“‘And every poet is the monarch’s friend,’
“it ought to be reversed.” “Nay,” said Johnson, “there are finer lines in Dryden on this subject:
“‘For colleges on bounteous kings depend,And never rebel was to arts a friend.’”
General Paoli observed that “successful rebels might be.” “Happy rebellions,” interjected Martinelli. “We have no such phrase,” cried Goldsmith. “But have you not the thing?” asked Paoli. “Yes,” replied Goldsmith, “all ourhappyrevolutions. They have hurt our constitution, andwillhurt it, till we mend it by another HAPPY REVOLUTION.” This was a sturdy sally of Jacobitism that quite surprised Boswell, but must have been relished by Johnson.
General Paoli mentioned a passage in the play, which had been construed into a compliment to a lady of distinction, whose marriage with the Duke of Cumberland had excited the strong disapprobation of the king as a mesalliance. Boswell, to draw Goldsmith out, pretended to think the compliment unintentional. The poet smiled and hesitated. The general came to his relief. “Monsieur Goldsmith,” said he, “est comme la mer, qui jette des perles et beaucoup d’autres belles choses, sans s’en appercevoir” (Mr. Goldsmith is like the sea, which casts forth pearls and many other beautiful things without perceiving it).
“Très-bien dit, et très-elegamment” (very well said, and very elegantly), exclaimed Goldsmith; delighted with so beautiful a compliment from such a quarter.
Johnson spoke disparagingly of the learning of a Mr. Harris, of Salisbury, and doubted his being a good Grecian. “He is what is much better,” cried Goldsmith, with a prompt good-nature, “he is a worthy, humane man.” “Nay, sir,” rejoined the logical Johnson, “that is not to the purpose of our argument; that will prove that he can play upon the fiddle as well as Giardini, as that he is an eminent Grecian.” Goldsmith found he had got into a scrape, and seized upon Giardini to help him out of it. “The greatest musical performers,” said he, dexterously turning the conversation, “have but small emoluments; Giardini, I am told, does not get above seven hundred a year.” “That is indeed but little for a man to get,” observed Johnson, “who does best that which so many endeavor to do. There is nothing, I think, in which the power of art is shown so much as in playing on the fiddle. In all other things we can do something at first. Any man will forge a bar of iron, if you give him a hammer; not so well as a smith, but tolerably. A man will saw a piece of wood, and make a box, though a clumsy one; but give him a fiddle and fiddlestick, and he can do nothing.”
This, upon the whole, though reported by the one-sided Boswell, is a tolerable specimen of the conversations of Goldsmith and Johnson; the farmer heedless, often illogical, always on the kind-hearted side of the question, and prone to redeem himself by lucky hits; the latter closely argumentative, studiously sententious, often profound, and sometimes laboriously prosaic.
They had an argument a few days later at Mr. Thrale’s table, on the subject of suicide. “Do you think, sir,” said Boswell, “that all who commit suicide are mad?” “Sir,” replied Johnson, “they are not often universally disordered in their intellects, but one passion presses so upon them that they yield to it, and commit suicide, as a passionate man will stab another. I have often thought,” added he, “that after a man has taken the resolution to kill himself, it is not courage in him to do anything, however desperate, because he has nothing to fear.” “I don’t see that,” observed Goldsmith. “Nay, but, my dear sir,” rejoined Johnson, “why should you not see what every one else does?” “It is,” replied Goldsmith, “for fear of something that he has resolved to kill himself; and will not that timid disposition restrain him?” “It does not signify,” pursued Johnson, “that the fear of something made him resolve; it is upon the state of his mind, after the resolution is taken, that I argue. Suppose a man, either from fear, or pride, or conscience, or whatever motive, has resolved to kill himself; when once the resolution is taken he has nothing to fear. He may then go and take the King of Prussia by the nose at the head of his army. He cannot fear the rack who is determined to kill himself.” Boswell reports no more of the discussion, though Goldsmith might have continued it with advantage; for the very timid disposition, which, through fear of something, was impelling the man to commit suicide, might restrain him from an act involving the punishment of the rack, more terrible to him than death itself.
