But, not to cavil at trifles, you talk of 'my spring-velvet
coat,' and advise me to wear it the first day in the year, that is, in the
middle of winter! --a spring-velvet coat in the middle of winter! ! ! That
would be a solecism indeed! and yet to increase the inconsistence, in
another part of your letter you call me a beau. Now, on one side or other
you must be wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of wearing a
spring-velvet in winter; and if I am not a beau, why then, that explains
itself. But let me go on to your two next strange lines:
"'And bring with you a wig, that is modish and gay,
To dance with the girls that are makers of hay. '
"The absurdity of making hay at Christmas you yourself seem sensible of:
you say your sister will laugh; and so indeed she well may! The Latins have
an expression for a contemptuous kind of laughter, 'naso contemnere
adunco'; that is, to laugh with a crooked nose. She may laugh at you in the
manner of the ancients if she thinks fit. But now I come to the most
extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions, which is, to take your and
your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption of the offer raises
my indignation beyond the bounds of prose; it inspires me at once with
verse and resentment. I take advice! and from whom? You shall hear.
"First let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set, and the word to be Loo:
All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fix'd in the center.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn
At never once finding a visit from Pam.
I lay down my stake, apparently cool,
While the harpies about me all pocket the pool.
I fret in my gizzard, yet, cautious and sly,
I wish all my friends may be bolder than I:
Yet still they sit snug, not a creature will aim
By losing their money to venture at fame.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold:
All play their own way, and they think me an ass,. . .
'What does Mrs. Bunbury? ' . . . 'I, Sir? I pass. '
'Pray what does Miss Horneck? take courage, come do,'. . .
'Who, I? let me see, sir, why I must pass too. '
Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the devil,
To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil.
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion,
I venture at all, while my avarice regards
The whole pool as my own. . . 'Come, give me five cards. '
'Well done! ' cry the ladies; 'Ah, doctor, that's good!
The pool's very rich,. . . ah! the doctor is loo'd! '
Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplext,
I ask for advice from the lady that's next:
'Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;
Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twice! '
'I advise,' cries the lady, 'to try it, I own. . . .
Ah! the doctor is loo'd! Come, doctor, put down. '
Thus, playing, and playing, I still grow more eager,
And so bold, and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.
Now, ladies, I ask, if law-matters you're skill'd in,
Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding:
For giving advice that is not worth a straw,
May well be call'd picking of pockets in law;
And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye,
Is, by quinto Elizabeth, Death without Clergy.
What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought!
By the gods, I'll enjoy it, tho' 'tis but in thought!
Both are plac'd at the bar, with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel, and nosegays before 'em;
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,
But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat.
When uncover'd, a buzz of inquiry runs round,
'Pray what are their crimes? '. . . 'They've been pilfering found. '
'But, pray, who have they pilfer'd? '. . . 'A doctor, I hear. '
_'What, yon solemn-faced, odd-looking man that stands near? '_
'The same. '. . . 'What a pity! how does it surprise one,
_Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on! '_
Then their friends all come round me with cringing and leering,
To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing.
First Sir Charles advances with phrases wellstrung,
'Consider, dear doctor, the girls are but young. '
'The younger the worse,' I return him again,
'It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain. '
'But then they're so handsome, one's bosom it grieves.
'What signifies _handsome_, when people are thieves? '
'But where is your justice? their cases are hard. '
'What signifies _justice_? I want the _reward_.
"'There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds; there's the parish of
St. Leonard Shoreditch offers forty pounds; there's the parish of Tyburn,
from the Hog-in-the-pound to St. Giles' watch-house, offers forty pounds--I
shall have all that if I convict them! '--
"'But consider their case,. . . it may yet be your own!
And see how they kneel! Is your heart made of stone! '
This moves! . . . so at last I agree to relent,
For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent. '
"I challenge you all to answer this: I tell you, you cannot. It cuts deep.
But now for the rest of the letter: and next--but I want room--so I believe
I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I don't value you
all!
