No More Learning

He was one of a numerous family,
of whom he alone attained celebrity. His father, the Rev. Charles
Goldsmith, a clergyman of the Established Church, was in very poor
circumstances at the time of the birth of his famous son; but little
Oliver was only two years old when the sunshine of prosperity descended
upon his house, with what must have appeared to the inmates quite a
blaze of noonday splendour. The small income of forty pounds a-year,
upon which the Rev. Charles Goldsmith had managed painfully and
penuriously to struggle on with his family, was suddenly increased to
two hundred, when the rectory of Kilkenny-west was obtained by that
fortunate divine; and the Goldsmiths removed to Lissoy, near Athlone.

The Rev. Charles Goldsmith seems to have possessed, in a very large
degree, certain traits of character by which all the Goldsmiths were
more or less distinguished. Almost culpably careless in worldly matters,
his easy good-nature and kindly generous disposition frequently made him
the dupe of the designing and ungrateful. Himself incapable of cunning
and deceit, he imagined that all men were frank and open. The last man
in the world to take an unfair advantage of his neighbour, he never
suspected that any man could possibly take advantage of him. Goldsmith
himself under the guise of the Man in Black, gives us an insight into
affairs at the Rectory in these early days. "My father's education," the
Man in Black tells us, "was above his fortune, and his generosity
greater than his education. " Then we hear of numerous guests entertained
at the hospitable parson's table, and paying for their dinner by
laughing at the host's oft-repeated jests and time-honoured anecdotes.
"He told the story of the ivy tree, and that was laughed at; he repeated
the jest of the two scholars and one pair of breeches, and the company
laughed at that; but the story of Taffy in the sedan chair was sure to
set the table in a roar; thus his pleasure increased in proportion to
the pleasure he gave; he loved all the world; and he fancied all the
world loved him. We were told that universal benevolence was what first
cemented society; we were taught to consider all the wants of mankind as
our own; to regard the human face divine with affection and esteem; he
wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us incapable of
withstanding the slightest impulse made either by real or fictitious
distress; in a word, we were perfectly instructed in the art of giving
away thousands before we were taught the more necessary qualifications
of getting a farthing. "

[Illustration:

_The Man in Black_—(_Citizen of the World. _)
]


In fact, this inimitable Man in Black, who appears as one of the
characters in Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," is, in many respects,
a counterpart of Goldsmith himself. Like our author, he is overreached
by every knave, and an object of contemptuous pity to all the worldly
wise. He tries one position after another, and fails in each, chiefly
through his honesty and credulity. He cannot succeed as follower to a
great man, because he will not flatter where he disapproves; he loses
his mistress because he believes her sincere when she expresses
admiration of him, and detestation of his rival's high-heeled shoes.
Everywhere he is snubbed and elbowed away by men more versed than
himself in the ways of the world; but, like Goldsmith again, he has an
easy, good-humoured philosophy, that carries him gaily through trials
and troubles that would have swamped other men. As he cannot be rich and
happy, he resolves to be poor and contented. He does not "invoke gods
and men to see him dining upon a ha'porth of radishes;" but rather tries
to persuade himself and others that a vegetable diet suits him. And he
has his reward in the verdict universally pronounced upon him—that he
"is very good-natured, and has not the least harm in him. "

On a lad of ordinary disposition, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith's peculiar
ideas would, perhaps, have had little effect. The small world of the
school-room, and the larger world in which he would afterwards have to
play his part, could scarcely fail to teach him to distinguish between
real and fictitious distress, and to give him the prudence which makes
charity begin at home, and, indeed, too often causes it to end there.
But the Goldsmiths were not ordinary people. Warm-hearted, and of large
sympathy—anxious to relieve the distress of all who sued to them for
aid—they were the very persons whom the prudent and prosperous are ever
holding up to ridicule, as dupes and simpletons, utterly deficient in
wisdom—as though there existed no other than _worldly_ wisdom; as though
"our being's end and aim" were the attainment of wealth. And here, at
the very outset, we come upon the cause of many of the troubles and
cares that beset Oliver Goldsmith throughout his entire career. His
kindly nature led him to relieve distress wherever he found it; and, as
his disposition became known, there is no doubt that distress—real and
feigned—sought him out pertinaciously enough.

The words he wrote of his brother Henry, the benevolent
clergyman—"passing rich on forty pounds a year"—and whose "pride" was to
"relieve the wretched," might be equally applied to himself. When
applicants for succour came to him—

"Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began. "

But the wish to relieve was so largely in excess of the power, that
frequently when Justice called to present a claim for payment Generosity
had been beforehand, and had carried away the money; and Justice had to
wait, or, alas, in too many cases, to go away unsatisfied. Thus the most
humiliating position in which Goldsmith was ever placed in the days of
his direst poverty, arose from his hastily obeying an impulse to relieve
the landlord of his miserable lodgings, who had been arrested for debt,
and whose wife came to Goldsmith, weeping and wringing her hands.
Thinking only how he could liberate the poor man by the only means in
his power, the poet rushed off and pledged some books, and a suit of
clothes, procured on the credit of Ralph Griffiths, a bookseller, that
Goldsmith might appear decently at an examination, which he failed to
pass, and dire was the wrath of Griffiths on the occasion.