It is to be regretted in all these reports by Boswell we have scarcely anything but the remarks of Johnson; it is only by accident that he now and then gives us the observations of others, when they are necessary to explain or set off those of his hero. “When inthat presence,” says Miss Burney, “he was unobservant, if not contemptuous of every one else. In truth, when he met with Dr. Johnson, he commonly forbore even answering anything that was said, or attending to anything that went forward, lest he should miss the smallest sound from that voice, to which he paid such exclusive, though merited, homage. But the moment that voice burst forth, the attention which it excited on Mr. Boswell amounted almost to pain. His eyes goggled with eagerness; he leaned his ear almost on the shoulder of the doctor; and his mouth dropped open to catch every syllable that might be uttered; nay, he seemed not only to dread losing a word, but to be anxious not to miss a breathing; as if hoping from it latently, or mystically, some information.”
On one occasion the doctor detected Boswell, or Bozzy, as he called him, eavesdropping behind his chair, as he was conversing with Miss Burney at Mr. Thrale’s table. “What are you doing there, sir?” cried he, turning round angrily, and clapping his hand upon his knee. “Go to the table, sir.”
Boswell obeyed with an air of affright and submission, which raised a smile on every face. Scarce had he taken his seat, however, at a distance, than, impatient to get again at the side of Johnson, he rose and was running off in quest of something to show him, when the doctor roared after him authoritatively, “What are you thinking of, sir? Why do you get up before the cloth is removed? Come back to your place, sir”—and the obsequious spaniel did as he was commanded. “Running about in the middle of meals!” muttered the doctor, pursing his mouth at the same time to restrain his rising risibility.
Boswell got another rebuff from Johnson, which would have demolished any other man. He had been teasing him with many direct questions, such as What did you do, sir? What did you say, sir? until the great philologist became perfectly enraged. “I will not be put to thequestion!” roared he. “Don’t you consider, sir, that these are not the manners of a gentleman? I will not be baited withwhatandwhy;What is this? What is that? Why is a cow’s tail long? Why is a fox’s tail bushy?” “Why, sir,” replied pil-garlick, “you are so good that I venture to trouble you,” “Sir,” replied Johnson, “my being sogoodis no reason why you should be soill.” “You have but two topics, sir,” exclaimed he on another occasion, “yourself and me, and I am sick of both.”
Boswell’s inveterate disposition totoadwas a sore cause of mortification to his father, the old laird of Auchinleck (or Affleck). He had been annoyed by his extravagant devotion to Paoli, but then he was something of a military hero; but this tagging at the heels of Dr. Johnson, whom he considered a kind of pedagogue, set his Scotch blood in a ferment. “There’s nae hope for Jamie, mon,” said he to a friend; “Jamie is gaen clean gyte. What do you think, mon? He’s done wi’ Paoli; he’s off wi’ the land-louping scoundrel of a Corsican; and whose tail do you think he has pinn’d himself to now, mon? Adominiemon; an auld dominie: he keeped a schule, and cau’d it an acaadamy.”
We shall show in the next chapter that Jamie’s devotion to the dominie did not go unrewarded.
CHANGES IN THE LITERARY CLUB—JOHNSON’S OBJECTION TO GARRICK—ELECTION OP BOSWELL
The Literary Club (as we have termed the club in Gerard Street, though it took that name some time later) had now been in existence several years. Johnson was exceedingly chary at first of its exclusiveness, and opposed to its being augmented in number. Not long after its institution, Sir Joshua Reynolds was speaking of it to Garrick. “I like it much,” said little David, briskly; “I think I shall be of you.” “When Sir Joshua mentioned this to Dr. Johnson,” says Boswell, “he was much displeased with the actor’s conceit. ‘He’ll be of us?’ growled he. ‘How does he know we willpermithim? The first duke in England has no right to hold such language.’”