"O. G. "
We regret that we have no record of this Christmas visit to Barton; that
the poet had no Boswell to follow at his heels, and take note of all his
sayings and doings. We can only picture him in our minds, casting off all
care; enacting the lord of misrule; presiding at the Christmas revels;
providing all kinds of merriment; keeping the card-table in an uproar, and
finally opening the ball on the first day of the year in his spring-velvet
suit, with the Jessamy Bride for a partner.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THEATRICAL DELAYS--NEGOTIATIONS WITH COLMAN--LETTER TO GARRICK--CROAKING OF
THE MANAGER--NAMING OF THE PLAY--SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER--FOOTE'S PRIMITIVE
PUPPET-SHOW, PIETY ON PATTENS--FIRST PERFORMANCE OF THE COMEDY--AGITATION
OF THE AUTHOR--SUCCESS--COLMAN SQUIBBED OUT OF TOWN
The gay life depicted in the two last chapters, while it kept Goldsmith in
a state of continual excitement, aggravated the malady which was impairing
his constitution; yet his increasing perplexities in money matters drove
him to the dissipation of society as a relief from solitary care. The
delays of the theater added to those perplexities. He had long since
finished his new comedy, yet the year 1772 passed away without his being
able to get it on the stage. No one, uninitiated in the interior of a
theater, that little world of traps and trickery, can have any idea of the
obstacles and perplexities multiplied in the way of the most eminent and
successful author by the mismanagement of managers, the jealousies and
intrigues of rival authors, and the fantastic and impertinent caprices of
actors. A long and baffling negotiation was carried on between Goldsmith
and Colman, the manager of Covent Garden; who retained the play in his
hands until the middle of January (1773), without coming to a decision. The
theatrical season was rapidly passing away, and Goldsmith's pecuniary
difficulties were augmenting and pressing on him. We may judge of his
anxiety by the following letter:
"_To George Colman, Esq. _
"DEAR SIR--I entreat you'll relieve me from that state of suspense in which
I have been kept for a long time. Whatever objections you have made or
shall make to my play, I will endeavor to remove and not argue about them.
To bring in any new judges, either of its merits or faults, I can never
submit to. Upon a former occasion, when my other play was before Mr.
Garrick, he offered to bring me before Mr. Whitehead's tribunal, but I
refused the proposal with indignation: I hope I shall not experience as
harsh treatment from you as from him. I have, as you know, a large sum of
money to make up shortly; by accepting my play, I can readily satisfy my
creditor that way; at any rate, I must look about to some certainty to be
prepared. For God's sake take the play, and let us make the best of it, and
let me have the same measure, at least, which you have given as bad plays
as mine. I am your friend and servant,
"OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "
Colman returned the manuscript with the blank sides of the leaves scored
with disparaging comments and suggested alterations, but with the
intimation that the faith of the theater should be kept, and the play acted
notwithstanding. Goldsmith submitted the criticisms to some of his friends,
who pronounced them trivial, unfair, and contemptible, and intimated that
Colman, being a dramatic writer himself, might be actuated by jealousy. The
play was then sent, with Colman's comments written on it, to Garrick; but
he had scarce sent it when Johnson interfered, represented the evil that
might result from an apparent rejection of it by Covent Garden, and
undertook to go forthwith to Colman, and have a talk with him on the
subject. Goldsmith, therefore, penned the following note to Garrick:
"DEAR SIR--I ask many pardons for the trouble I gave you yesterday.
Upon
more mature deliberation, and the advice of a sensible friend, I began to
think it indelicate in me to throw upon you the odium of confirming Mr.
Colman's sentence. I therefore request you will send my play back by my
servant; for, having been assured of having it acted at the other house,
though I confess yours in every respect more to my wish, yet it would be
folly in me to forego an advantage which lies in my power of appealing from
Mr. Colman's opinion to the judgment of the town. I entreat, if not too
late, you will keep this affair a secret for some time.
"I am, dear sir, your very humble servant,
"OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "
The negotiation of Johnson with the manager of Covent Garden was effective.
"Colman," he says, "was prevailed on at last, by much solicitation, nay, a
kind of force," to bring forward the comedy. Still the manager was
ungenerous; or, at least, indiscreet enough to express his opinion, that it
would not reach a second representation. The plot, he said, was bad, and
the interest not sustained; "it dwindled, and dwindled, and at last went
out like the snuff of a candle. " The effect of his croaking was soon
apparent within the walls of the theater. Two of the most popular actors,
Woodward and Gentleman Smith, to whom the parts of Tony Lumpkin and Young
Marlow were assigned, refused to act them; one of them alleging, in excuse,
the evil predictions of the manager. Goldsmith was advised to postpone the
performance of his play until he could get these important parts well
supplied. "No," said he, "I would sooner that my play were damned by bad
players than merely saved by good acting. "
Quick was substituted for Woodward in Tony Lumpkin, and Lee Lewis, the
harlequin of the theater, for Gentleman Smith in Young Marlow; and both did
justice to their parts.