The young days of Oliver Goldsmith offer nothing very remarkable to
record. He was considered a dull boy by his first instructors, though
there are indications at times of poetical talent. One of his sisters
married a gentleman of fortune of the name of Hodson, to whom Henry
Goldsmith, Oliver's eldest brother, was tutor. In order that his
daughter might not enter this family without a suitable marriage
portion, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith made a sacrifice, which, while it
impoverished the whole family, was peculiarly detrimental to the
fortunes of Oliver. He executed a bond, pledging himself to pay four
hundred pounds as the marriage portion of his daughter Catherine. The
immediate effect of this proceeding was that Oliver was obliged to
enter, in the humblest possible manner, upon the college career he was
about to commence. On the 11th of June, 1745, Oliver Goldsmith was
admitted as a sizar of Trinity College, Dublin.

Very wretched and very unsatisfactory was his life at that seat of
learning. The menial duties exacted in return for the reduced expense of
the sizar's education disgusted him. The brutalities of his tutor
Wilder, a man at once ferocious and pedantic, and totally unable to
appreciate the young scholar's genius, caused him the keenest
mortification; and to these ills were added the grinding poverty with
which he now first became familiar; a poverty occasionally alleviated by
gifts from his uncle, the Rev. Mr. Contarine, a truly kind-hearted and
benevolent man, to whom our poet was bound to the last by ties of
affectionate gratitude. Now also his father died, and his necessities
became greater than ever. We hear of him, writing ballads, and selling
the copyrights at five shillings each; then stealing out at night to
hear these, the earliest efforts of his muse, sung through the streets.

A small triumph, in the shape of an exhibition, worth some thirty
shillings, induced the young awkward student to give a very humble kind
of ball at his rooms. To this ball came an unexpected visitor in the
shape of Wilder the tutor, who put the guests to flight, and publicly
beat the host. Smarting under the disgrace, Goldsmith quitted the
college, and was only induced, after a time, to return by the
persuasions of his brother Henry, who brought about a reconciliation, or
rather a truce, between Oliver and his tyrant. On the 27th of February,
1749, he obtained his B. A. degree, and, returning home, remained for a
time idle and unemployed, looking out for the chance of a career. He
presented himself for ordination and was refused; was a tutor in a
private family, and left in consequence of a quarrel; was furnished with
funds by Uncle Contarine to study law, lost his money, and appeared
again at home destitute. At length, with some last assistance from the
friendly uncle's purse, he started on a tour through Europe; travelling,
not like the majority of British tourists in coach and on horseback, but
on foot and alone, making his way from place to place, and studying men
rather than science. Important, and rich in results for his whole future
life, was this remarkable journey. And, among the most memorable of its
effects was, that it suggested the poem of the "Traveller. " Marvellously
true were the views taken by the poor student of the various lands
through which he passed; and remarkable were the words in which, in one
of his early essays, he predicted the change that was coming upon
France. Clearly and distinctly he heard the first far-off mutterings of
the great revolutionary storm. He saw the growth and spread of the
spirit of freedom among the people, and while others cried "peace" when
there was no peace, he distinctly and clearly foresaw the great crash of
revolution that was coming.

Early in the year 1756 Oliver Goldsmith found himself alone in London.
He was in his twenty-eighth year—without a profession, almost utterly
friendless, and destitute of all means of subsistence. Of this part of
his life he could be scarcely ever induced to speak in his later and
happier days; but here and there we get a glimpse which shows us that it
must have been dreary in the extreme. At Sir Joshua Reynolds's he once
startled the company by commencing an anecdote with "When I lived among
the beggars in Axe Lane;" and there is something very significant in the
way in which the pangs of starvation are described in his "Natural
History. " He must have felt those pangs himself to describe them so
graphically.

By various means he made a shift to live. At one time he pounded drugs
for an apothecary near London Bridge; at another, he attempted to
practise physic amongst the poorest of the poor. Now we find him
correcting press proofs for a printer; and now he is settled for a time
as usher in Dr. Milner's boys' school at Peckham. We have a picture of
him here, drawn by Miss Milner, the principal's daughter. He is
described as exceedingly good-natured, always ready to amuse the boys
with his flute, giving away his money, or spending it in tarts and
sweetmeats for the boys as soon as he received it, and generally
recommending himself by his amiability and kindliness of heart. But
Goldsmith himself considered this servitude at the Peckham Academy as
the most dreary period of his life. The position of an usher was at that
time, if possible, worse than it is now; and the mortifications he
experienced at Peckham helped to throw a shadow over his later life.