When Sir John Hawkins spoke favorably of Garrick’s pretensions, “Sir,” replied Johnson, “he will disturb us by his buffoonery.” In the same spirit he declared to Mr. Thrale that if Garrick should apply for admission he would blackball him. “Who, sir?” exclaimed Thrale, with surprise; “Mr. Garrick—your friend, your companion—blackball him!” “Why, sir,” replied Johnson, “I love my little David dearly—better than all or any of his flatterers do; but surely one ought to sit in a society like ours,
“‘Unelbowed by a gamester, pimp, or player.’”
The exclusion from the club was a sore mortification to Garrick, though he bore it without complaining. He could not help continually to ask questions about it—what was going on there—whether he was ever the subject of conversation. By degrees the rigor of the club relaxed: some of the members grew negligent. Beauclerc lost his right of membership by neglecting to attend. On his marriage, however, with Lady Diana Spencer, daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, and recently divorced from Viscount Bolingbroke, he had claimed and regained his seat in the club. The number of members had likewise been augmented. The proposition to increase it originated with Goldsmith. “It would give,” he thought, “an agreeable variety to their meetings; for there can be nothing new among us,” said he; “we have traveled over each other’s minds.” Johnson was piqued at the suggestion. “Sir,” said he, “you have not traveled over my mind, I promise you.” Sir Joshua, less confident in the exhaustless fecundity of his mind, felt and acknowledged the force of Goldsmith’s suggestion. Several new members, therefore, had been added; the first, to his great joy, was David Garrick. Goldsmith, who was now on cordial terms with him, had zealously promoted his election, and Johnson had given it his warm approbation. Another new member was Beauclerc’s friend, Lord Charlemont; and a still more important one was Mr., afterward Sir William Jones, the famous Orientalist, at that time a young lawyer of the Temple and a distinguished scholar.
To the great astonishment of the club, Johnson now proposed his devoted follower, Boswell, as a member. He did it in a note addressed to Goldsmith, who presided on the evening of the 23d of April. The nomination was seconded by Beauclerc. According to the rules of the club, the ballot would take place at the next meeting (on the 30th); there was an intervening week, therefore, in which to discuss the pretensions of the candidate. We may easily imagine the discussions that took place. Boswell had made himself absurd in such a variety of ways, that the very idea of his admission was exceedingly irksome to some of the members. “The honor of being elected into the Turk’s Head Club,” said the Bishop of St. Asaph, “is not inferior to that of being representative of Westminster and Surrey.” What had Boswell done to merit such an honor? What chance had he of gaining it? The answer was simple: he had been the persevering worshiper, if not sycophant of Johnson. The great lexicographer had a heart to be won by apparent affection; he stood forth authoritatively in support of his vassal. If asked to state the merits of the candidate, he summed them up in an indefinite but comprehensive word of his own coining; he wasclubable. He moreover gave significant hints that if Boswell were kept out he should oppose the admission of any other candidate. No further opposition was made; in fact none of the members had been so fastidious and exclusive in regard to the club as Johnson himself; and if he were pleased, they were easily satisfied; besides, they knew that, with all his faults, Boswell was a cheerful companion, and possessed lively social qualities.
On Friday, when the ballot was to take place, Beauclerc gave a dinner, at his house in the Adelphi, where Boswell met several of the members who were favorable to his election. After dinner the latter adjourned to the club, leaving Boswell in company with Lady Di Beauclerc until the fate of his election should be known. He sat, he says, in a state of anxiety which even the charming conversation of Lady Di could not entirely dissipate. It was not long before tidings were brought of his election, and he was conducted to the place of meeting, where, besides the company he had met at dinner, Burke, Dr. Nugent, Garrick, Goldsmith, and Mr. William Jones were waiting to receive him. The club, notwithstanding all its learned dignity in the eyes of the world, could at times “unbend and play the fool” as well as less important bodies. Some of its jocose conversations have at times leaked out, and a society in which Goldsmith could venture to sing his song of “an old woman tossed in a blanket,” could not be so very staid in its gravity. We may suppose, therefore, the jokes that had been passing among the members while awaiting the arrival of Boswell. Beauclerc himself could not have repressed his disposition for a sarcastic pleasantry. At least we have a right to presume all this from the conduct of Dr. Johnson himself.