Great interest was taken by Goldsmith's friends in the success of his
piece. The rehearsals were attended by Johnson, Cradock, Murphy, Reynolds
and his sister, and the whole Horneck connection, including, of course, the
"Jessamy Bride," whose presence may have contributed to flutter the anxious
heart of the author. The rehearsals went off with great applause, but that
Colman attributed to the partiality of friends. He continued to croak, and
refused to risk any expense in new scenery or dresses on a play which he
was sure would prove a failure.
The time was at hand for the first representation, and as yet the comedy
was without a title. "We are all in labor for a name for Goldy's play,"
said Johnson, who, as usual, took a kind of fatherly protecting interest in
poor Goldsmith's affairs. The Old House a New Inn was thought of for a
time, but still did not please. Sir Joshua Reynolds proposed The Belle's
Stratagem, an elegant title, but not considered applicable, the
perplexities of the comedy being produced by the mistake of the hero, not
the stratagem of the heroine. The name was afterward adopted by Mrs. Cowley
for one of her comedies. The Mistakes of a Night was the title at length
fixed upon, to which Goldsmith prefixed the words She Stoops to Conquer.
The evil bodings of Colman still continued; they were even communicated in
the box office to the servant of the Duke of Gloucester, who was sent to
engage a box. Never did the play of a popular writer struggle into
existence through more difficulties.
In the meantime Foote's Primitive Puppet-show, entitled the Handsome
Housemaid, or Piety on Pattens, had been brought out at the Haymarket on
the 15th of February. All the world, fashionable and unfashionable, had
crowded to the theater. The street was thronged with equipages--the doors
were stormed by the mob. The burlesque was completely successful, and
sentimental comedy received its quietus. Even Garrick, who had recently
befriended it, now gave it a kick, as he saw it going down hill, and sent
Goldsmith a humorous prologue to help his comedy of the opposite school.
Garrick and Goldsmith, however, were now on very cordial terms, to which
the social meetings in the circle of the Hornecks and Bunburys may have
contributed.
On the 15th of March the new comedy was to be performed. Those who had
stood up for its merits, and been irritated and disgusted by the treatment
it had received from the manager, determined to muster their forces, and
aid in giving it a good launch upon the town. The particulars of this
confederation, and of its triumphant success, are amusingly told by
Cumberland in his memoirs.
"We were not over-sanguine of success, but perfectly determined to struggle
hard for our author. We accordingly assembled our strength at the
Shakespeare Tavern, in a considerable body, for an early dinner, where
Samuel Johnson took the chair at the head of a long table, and was the life
and soul of the corps: the poet took post silently by his side, with the
Burkes, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Fitzherbert, Caleb Whitefoord, and a phalanx
of North British, predetermined applauders, under the banner of Major
Mills, all good men and true. Our illustrious president was in inimitable
glee; and poor Goldsmith that day took all his raillery as patiently and
complacently as my friend Boswell would have done any day or every day of
his life. In the meantime, we did not forget our duty; and though we had a
better comedy going, in which Johnson was chief actor, we betook ourselves
in good time to our separate and allotted posts, and waited the awful
drawing up of the curtain. As our stations were preconcerted, so were our
signals for plaudits arranged and determined upon in a manner that gave
every one his cue where to look for them, and how to follow them up.