But on a certain day in April, 1757, Ralph Griffiths, a prosperous
London bookseller, dined at Peckham, with the Milners. He was the
proprietor of a critical magazine; and, as the conversation turned on
the literature of the day, Griffiths became aware that the remarks made
by the poor usher were not those of an ordinary man. He took him aside,
and asked if he would undertake to write some literary notices and
reviews. The offer was accepted, as was also the very moderate salary
Griffiths offered in return for the daily services of the writer; and
thus at last Goldsmith was fairly started in authorship, and beginning
to serve his apprenticeship to letters.

A dreary apprenticeship it was. Griffiths, and Griffiths' wife, ruled
over their "hack" author with a rod of iron; curtailed his leisure,
carped at the amount of "work" done, and ruthlessly altered his
articles. He began with some reviews, which, for their elegance of
style, facility of expression, and gracefulness of fancy, must have
astonished the readers of the ordinarily dull and common-place "Monthly
Review. " Soon, however, the tyranny of the Griffiths pair became
intolerable; a quarrel ensued, and the connexion between master and
servant was broken off. Goldsmith established himself in a garret in a
court near Fleet Street, and began the almost hopeless attempt to
support himself independently by miscellaneous writing.

Very hard and bitter was the struggle through which he had to pass; and
now and then he made efforts to emancipate himself entirely from the
thraldom of literature. Indeed, we even find him once more at his desk
at Dr. Milner's school, at Peckham. He obtained an appointment as
medical officer in the East India Company's service on the Coromandel
coast, but lost it, probably through inability to pay his passage and
procure the necessary outfit. Then, as a last resource, he presented
himself for examination at Surgeons' Hall, intending to become a
"hospital mate;" but was rejected, as the books of the society record,
as "not qualified. " Thus, perforce driven back to literature, he girded
himself up manfully for the struggle; and gradually the dawn of a better
day began to break. The long and hard battle he had fought had at length
produced one gain for him. He was known to the bookselling fraternity;
and, as they would have phrased it, "his value in the market began to
rise. " A number of new magazines were started simultaneously, and the
proprietors were naturally anxious to secure the services of Goldsmith's
graceful pen. We find him writing for several magazines at once, and
receiving a respectable price for his work. Thus, with the year 1759,
the shadow of squalid poverty and grinding want passes away from
Goldsmith's life. Happy would it have been for him had his distresses
taught him prudence. But the prosperity came too late. His habits were
formed; the unfortunate custom of living from hand to mouth, of flying
from the thoughts of the dark future by heedless indulgence in any
pleasure that could be snatched in the present—the inveterate
disposition to alternate periods of over-work with intervals of thorough
inaction—these were the marks which the hard conflict had left upon
him—wounds which were seared over, indeed, but never thoroughly healed.

[Illustration:

_Goldsmith wandering among the streets
of the great, cold, wicked city. _
]


But these years of adversity had also taught him lessons whose memory
remained with him to the last day of his life—lessons which he was among
the first to teach to the unthinking world around him. Poverty and pain
had spoilt him to some extent for society—had brought upon him a
melancholy which he would strive vainly to banish with fits of strained
and forced hilarity—had rendered him abrupt in speech and uncouth in
gesture—but never hardened his heart. He had been poor himself—miserably
poor—and his sympathies were with the poor, and his voice was honestly
uplifted in their behalf. Long before Sir Samuel Romilly had arisen to
denounce the harshness and cruelty of our penal code—long before the
eagle glance of Howard had pierced into the gloom of the debtor's fetid
prison, Goldsmith pointed out the effects of harsh legislation, and the
evils and contamination of our gaols. He would leave his home at night to
wander among the streets of the great, cold, wicked city, taking note of
the misery and destitution he found there, and sympathising with the
distress of the wretched outcasts whom none else would succour or
befriend. And manfully was his voice raised against those who, having
caused much of that wretchedness, were suffered, by a false and
heartless system of mock morality, to escape the penalty of infamy they
had justly incurred.

In a publication called the "Bee," which he edited, there is a paper of
matchless pathos, entitled a "City Nightpiece," in which he indignantly
draws attention to poor houseless girls, who have been flattered and
cozened into sin, and then left desolate in their misery. He concludes
with the following withering denunciation of the authors of all this
misery:—

"But let me turn from a scene of such distress to the sanctified
hypocrite, who has been 'talking of virtue till the time of bed',[1] and
now steals out, to give a loose to his vices under the protection of
midnight—vices more atrocious because he attempts to conceal them. See
how he pants down the dark alley; and, with hastening steps, fears an
acquaintance in every face. He has passed the whole day in company he
hates, and now goes to prolong the night among company that as heartily
hate him. May his vices be detected! may the morning rise upon his
shame! Yet I wish to no purpose: villany, when detected, never gives up,
but boldly adds impudence to imposture. "