With all his gravity he possessed a deep fund of quiet humor, and felt a kind of whimsical responsibility to protect the club from the absurd propensities of the very questionable associate he had thus inflicted on them. Rising, therefore, as Boswell entered, he advanced with a very doctorial air, placed himself behind a chair, on which he leaned as on a desk or pulpit, and then delivered,ex cathedra, a mock solemn charge, pointing out the conduct expected from him as a good member of the club; what he was to do, and especially what he was to avoid; including in the latter, no doubt, all those petty, prying, questioning, gossiping, babbling habits which had so often grieved the spirit of the lexicographer. It is to be regretted that Boswell has never thought proper to note down the particulars of this charge, which, from the well known characters and positions of the parties, might have furnished a parallel to the noted charge of Launcelot Gobbo to his dog.
DINNER AT THE DILLYS’—CONVERSATIONS ON NATURAL HISTORY—INTERMEDDLING OF BOSWELL—DISPUTE ABOUT TOLERATION—JOHNSON’S REBUFF TO GOLDSMITH—HIS APOLOGY—MAN-WORSHIP—DOCTORS MAJOR AND MINOR—A FAREWELL VISIT
A few days after the serio-comic scene of the elevation of Boswell into the Literary Club, we find that indefatigable Biographer giving particulars of a dinner at the Dillys’, booksellers, in the Poultry, at which he met Goldsmith and Johnson, with several other literary characters. His anecdotes of the conversation, of course, go to glorify Dr. Johnson; for, as he observes in his biography, “His conversation alone, or what led to it, or was interwoven with it, is the business of this work.” Still on the present, as on other occasions, he gives unintentional and perhaps unavoidable gleams of Goldsmith’s good sense, which show that the latter only wanted a less prejudiced and more impartial reporter to put down the charge of colloquial incapacity so unjustly fixed upon him. The conversation turned upon the natural history of birds, a beautiful subject, on which the poet, from his recent studies, his habits of observation, and his natural tastes, must have talked with instruction and feeling; yet, though we have much of what Johnson said, we have only a casual remark or two of Goldsmith. One was on the migration of swallows, which he pronounced partial; “the stronger ones,” said he, “migrate, the others do not.”
Johnson denied to the brute creation the faculty of reason. “Birds,” said he, “build by instinct; they never improve; they build their first nest as well as any one they ever build.” “Yet we see,” observed Goldsmith, “if you take away a bird’s nest with the eggs in it, she will make a slighter nest and lay again.” “Sir,” replied Johnson, “that is because at first she has full time, and makes her nest deliberately. In the case you mention, she is pressed to lay, and must, therefore, make her nest quickly, and consequently it will be slight.” “The nidification of birds,” rejoined Goldsmith, “is what is least known in natural history, though one of the most curious things in it.” While conversation was going on in this placid, agreeable and instructive manner, the eternal meddler and busybody Boswell, must intrude, to put it in a brawl. The Dillys were dissenters; two of their guests were dissenting clergymen; another, Mr. Toplady, was a clergyman of the established church. Johnson, himself, was a zealous, uncompromising churchman. None but a marplot like Boswell would have thought, on such an occasion, and in such company, to broach the subject of religious toleration; but, as has been well observed, “it was his perverse inclination to introduce subjects that he hoped would produce difference and debate.” In the present instance he gamed his point. An animated dispute immediately arose in which, according to Boswell’s report, Johnson monopolized the greater part of the conversation; not always treating the dissenting clergymen with the greatest courtesy, and even once wounding the feelings of the mild and amiable Bennet Langton by his harshness.