"We had among us a very worthy and efficient member, long since lost to his
friends and the world at large, Adam Drummond, of amiable memory, who was
gifted by nature with the most sonorous, and, at the same time, the most
contagious laugh that ever echoed from the human lungs. The neighing of the
horse of the son of Hystaspes was a whisper to it; the whole thunder of the
theater could not drown it. This kind and ingenious friend fairly
forewarned us that he knew no more when to give his fire than the cannon
did that was planted on a battery. He desired, therefore, to have a flapper
at his elbow, and I had the honor to be deputed to that office. I planted
him in an upper box, pretty nearly over the stage, in full view of the pit
and galleries, and perfectly well situated to give the echo all its play
through the hollows and recesses of the theater. The success of our
maneuver was complete. All eyes were upon Johnson, who sat in a front row
of a side box; and when he laughed, everybody thought themselves warranted
to roar. In the meantime, my friend followed signals with a rattle so
irresistibly comic that, when he had repeated it several times, the
attention of the spectators was so engrossed by his person and performances
that the progress of the play seemed likely to become a secondary object,
and I found it prudent to insinuate to him that he might halt his music
without any prejudice to the author; but alas! it was now too late to rein
him in; he had laughed upon my signal where he found no joke, and now,
unluckily, he fancied that he found a joke in almost everything that was
said; so that nothing in nature could be more malapropos than some of his
bursts every now and then were. These were dangerous moments, for the pit
began to take umbrage; but we carried our point through, and triumphed not
only over Colman's judgment, but our own. "
Much of this statement has been condemned as exaggerated or discolored.
Cumberland's memoirs have generally been characterized as partaking of
romance, and in the present instance he had particular motives for
tampering with the truth. He was a dramatic writer himself, jealous of the
success of a rival, and anxious to have it attributed to the private
management of friends. According to various accounts, public and private,
such management was unnecessary, for the piece was "received throughout
with the greatest acclamations. "
Goldsmith, in the present instance, had not dared, as on a former occasion,
to be present at the first performance. He had been so overcome by his
apprehensions that, at the preparatory dinner he could hardly utter a word,
and was so choked that he could not swallow a mouthful. When his friends
trooped to the theater, he stole away to St. James' Park: there he was
found by a friend between seven and eight o'clock, wandering up and down
the Mall like a troubled spirit. With difficulty he was persuaded to go to
the theater, where his presence might be important should any alteration be
necessary. He arrived at the opening of the fifth act, and made his way
behind the scenes. Just as he entered there was a slight hiss at the
improbability of Tony Lumpkin's trick on his mother, in persuading her she
was forty miles off, on Crackskull Common, though she had been trundled
about on her own grounds. "What's that? what's that! " cried Goldsmith to
the manager, in great agitation. "Pshaw! doctor," replied Colman,
sarcastically, "don't be frightened at a squib, when we've been sitting
these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder! " Though of a most forgiving
nature Goldsmith did not easily forget this ungracious and ill-timed sally.
If Colman was indeed actuated by the paltry motives ascribed to him in his
treatment of this play, he was most amply punished by its success, and by
the taunts, epigrams, and censures leveled at him through the press, in
which his false prophecies were jeered at; his critical judgment called in
question; and he was openly taxed with literary jealousy. So galling and
unremitting was the fire, that he at length wrote to Goldsmith, entreating
him "to take him off the rack of the newspapers"; in the meantime, to
escape the laugh that was raised about him in the theatrical world of
London, he took refuge in Bath during the triumphant career of the comedy.
The following is one of the many squibs which assailed the ears of the
manager:
TO GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.
ON THE SUCCESS OF DR. GOLDSMITH'S NEW COMEDY
"Come, Coley, doff those mourning weeds,
Nor thus with jokes be flamm'd;
Tho' Goldsmith's present play succeeds,
His next may still be damn'd.
"As this has 'scaped without a fall,
To sink his next prepare;
New actors hire from Wapping Wall,
And dresses from Rag Fair.
"For scenes let tatter'd blankets fly,
The prologue Kelly write;
Then swear again the piece must die
Before the author's night.
"Should these tricks fail, the lucky elf,
To bring to lasting shame,
E'en write _the best you can yourself_,
And print it in _his name_. "
The solitary hiss, which had startled Goldsmith, was ascribed by some of
the newspaper scribblers to Cumberland himself, who was "manifestly
miserable" at the delight of the audience, or to Ossian Macpherson, who was
hostile to the whole Johnson clique, or to Goldsmith's dramatic rival,
Kelly. The following is one of the epigrams which appeared:
"At Dr. Goldsmith's merry play,
All the spectators laugh, they say;
The assertion, sir, I must deny,
For Cumberland and Kelly cry.