Goldsmith's Essays, afterwards collected by himself into a volume, were
chiefly written between 1758 and 1762. In this kind of writing he
peculiarly excelled; and his friend Dr. Johnson allowed him to be
unrivalled in it. As a specimen of his humourous style, the following
extract from the "History of a Strolling Player" may be taken as
displaying the quaint drollery and quiet fun he could infuse in this
style of composition. Goldsmith has picked up in one of the parks a
jocose, talkative, hungry man, who proposes that the two should dine at
the expense of his new acquaintance, promising that he himself will
return the favour at some future time not accurately defined. Stimulated
by a good dinner, and by a tankard which he takes care shall be
frequently replenished, the talkative man tells his history, of which
the following is a part. He has been a soldier, and finds the profession
not at all to his liking. He says:

"The life of a soldier soon, therefore, gave me the spleen. I asked
leave to quit the service; but, as I was tall and strong, my captain
thanked me for my kind intention, and said, because he had a regard for
me, we should not part. I wrote to my father a very dismal penitent
letter, and desired that he would raise money to pay for my discharge;
but, as the good old man was as fond of drinking as I was, (sir, my
service to you), and those who are fond of drinking never pay for other
people's discharges; in short, he never answered my letter. What could
be done? If I have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge,
I must find an equivalent some other way; and that must be by running
away. I deserted; and that answered my purpose every bit as well as if I
had bought my discharge.

Footnote 1:

Parnell.

"Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment. I sold my
soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, in order not to be overtaken, took
the most unfrequented roads possible. One evening, as I was entering a
village, I perceived a man, whom I afterwards found to be the curate of
the parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost smothered
in the mud. He desired my assistance: I gave it, and drew him out with
some difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble, and was going off; but I
followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own
door. The curate asked a hundred questions; as whose son I was, from
whence I came, and whether I would be faithful. I answered him greatly
to his satisfaction, and gave myself one of the best characters in the
world for sobriety (sir, I have the honour of drinking your health),
discretion, and fidelity. To make a long story short, he wanted a
servant, and hired me. With him I lived but two months: we did not much
like each other. I was fond of eating, and he gave me but little to eat:
I loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-servant, was
ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to starve me between them, I
made a pious resolution to prevent their committing murder: I stole the
eggs as soon as they were laid: I emptied every unfinished bottle that I
could lay my hands on: whatever eatable came in my way was sure to
disappear. In short, they found I would not do; so I was discharged one
morning, and paid three shillings and sixpence for two months' wages.

[Illustration: _The Strolling Player. _]


"While my money was getting ready, I employed myself in making
preparations for my departure. Two hens were hatching in an outhouse—I
went and took the eggs from habit; and not to separate the parents from
the children, I lodged hens and all in my knapsack. After this piece of
frugality, I returned to receive my money, and with my knapsack on my
back, and a staff in my hand, I bade adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my
old benefactor. I had not gone far from the house when I heard behind me
a cry of 'stop thief! ' but this only increased my dispatch: it would
have been foolish to stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at
me—but hold, I think I passed those two months at the curate's without
drinking. Come, the times are dry, and may this be my poison, it ever I
spent two more pious, stupid months in all my life.

"Well, after travelling some days, whom should I light upon but a
company of strolling players. The moment I saw them at a distance, my
heart warmed to them; I had a sort of natural love for everything of the
vagabond order. They were employed in settling their baggage, which had
been overturned in a narrow way: I offered my assistance, which they
accepted; and we soon became so well acquainted, that they took me as a
servant. This was a paradise to me; they sang, danced, drank, ate, and
travelled, all at the same time. By the blood of all the Mirabels! I
thought I had never lived till then; I grew as merry as a grig, and
laughed at every word that was spoken. They liked me as much as I liked
them: I was a very good figure, as you may see; and though I was poor, I
was not modest.

"I love a straggling life above all things in the world; sometimes good,
sometimes bad; to be warm to-day, and cold to-morrow; to eat when one
can get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it stands before me. We
arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took a large room at the
'Greyhound,' where we resolved to exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the
funeral procession, the grave, and the garden scene. Romeo was to be
performed by a gentleman from the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane; Juliet,
by a lady who had never appeared on any stage before; and I was to snuff
the candles: all excellent in our way. We had figures enough, but the
difficulty was to dress them. "

Equally humourous is the account of Mr. Jack Spindle, the "good-natured
man," who has been pestered during his prosperity with offers of
service, which he finds suddenly and unaccountably withdrawn when the
sun no longer shines upon him. His friends have, one and all, been
importunate with him, that he should use their name and credit if ever
the time should come when he needed them; and now that this time had
most certainly arrived, Jack proceeded with the most perfect good faith
to put some of these assertions to the proof. To quote our author:—

"Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without any
ceremony; and, as a man confident of not being refused, requested the
use of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had an occasion
for money. 'And pray, Mr. Spindle,' replied the scrivener, 'do you want
all this money? '—'Want it, sir,' says the other, 'if I did not want it I
should not have asked it. '—'I am sorry for that,' says the friend; 'for
those who want money when they come to borrow, will want when they
should come to pay. To say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money
now-a-days. I believe it is all sunk in the bottom of the sea, for my
part; and he that has got a little is a fool if he does not keep what he
has got. '

"Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adventurer was resolved to
apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best friend he had in the
world. The gentleman whom he now addressed received his proposal with
all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship. 'Let
me see,—you want a hundred guineas; and, pray, dear Jack, would not
fifty answer? '—'If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must be
contented. '—'Fifty to spare! I do not say that, for I believe I have but
twenty about me. '—'Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other
friend. '—'And pray,' replied the friend, 'would it not be the best way
to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will
serve for all, you know? Lord, Mr. Spindle, make no ceremony with me at
any time; you know I'm your friend, when you choose a bit of dinner, or
so. You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us
now and then? Your very humble servant. '

"Distressed, but not discouraged at this treatment, he was at last
resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not have from
friendship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, and she
had already made all the advances that her sex's modesty would permit.
He made his proposal, therefore, with confidence, but soon perceived,
'No bankrupt ever found the fair one kind. ' Miss Jenny and Master Billy
Galoon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole
neighbourhood thought it would soon be a match.

"Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery: his clothes
flew piece by piece to the pawnbrokers'; and he seemed at length
equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still he thought
himself secure from starving; the numberless invitations he had received
to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered; he was, therefore,
now resolved to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one; and in this
manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week without being
openly affronted. "

[Illustration: _Jack Spindle and the Scrivener. _]


Poor Jack also tries to retrieve his fortunes by marriage, but finds
that a penniless wooer has but small chance with the fair.

In the "Citizen of the World" are to be found some of the best essays of
Goldsmith. It was a happy idea that of pourtraying our national
peculiarities and customs in the light in which they might strike a
foreigner; and the series contain, moreover, besides the inimitable "Man
in Black," a portrait which would in itself be enough to make it
immortal—the fussy, pleasant, consequential, little Beau Tibbs. Was
there ever such a perseveringly happy man? He speaks of his own
miserable poverty as if it were wealth, affects to prefer a bit of ox
cheek and some "brisk beer" to ortolans and claret, and gives himself
the airs of a lord while Mrs. Tibbs is laboriously seeing his second
shirt through the washing tub. After all, there may be more true
philosophy in the cheerfulness of little Tibbs than in the querulous
grumbling of greater men on whom the keen wind of adversity blows and
who shout vociferous complaints as they shiver in the keen blast. Beau
Tibbs' hilarious cheerfulness is, after all, but an exaggerated phase of
the equanimity of the "Man in Black. "

[Illustration: _Jack Spindle rejected by Miss Jenny Dismal. _]


It was a day in the poet's life to be marked with a white stone when he
made the acquaintance of Johnson. The "great cham of literature," as
Smollett called him, understood and appreciated Goldsmith better than
did the shallow witlings who laughed at the poet's eccentricities and
awkwardness, but had not the sense to discover his genius.
And who,
better than Goldsmith, could value and respect the great qualities that
lay hidden under Johnson's brusque manners and overbearing roughness?
Their acquaintance soon ripened into friendship—a friendship that was a
joy and solace to Goldsmith until the day of his death. Just at this
time Johnson, after many years' hard and unproductive toil had been
rewarded with a well-earned pension. Thus lifted above the struggling
crowd of his literary brethren, he filled a sort of dictatorial throne
among them. In Goldsmith he took quite a peculiar interest, and quickly
became what Washington Irving, in his "Life of Goldsmith," happily
designates a kind of "growling supervisor of the poet's affairs. "

Such a supervision was but too urgently needed. Increased means had not
improved the poet's habits, or taught him self-denial. The pay for his
literary labour was almost invariably drawn and spent before the task
was completed, and already poor Goldsmith was becoming involved in that
net of embarrassment from which he never extricated himself; and thus
the following scene was one day enacted, which shall be told in
Johnson's own words, as reported by the indefatigable Boswell:—"I
received one morning," said Johnson, "a message from poor Goldsmith that
he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me,
begged that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a
guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon
as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his
rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had
already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of madeira and a glass
before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm,
and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated.
He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he
produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I
should soon return; and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty
pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not
without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill. "

The book thus sold for sixty pounds was the "Vicar of Wakefield," a work
never surpassed for wonderful vitality of character and for beauty of
colouring. The old vicar, loveable in his very weakness, and indulgent
as a Christian priest should be towards the weaknesses of others—the
downright honest buxom wife, whose maternal vanity at times tempts her
so sorely to disobedience against the behests of her lord and
master—Olivia the coquette, and Sophia the prude—Moses the honest and
simple—and Burchell with his grand monosyllabic commentary of
"Fudge,"—these will live so long as English Literature lasts, and be
remembered with delight when the pretentious effusions of the Richardson
school have vanished into the limbo of obscurity. But the outcry that
has since been raised against the bookseller who only gave sixty pounds
for the manuscript appears somewhat unjust. Francis Newbery gave the sum
demanded by Johnson, evidently without reading the book, and on
Johnson's recommendation alone. That he had no great hopes of profit
from his bargain is proved by the length of time he allowed it to lie
unpublished in his desk. It was not Newbery's fault that the manuscript
was sent out at a pinch, to be sold for what it would bring, before it
had even been read to a few discerning friends who might have given a
deliberate opinion on its merits. Johnson spoke sensibly enough when he
replied to the indignant protest,—" A sufficient price, too, when it was
sold; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been elevated, as it
afterwards was, by his 'Traveller;' and the bookseller had faint hopes
of profit by his bargain. After the 'Traveller,' to be sure, it was
accidentally worth more money. "