Goldsmith mingled a little in the dispute and with some advantage, but was cut short by flat contradictions when most in the right. He sat for a time silent but impatient under such overbearing dogmatism, though Boswell, with his usual misinterpretation, attributes his “restless agitation” to a wish toget in and shine. “Finding himself excluded,” continued Boswell, “he had taken his hat to go away, but remained for a time with it in his hand, like a gamester, who, at the end of a long night, lingers for a little while to see if he can have a favorable opportunity to finish with success.” Once he was beginning to speak when he was overpowered by the loud voice of Johnson, who was at the opposite end of the table, and did not perceive his attempt; whereupon he threw down, as it were, his hat and his argument, and, darting an angry glance at Johnson, exclaimed in a bitter tone, “Take it.”
Just then one of the disputants was beginning to speak, when Johnson uttering some sound, as if about to interrupt him, Goldsmith, according to Boswell, seized the opportunity to vent his ownenvy and spleenunder pretext of supporting another person. “Sir,” said he to Johnson, “the gentleman has heard you patiently for an hour; pray allow us now to hear him.” It was a reproof in the lexicographer’s own style, and he may have felt that he merited it; but he was not accustomed to be reproved. “Sir,” said he sternly, “I was not interrupting the gentleman; I was only giving him a signal of my attention. Sir,you are impertinent.” Goldsmith made no reply, but after some time went away, having another engagement.
That evening, as Boswell was on the way with Johnson and Langton to the club, he seized the occasion to make some disparaging remarks on Goldsmith, which he thought would just then be acceptable to the great lexicographer. “It was a pity,” he said, “that Goldsmith would, on every occasion, endeavor to shine, by which he so often exposed himself.” Langton contrasted him with Addison, who, content with the fame of his writings, acknowledged himself unfit for conversation; and on being taxed by a lady with silence in company, replied, “Madam, I have but ninepence in ready money, but I can draw for a thousand pounds.” To this Boswell rejoined that Goldsmith had a great deal of gold in his cabinet, but was always taking out his purse. “Yes, sir,” chuckled Johnson, “and that so often an empty purse.”
By the time Johnson arrived at the club, however, his angry feelings had subsided, and his native generosity and sense of justice had got the uppermost. He found Goldsmith in company with Burke, Garrick, and other members, but sitting silent and apart, “brooding,” as Boswell says, “over the reprimand he had received.” Johnson’s good heart yearned toward him; and knowing his placable nature, “I’ll make Goldsmith forgive me,” whispered he; then, with a loud voice, “Dr. Goldsmith,” said he, “something passed to-day where you and I dined—I ask your pardon.” The ire of the poet was extinguished in an instant, and his grateful affection for the magnanimous though sometimes overbearing moralist rushed to his heart. “It must be much from you, sir,” said he, “that I take ill!” “And so,” adds Boswell, “the difference was over, and they were on as easy terms as ever, and Goldsmith rattled away as usual.” We do not think these stories tell to the poet’s disadvantage, even though related by Boswell.
Goldsmith, with all his modesty, could not be ignorant of his proper merit; and must have felt annoyed at times at being undervalued and elbowed aside by light-minded or dull men, in their blind and exclusive homage to the literary autocrat. It was a fine reproof he gave to Boswell on one occasion, for talking of Johnson as entitled to the honor of exclusive superiority. “Sir, you are for making a monarchy what should be a republic.” On another occasion, when he was conversing in company with great vivacity, and apparently to the satisfaction of those around him, an honest Swiss, who sat near, one George Michael Moser, keeper of the Royal Academy, perceiving Dr. Johnson rolling himself as if about to speak, exclaimed, “Stay, stay! Toctor Shonson is going to say something.” “And are you sure, sir,” replied Goldsmith, sharply, “thatyoucan comprehend what he says?”
This clever rebuke, which gives the main zest to the anecdote, is omitted by Boswell, who probably did not perceive the point of it.