"_Ride, si sapis_. "
Another, addressed to Goldsmith, alludes to Kelly's early apprenticeship to
stay-making:
"If Kelly finds fault with the _shape_ of your muse,
And thinks that too loosely it plays,
He surely, dear doctor, will never refuse
To make it a new _Pair of Stays_! "
Cradock had returned to the country before the production of the play; the
following letter, written just after the performance, gives an additional
picture of the thorns which beset an author in the path of theatrical
literature:
"MY DEAR SIR--The play has met with a success much beyond your expectations
or mine. I thank you sincerely for your epilogue, which, however, could not
be used, but with your permission shall be printed. The story in short is
this. Murphy sent me rather the outline of an epilogue than an epilogue,
which was to be sung by Miss Catley, and which she approved; Mrs. Bulkley
hearing this, insisted on throwing up her part" (Miss Hardcastle) "unless,
according to the custom of the theater, she were permitted to speak the
epilogue. In this embarrassment I thought of making a quarreling epilogue
between Catley and her, debating _who_ should speak the epilogue; but
then Mrs. Catley refused after I had taken the trouble of drawing it out. I
was then at a loss indeed; an epilogue was to be made, and for none but
Mrs. Bulkley. I made one, and Colman thought it too bad to be spoken; I was
obliged, therefore, to try a fourth time, and I made a very mawkish thing,
as you'll shortly see. Such is the history of my stage adventures, and
which I have at last done with. I cannot help saying that I am very sick of
the stage; and though I believe I shall get three tolerable benefits, yet I
shall, on the whole, be a loser, even in a pecuniary light; my ease and
comfort I certainly lost while it was in agitation.
"I am, my dear Cradock, your obliged and obedient servant, OLIVER
GOLDSMITH.
"P. S. --Present my most humble respects to Mrs. Cradock. "
Johnson, who had taken such a conspicuous part in promoting the interests
of poor "Goldy," was triumphant at the success of the piece. "I know of no
comedy for many years," said he, "that has so much exhilarated an audience;
that has answered so much the great end of comedy--making an audience
merry. "
Goldsmith was happy, also, in gleaning applause from less authoritative
sources. Northcote, the painter, then a youthful pupil of Sir Joshua
Reynolds; and Ralph, Sir Joshua's confidential man, had taken their
stations in the gallery to lead the applause in that quarter. Goldsmith
asked Northcote's opinion of the play. The youth modestly declared he could
not presume to judge in such matters. "Did it make you laugh? " "Oh.
exceedingly! " "That is all I require," replied Goldsmith; and rewarded him
for his criticism by box-tickets for his first benefit night.
The comedy was immediately put to press, and dedicated to Johnson in the
following grateful and affectionate terms:
"In inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to
compliment you as myself. It may do me some honor to inform the public that
I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of
mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a
character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. "
The copyright was transferred to Mr. Newbery, according to agreement, whose
profits on the sale of the work far exceeded the debts for which the author
in his perplexities had pre-engaged it. The sum which accrued to Goldsmith
from his benefit nights afforded but a slight palliation of his pecuniary
difficulties. His friends, while they exulted in his success, little knew
of his continually increasing embarrassments, and of the anxiety of mind
which kept tasking his pen while it impaired the ease and freedom of spirit
necessary to felicitous composition.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A NEWSPAPER ATTACK--THE EVANS AFFRAY--JOHNSON'S COMMENT
The triumphant success of She Stoops to Conquer brought forth, of course,
those carpings and cavilings of underling scribblers which are the thorns
and briers in the path of successful authors.
Goldsmith, though easily nettled by attacks of the kind, was at present too
well satisfied with the reception of his comedy to heed them; but the
following anonymous letter, which appeared in a public paper, was not to be
taken with equal equanimity:
[FOR THE LONDON PACKET. ]
"TO DR. GOLDSMITH.
"_Vous vous noyez par vanité_.
"SIR--The happy knack which you have learned of puffing your own
compositions, provokes me to come forth. You have not been the editor of
newspapers and magazines not to discover the trick of literary
_humbug_; but the gauze is so thin that the very foolish part of the
world see through it, and discover the doctor's monkey face and cloven
foot. Your poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. Would man
believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told that for hours the great
Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque orang-outang's figure in a
pier-glass? Was but the lovely H--k as much enamored, you would not sigh,
my gentle swain, in vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will this
same bard of Bedlam ring the changes in the praise of Goldy! But what has
he to be either proud or vain of? The Traveler is a flimsy poem, built upon
false principles--principles diametrically opposite to liberty. What is The
Good-Natured Man but a poor, water-gruel dramatic dose? What is The
Deserted Village but a pretty poem of easy numbers, without fancy, dignity,
genius, or fire? And, pray, what may be the last _speaking pantomime_,
so praised by the doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of stuff, the
figure of a woman with a fish's tail, without plot, incident, or intrigue?