The "Traveller" was now completed, and was published very shortly after
the bailiff episode. It took the circle who surrounded Goldsmith
completely by surprise; some of the members of the Literary Club even
affected to doubt that he could have written it, and declared that the
most striking passages were the work of Johnson. But Johnson himself
laughed at all this, and openly and honestly proclaimed his belief in
the great merits of the poem, and declared that since the death of Pope
nothing equal to it had been written. The touches which describe the
various shades of character in the different nations are exquisite, and
can only be the result of personal observation aided by mature thought.

And now our poet resolved to try his powers in a new field—to write a
comedy, the remuneration for which should pay off the debts that were
fast accumulating round him. But here fresh vexation and new care
awaited him. Garrick, the great actor and prosperous manager, to whom he
offered the play, took upon himself the office of critic and emendator,
authoritatively suggested the entire omission of _Lofty_, one of the
best characters, and, to use an expressive vulgarism, seemed inclined to
"burke" the comedy altogether. Goldsmith, smarting under the actor's
patronizing criticism, became angry, refused to alter or amend the play,
and finally took the manuscript out of Garrick's hands, and transferred
it to the rival management of Colman at Covent Garden. But Colman,
though he accepted the piece, had little or no hope that it would be a
success; and he contrived to impart his own doubts and misgivings to the
whole company. The fact was, that, at this period, sentimental comedy,
showing men and women as they appear in the pages of novelists of a
certain school, but not as they walk and talk in real life, was in the
ascendant; and Hugh Kelly—a man with some ingenuity, but without a spark
of genius—was the great representative of this school of writing. Now
Goldsmith held that a comedy should be comic—that it should, above all
things, amuse the spectators by humourous dialogue and startling action;
and, in his dramatic creed, the enunciation of moral platitudes had no
place. In fact, the lines Goldsmith afterwards wrote concerning
Cumberland, Kelly's successor in the Sentimental School of Comedy, might
well have been applied to Kelly himself:

[Illustration: _Goldsmith and his Landlady. _]


"A flattering painter, who made it his care,
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are,
His gallànts are all faultless, his women divine;
And Comedy wonders at being so fine!
Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out,
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. "

Now this Hugh Kelly had just produced a stupid comedy, insipid and full
of mawkish sentimentality, and entitled "False Delicacy. " It was acted
at Drury Lane, while Goldsmith's "Good-Natured Man" was in rehearsal,
and proved a complete success. This triumph of Kelly's further damaged
the hopes of Colman and his actors. Goldsmith had made his hero, not an
impossible monster of virtue, but an easy-going, kindly gentleman, who
shows that excessive good-nature is, after all, only a kind of weakness.
The fun was broad and hearty, and the characters were drawn in a style
that differed from Kelly's as widely as a picture by Hogarth would
differ from a pastoral piece by Watteau. At last the comedy was
performed; and though it brought nearly five hundred pounds to the
distressed poet, it was at first not successful. The taste of the town
had been too much spoiled by the sentimentalisms of Kelly and his
school, to appreciate at once the strong, hearty fare now offered; and
especially was public opinion divided on the subject of the introduction
of two bailiffs, who were then considered "low," and whose appearance is
now acknowledged to be one of the best "points" in the whole play.
Goldsmith declared he would write for the theatre no more: but
fortunately he did not keep to his determination. Once again, in 1772,
he wrote a comedy—one of the very best of our English plays—"She Stoops
to Conquer," which was performed at Covent Garden, for the first time,
on the 15th of March, 1773. Again was Goldsmith harassed by the
misgivings of Colman, though sentimental comedy was no longer in the
ascendant. It had never recovered the blow inflicted by a burlesque of
Foote's, entitled "The Virtuous Housemaid; or Piety in Pattens," in
which the mawkish platitudes of the sentimental school were turned into
pitiless ridicule. But the laughter and cheers of a crowded house
completely took Colman and the croakers by surprise; and so utter was
their astonishment, that the town made sport of the doubters whose
prognostications had proved so false. Colman was obliged to run away to
Bath, from the shower of lampoons that hailed down upon him. One of the
best of these bade him take comfort from the idea that though
Goldsmith's present play succeeded, his next might fail; and advised
Colman to bring about that desirable consummation, if all other methods
failed, by writing the best play he could himself, and printing it in
Goldsmith's name. "She Stoops to Conquer" has kept the stage for nearly
a century, and bids fair long to retain its place. It was a triumph for
our poet, but it was his last.