He relates another anecdote of the kind, on the authority of Johnson himself. The latter and Goldsmith were one evening in company with the Rev. George Graham, a master of Eton, who, notwithstanding the sobriety of his cloth, had got intoxicated “to about the pitch of looking at one man and talking to another.” “Doctor,” cried he in an ecstasy of devotion and good-will, but goggling by mistake upon Goldsmith, “I should be glad to see you at Eton.” “I shall be glad to wait upon you,” replied Goldsmith. “No, no!” cried the other eagerly, “’tis not you I mean, DoctorMinor, ’tis DoctorMajorthere.” “You may easily conceive,” said Johnson in relating the anecdote, “what effect this had upon Goldsmith, who was irascible as a hornet.” The only comment, however, which he is said to have made, partakes more of quaint and dry humor than bitterness: “That Graham,” said he, “is enough to make one commit suicide.” What more could be said to express the intolerable nuisance of a consummate bore?
We have now given the last scenes between Goldsmith and Johnson which stand recorded by Boswell. The latter called on the poet a few days after the dinner at Dillys’, to take leave of him prior to departing for Scotland; yet, even in this last interview, he contrives to get up a charge of “jealousy and envy.” Goldsmith, he would fain persuade us, is very angry that Johnson is going to travel with him in Scotland; and endeavors to persuade him that he will be a dead weight “to lug along through the Highlands and Hebrides.” Any one else, knowing the character and habits of Johnson, would have thought the same; and no one but Boswell would have supposed his office of bear-leader to the ursa major a thing to be envied. [Footnote: One of Peter Pindar’s (Dr. Wolcot) most amusingjeux d’espritis his congratulatory epistle to Boswell on his tour, of which we subjoin a few lines.
“O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate’er thy name,Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame;Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth,To eat M’Pherson ‘midst his native north;To frighten grave professors with his roar,And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore.
“Bless’d be thy labors, most adventurous Bozzy,Bold rival of Sir John and Dame Piozzi;Heavens! with what laurels shall thy head be crown’d!A grove, a forest, shall thy ears surround!Yes! whilst the Rambler shall a comet blaze,And gild a world of darkness with his rays,Thee, too, that world with wonderment shall hail,A lively, bouncing cracker at his tail!”]
PROJECT OF A DICTIONARY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES—DISAPPOINTMENT—NEGLIGENT AUTHORSHIP—APPLICATION FOR A PENSION—BEATTIE’S ESSAY ON TRUTH—PUBLIC ADULATION—A HIGH-MINDED REBUKE
The works which Goldsmith had still in hand being already paid for, and the money gone, some new scheme must be devised to provide for the past and the future—for impending debts which threatened to crush him, and expenses which were continually increasing. He now projected a work of greater compass than any he had yet undertaken; a Dictionary of Arts and Sciences on a comprehensive scale, which was to occupy a number of volumes. For this he received promises of assistance from several powerful hands. Johnson was to contribute an article on ethics; Burke, an abstract of his Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, an essay on the Berkleyan system of philosophy, and others on political science; Sir Joshua Reynolds, an essay on painting; and Garrick, while he undertook on his own part to furnish an essay on acting, engaged Dr. Burney to contribute an article on music. Here was a great array of talent positively engaged, while other writers of eminence were to be sought for the various departments of science. Goldsmith was to edit the whole. An undertaking of this kind, while it did not incessantly task and exhaust his inventive powers by original composition, would give agreeable and profitable exercise to his taste and judgment in selecting, compiling, and arranging, and he calculated to diffuse over the whole the acknowledged graces of his style.
He drew up a prospectus of the plan, which is said by Bishop Percy, who saw it, to have been written with uncommon ability, and to have had that perspicuity and elegance for which his writings are remarkable. This paper, unfortunately, is no longer in existence.
Goldsmith’s expectations, always sanguine respecting any new plan, were raised to an extraordinary height by the present project; and well they might be, when we consider the powerful coadjutors already pledged. They were doomed, however, to complete disappointment. Davies, the bibliopole of Russell Street, lets us into the secret of this failure. “The booksellers,” said he, “notwithstanding they had a very good opinion of his abilities, yet were startled at the bulk, importance, and expense of so great an undertaking, the fate of which was to depend upon the industry of a man with whose indolence of temper and method of procrastination they had long been acquainted.”