We are made to laugh at stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry
for wit, and grimace for humor; wherein every scene is unnatural and
inconsistent with the rules, the laws of nature and of the drama; viz. , two
gentlemen come to a man of fortune's house, eat, drink, etc. , and take it
for an inn. The one is intended as a lover for the daughter; he talks with
her for some hours; and, when he sees her again in a different dress, he
treats her as a bar-girl, and swears she squinted. He abuses the master of
the house, and threatens to kick him out of his own doors. The squire, whom
we are told is to be a fool, proves to be the most sensible being of the
piece; and he makes out a whole act by bidding his mother lie close behind
a bush, persuading her that his father, her own husband, is a highwayman,
and that he has come to cut their throats; and, to give his cousin an
opportunity to go off, he drives his mother over hedges, ditches, and
through ponds. There is not, sweet, sucking Johnson, a natural stroke in
the whole play but the young fellow's giving the stolen jewels to the
mother, supposing her to be the landlady. That Mr. Colman did no justice to
this piece, I honestly allow; that he told all his friends it would be
damned, I positively aver; and, from such ungenerous insinuations, without
a dramatic merit, it rose to public notice, and it is now the ton to go and
see it, though I never saw a person that either liked it or approved it,
any more than the absurd plot of Home's tragedy of Alonzo. Mr. Goldsmith,
correct your arrogance, reduce your vanity, and endeavor to believe, as a
man, you are of the plainest sort; and as an author, but a mortal piece of
mediocrity.
"Brise le miroir infidèle
Qui vous cache la vérité.
"TOM TICKLE. "
It would be difficult to devise a letter more calculated to wound the
peculiar sensibilities of Goldsmith. The attacks upon him as an author,
though annoying enough, he could have tolerated; but then the allusion to
his "grotesque" person, to his studious attempts to adorn it; and, above
all, to his being an unsuccessful admirer of the lovely H--k (the Jessamy
Bride), struck rudely upon the most sensitive part of his highly sensitive
nature. The paragraph, it was said, was first pointed out to him by an
officious friend, an Irishman, who told him he was bound in honor to resent
it; but he needed no such prompting. He was in a high state of excitement
and indignation, and accompanied by his friend, who is said to have been a
Captain Higgins, of the marines, he repaired to Paternoster Row, to the
shop of Evans, the publisher, whom he supposed to be the editor of the
paper. Evans was summoned by his shopman from an adjoining room. Goldsmith
announced his name. "I have called," added he, "in consequence of a
scurrilous attack made upon me, and an unwarrantable liberty taken with the
name of a young lady. As for myself, I care little; but her name must not
be sported with. "
Evans professed utter ignorance of the matter, and said he would speak to
the editor. He stooped to examine a file of the paper, in search of the
offensive article; whereupon Goldsmith's friend gave him a signal, that now
was a favorable moment for the exercise of his cane. The hint was taken as
quick as given, and the cane was vigorously applied to the back of the
stooping publisher. The latter rallied in an instant, and, being a stout,
high-blooded Welshman, returned the blows with interest. A lamp hanging
overhead was broken, and sent down a shower of oil upon the combatants; but
the battle raged with unceasing fury. The shopman ran off for a constable;
but Dr. Kenrick, who happened to be in the adjacent room, sallied forth,
interfered between the combatants, and put an end to the affray. He
conducted Goldsmith to a coach, in exceedingly battered and tattered
plight, and accompanied him home, soothing him with much mock
commiseration, though he was generally suspected, and on good grounds, to
be the author of the libel.
Evans immediately instituted a suit against Goldsmith for an assault, but
was ultimately prevailed upon to compromise the matter, the poet
contributing fifty pounds to the Welsh charity.
Newspapers made themselves, as may well be supposed, exceedingly merry with
the combat. Some censured him severely for invading the sanctity of a man's
own house; others accused him of having, in his former capacity of editor
of a magazine, been guilty of the very offenses that he now resented in
others. This drew from him the following vindication:
"_To the Public_.