For now money troubles and embarrassments thickened more and more around
him. His fame, indeed, was established; but his habits of
procrastination and unthrift were but too well known. The "Deserted
Village" had silenced those even who carped at the "Traveller;" his
charming "Animated Nature" had brought him profit and reputation as a
scientific writer; but his dilatoriness and want of method spoiled all.

Early in 1774 he was attacked by an illness to which he was subject, and
as a remedy for which he obstinately insisted on dosing himself with
"James's Powders. " He grew rapidly worse, and to the question asked by
his medical man: "Is your mind at ease? " replied with a mournful "No, it
is not. " For some days he fluctuated between life and death; but at
last, on the morning of the 4th of April, strong convulsions came on,
under which he expired.

His death was mourned by a circle of friends comprising some of the most
illustrious names in the land. A public funeral was proposed for him,
but negatived in consideration of his embarrassed circumstances. For,
alas! in spite of the success of his later years, he owed nearly two
thousand pounds. "Was ever poet so trusted before! " exclaimed sturdy old
Johnson. "But," added the same honest friend, pronouncing a verdict
which a century has since endorsed, "let not his failings be
remembered—he was a very great man! "

* * * * *




DALZIELS'
ILLUSTRATED GOLDSMITH.

THE
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.


[Illustration: Facsimile of the book cover. ]

* * * * *




_CHAPTER I. _

_The description of the family of Wakefield,
in which a kindred likeness prevails
as well of minds as of persons. _


I was ever of opinion that the honest man, who married and brought up a
large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only
talked of population. From this motive, I had scarcely taken orders a
year, before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife,
as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such
qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured,
notable woman; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who
could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling;
but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She
prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping,
though I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances.

However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness increased as we
grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could make us angry with the
world or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country
and a good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural
amusement; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were
poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our
adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue
bed to the brown.

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit
us to taste our gooseberry-wine, for which we had great reputation; and
I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of
them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove,
all remembered their affinity, without any help from the heralds'
office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great
honour by these claims of kindred; as we had the blind, the maimed, and
the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that, as
they were the same _flesh and blood_, they should sit with us at the
same table: so that if we had not very rich, we generally had very happy
friends about us; for this remark will hold good through life, that the
poorer the guest the better pleased he ever is with being treated; and
as some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing
of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces.
However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of a
very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid
of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a
riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of small value,
and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to
return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like;
but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the
poor dependent out of doors.

Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness; not but that
we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the
value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my
wife's custards plundered by the cats or the children. The squire would
sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his
lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated curtsey. But
we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in
three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us.

My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without
softness, so they were at once well-formed and healthy; my sons hardy
and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the
midst of the little circle, which promised to be the support of my
declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count
Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second's progress through Germany, while
other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two
children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable
offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I
considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and
consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named
George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second
child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel; but my wife,
who during her pregnancy had been reading romances, insisted upon her
being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another daughter,
and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name; but a rich
relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was by her
directions called Sophia; so that we had two romantic names in the
family; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next,
and after an interval of twelve years we had two sons more.

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones
about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even
greater than mine. When our visitors would say, "Well, upon my word,
Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country;"—"Ay,
neighbour," she would answer, "they are as heaven made them—handsome
enough, if they be good enough; for handsome is that handsome does. " And
then she would bid the girls hold up their heads; who, to conceal
nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling
a circumstance with me, that I should scarcely have remembered to
mention it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the
country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with
which painters generally draw Hebe: open, sprightly, and commanding.
Sophia's features were not so striking at first, but often did more
certain execution; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one
vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successively repeated.

[Illustration: _Olivia and Sophia. _]

The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features;
at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers;
Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected, from too great a desire
to please; Sophia even repressed excellence, from her fear to offend.
The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with
her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to
excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a
whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquette into
a prude, and a new set of ribands has given her younger sister more than
natural vivacity. My eldest son, George, was bred at Oxford, as I
intended him for one of the learned professions. My second boy, Moses,
whom I designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education
at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular
characters of young people that had seen but very little of the world.
In short, a family likeness prevailed through all; and, properly
speaking, they had but one character—that of being all equally generous,
credulous, simple, and inoffensive.


[Illustration:

"_And having got it copied fair, with an elegant
frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece. _"
]




_CHAPTER II. _

_Family misfortunes. _—_The loss of fortune only serves
to increase the pride of the worthy. _


The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's
management; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own
direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to about thirty-five
pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of
our diocese; for, having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless
of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without
reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being
acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to
temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony; so that in a few years it
was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield—a
parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and alehouses wanting
customers.

Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote several
sermons to prove its happiness; but there was a peculiar tenet which I
made a point of supporting: for I maintained, with Whiston, that it was
unlawful for a priest of the Church of England, after the death of his
first wife, to take a second: or, to express it in one word, I valued
myself upon being a strict monogamist.

I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which so many
laborious volumes have been written. I published some tracts upon the
subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation of
thinking were read only by the happy _few_. Some of my friends called
this my weak side; but, alas! they had not, like me, made it the subject
of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important
it appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my
principles: as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the
_only_ wife of William Whiston; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my
wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy,
and obedience till death; and, having got it copied fair, with an
elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it answered
several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty to me
and my fidelity to her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and
constantly put her in mind of her end.