"Lest it should be supposed that I have been willing to correct in others
an abuse of which I have been guilty myself, I beg leave to declare, that,
in all my life, I never wrote or dictated a single paragraph, letter, or
essay in a newspaper, except a few moral essays under the character of a
Chinese, about ten years ago, in the 'Ledger,' and a letter, to which I
signed my name in the 'St. James' Chronicle. ' If the liberty of the press,
therefore, has been abused, I have had no hand in it.
"I have always considered the press as the protector of our freedom, as a
watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak against the encroachments of
power. What concerns the public most properly admits of a public
discussion. But, of late, the press has turned from defending public
interest to making inroads upon private life; from combating the strong to
overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure for its abuse, and
the protector has become the tyrant of the people. In this manner the
freedom of the press is beginning to sow the seeds of its own dissolution;
the great must oppose it from principle, and the weak from fear; till at
last every rank of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, content
with security from insults.
"How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are
indiscriminately abused, and by which vice consequently escapes in the
general censure, I am unable to tell; all I could wish is that, as the law
gives us no protection against the injury, so it should give calumniators
no shelter after having provoked correction. The insults which we receive
before the public, by being more open, are the more distressing; by
treating them with silent contempt we do not pay a sufficient deference to
the opinion of the world. By recurring to legal redress we too often expose
the weakness of the law, which only serves to increase our mortification by
failing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider himself
as the guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his influence
can extend, should endeavor to prevent its licentiousness becoming at last
the grave of its freedom.
"OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "
Boswell, who had just arrived in town, met with this article in a newspaper
which he found at Dr. Johnson's. The doctor was from home at the time, and
Bozzy and Mrs. Williams, in a critical conference over the letter,
determined from the style that it must have been written by the
lexicographer himself. The latter on his return soon undeceived them.
"Sir," said he to Boswell, "Goldsmith would no more have asked me to have
wrote such a thing as that for him than he would have asked me to feed him
with a spoon, or do anything else that denoted his imbecility. Sir, had he
shown it to any one friend, he would not have been allowed to publish it.
He has, indeed, done it very well; but it is a foolish thing well done. I
suppose he has been so much elated with the success of his new comedy that
he has thought everything that concerned him must be of importance to the
public. "
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
BOSWELL IN HOLY WEEK--DINNER AT OGLETHORPE'S--DINNER AT PAOLI'S--THE
POLICY OF TRUTH--GOLDSMITH AFFECTS INDEPENDENCE OF ROYALTY--PAOLI'S
COMPLIMENT--JOHNSON'S EULOGIUM ON THE FIDDLE--QUESTION ABOUT
SUICIDE--BOSWELL'S SUBSERVIENCY
The return of Boswell to town to his task of noting down the conversations
of Johnson enables us to glean from his journal some scanty notices of
Goldsmith. It was now Holy Week, a time during which Johnson was
particularly solemn in his manner and strict in his devotions. Boswell, who
was the imitator of the great moralist in everything, assumed, of course,
an extra devoutness on the present occasion. "He had an odd mock solemnity
of tone and manner," said Miss Burney (afterward Madame D'Arblay), "which
he had acquired from constantly thinking, and imitating Dr. Johnson. " It
would seem, that he undertook to deal out some secondhand homilies, _à la
Johnson_, for the edification of Goldsmith during Holy Week. The poet,
whatever might be his religious feeling, had no disposition to be schooled
by so shallow an apostle. "Sir," said he in reply, "as I take my shoes from
the shoemaker, and my coat from the tailor, so I take my religion from the
priest. "
Boswell treasured up the reply in his memory or his memorandum book. A few
days afterward, the 9th of April, he kept Good Friday with Dr. Johnson, in
orthodox style; breakfasted with him on tea and crossbuns; went to church
with him morning and evening; fasted in the interval, and read with him in
the Greek Testament; then, in the piety of his heart, complained of the
sore rebuff he had met with in the course of his religious exhortations to
the poet, and lamented that the latter should indulge in "this loose way of
talking. " "Sir," replied Johnson, "Goldsmith knows nothing--he has made up
his mind about nothing. "
This reply seems to have gratified the lurking jealousy of Boswell, and he
has recorded it in his journal.