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that
my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the
daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church,
and in circumstances to give her a large fortune; but fortune was her
smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except
my two daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and
innocence were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and such
a happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with
indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome
settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so both families
lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected
alliance. Being convinced, by experience, that the days of courtship are
the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the
period; and the various amusements which the young couple every day
shared in each other's company seemed to increase their passion. We were
generally awakened in the morning by music, and on fine days rode
a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to
dress and study: they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves
in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page
of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead; for, as she always
insisted upon carving everything herself, it being her mother's way, she
gave us, upon these occasions, the history of every dish. When we had
dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us I generally ordered the table to
be removed; and sometimes, with the music-master's assistance, the girls
would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea,
country-dances, and forfeits shortened the rest of the day, without the
assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon,
at which my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can I
here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we
played together: I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw
deuce-ace five times running.

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought
convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed
earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I need
not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my
daughters: in fact my attention was fixed on another object—the
completing a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defence of my
favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both for
argument and style, I could not in the pride of my heart avoid showing
it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his
approbation: but not till too late I discovered that he was violently
attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason; for he was at
that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected,
produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to
interrupt our intended alliance; but, on the day before that appointed
for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large.

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides: he asserted that I was
heterodox; I retorted the charge; he replied, and I rejoined. In the
meantime, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of
my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the
dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. "How! " cried I,
"relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be a husband, already driven
to the very verge of absurdity? You might as well advise me to give up
my fortune as my argument. " "Your fortune," returned my friend, "I am
now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town in
whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of
bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I
was unwilling to shock you or the family with the account till after the
wedding; but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument;
for I suppose your own prudence will enforce the necessity of
dissembling, at least till your son has the young lady's fortune
secure. " "Well," returned I, "if what you tell me be true, and if I am
to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow
my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the company of my
circumstances: and as for the argument, I even here retract my former
concessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow him now to
be a husband in any sense of the expression. "

It would be useless to describe the different sensations of both
families, when I divulged the news of our misfortune; but what others
felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who
seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this
blow soon determined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was
prudence—too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two.

[Illustration:

"_And take this book too, it will be your comfort on the way. _"
]




_CHAPTER III. _

_A migration. —The fortunate circumstances of
our lives are generally found at
last to be of our own procuring. _


The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortune
might be malicious or premature: but a letter from my agent in town soon
came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune to
myself alone would have been trifling: the only uneasiness I felt was
for my family, who were to be humbled, without an education to render
them callous to contempt.

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their
affliction; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of sorrow.
During this interval, my thoughts were employed on some future means of
supporting them; and at last a small cure of fifteen pounds a year was
offered me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my
principles without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed,
having determined to increase my salary by managing a little farm.

Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the
wrecks of my fortune; and, all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen
thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention,
therefore, was now to bring down the pride of my family to their
circumstances; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness
itself. "You cannot be ignorant, my children," cried I, "that no
prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence
may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings,
and wisdom bids us to conform to our humble situation. Let us, then,
without repining, give up those splendours with which numbers are
wretched, and seek, in humbler circumstances, that peace with which all
may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help; why then should
not we learn to live without theirs? No, my children, let us from this
moment give up all pretensions to gentility; we have still enough left
for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the
deficiencies of fortune. "

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town,
where his abilities might contribute to our support and his own. The
separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most
distressful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on
which we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking leave
of his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses,
came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and
which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow.
"You are going, my boy," cried I, "to London on foot, in the manner
Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me
the same horse that was given him by the good Bishop Jewel, this staff;
and take this book too—it will be your comfort on the way; these two
lines in it are worth a million—_I have been young, and now am old; yet
never saw I the righteous man forsaken, nor his seed begging their
bread_. Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy;
whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a year; still keep a good
heart, and farewell. " As he was possessed of integrity and honour, I was
under no apprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of
life; for I knew he would act a good part, whether vanquished or
victorious.

His departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few
days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so
many hours of tranquillity was not without a tear, which scarcely
fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to
a family that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us
with apprehension; and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some
miles, contributed to increase it. The first day's journey brought us in
safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the
night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shown a
room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his
company, with which he complied, as what he drank would increase the
bill next morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I
was removing, particularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord,
and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he
described as one who desired to know little more of the world than its
pleasures, being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair
sex. He observed, that no virtue was able to resist his arts and
assiduity, and that there was scarcely a farmer's daughter within ten
miles round but what had found him successful and faithless. Though this
account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my
daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an
approaching triumph; nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their
allurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the
hostess entered the room to inform her husband that the strange
gentleman, who had been two days in the house, wanted money, and could
not satisfy them for his reckoning. "Want money! " replied the host,
"that must be impossible; for it was no later than yesterday he paid
three guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to
be whipped through the town for dog-stealing.