Goldsmith certainly gave reason for some such distrust by the heedlessness with which he conducted his literary undertakings. Those unfinished, but paid for, would be suspended to make way for some job that was to provide for present necessities. Those thus hastily taken up would be as hastily executed, and the whole, however pressing, would be shoved aside and left “at loose ends,” on some sudden call to social enjoyment or recreation.
Cradock tells us that on one occasion, when Goldsmith was hard at work on his Natural History, he sent to Dr. Percy and himself, entreating them to finish some pages of his work which lay upon his table, and for which the press was urgent, he being detained by other engagements at Windsor. They met by appointment at his chambers in the Temple, where they found everything in disorder, and costly books lying scattered about on the tables and on the floor; many of the books on natural history which he had recently consulted lay open among uncorrected proof-sheets. The subject in hand, and from which he had suddenly broken off, related to birds. “Do you know anything about birds?” asked Dr. Percy, smiling. “Not an atom,” replied Cradock; “do you?” “Not I! I scarcely know a goose from a swan: however, let us try what we can do.” They set to work and completed their friendly task. Goldsmith, however, when he came to revise it, made such alterations that they could neither of them recognize their own share. The engagement at Windsor, which had thus caused Goldsmith to break off suddenly from his multifarious engagements, was a party of pleasure with some literary ladies. Another anecdote was current, illustrative of the carelessness with which he executed works requiring accuracy and research. On the 22d of June he had received payment in advance for a Grecian History in two volumes, though only one was finished. As he was pushing on doggedly at the second volume, Gibbon, the historian, called in. “You are the man of all others I wish to see,” cried the poet, glad to be saved the trouble of reference to his books. “What was the name of that Indian king who gave Alexander the Great so much trouble?” “Montezuma,” replied Gibbon, sportively. The heedless author was about committing the name to paper without reflection, when Gibbon pretended to recollect himself, and gave the true name, Porus.
This story, very probably, was a sportive exaggeration; but it was a multiplicity of anecdotes like this and the preceding one, some true and some false, which had impaired the confidence of booksellers in Goldsmith, as a man to be relied on for a task requiring wide and accurate research, and close and long-continued application. The project of the Universal Dictionary, therefore, met with no encouragement, and fell through.
The failure of this scheme, on which he had built such spacious hopes, sank deep into Goldsmith’s heart. He was still further grieved and mortified by the failure of an effort made by some of his friends to obtain for him a pension from government. There had been a talk of the disposition of the ministry to extend the bounty of the crown to distinguished literary men in pecuniary difficulty, without regard to their political creed: when the merits and claims of Goldsmith, however, were laid before them, they met no favor. The sin of sturdy independence lay at his door. He had refused to become a ministerial hack when offered acarte blancheby Parson, Scott, the cabinet emissary. The wondering parson had left him his poverty and “his garrets” and there the ministry were disposed to suffer him to remain.
In the meantime Dr. Beattie comes out with his Essay On Truth, and all the orthodox world are thrown into a paroxysm of contagious ecstasy. He is cried up as the great champion of Christianity against the attacks of modern philosophers and infidels; he is feted and flattered in every way. He receives at Oxford the honorary degree of doctor of civil law, at the same time with Sir Joshua Reynolds. The king sends for him, praises his Essay, and gives him a pension of two hundred pounds.
Goldsmith feels more acutely the denial of a pension to himself when one has thus been given unsolicited to a man he might without vanity consider so much his inferior. He was not one to conceal his feelings. “Here’s such a stir,” said he one day at Thrale’s table, “about a fellow that has written one book, and I have written so many!”
“Ah, doctor!” exclaimed Johnson, in one of his caustic moods, “there go two and forty sixpences, you know, to one guinea.” This is one of the cuts at poor Goldsmith in which Johnson went contrary to head and heart in his love for saying what is called a “good thing.” No one knew better than himself the comparative superiority of the writings of Goldsmith; but the jingle of the sixpences and the guinea was not to be resisted.
“Everybody,” exclaimed Mrs. Thrale, “loves Dr. Beattie, but Goldsmith, who says he cannot bear the sight of so much applause as they all bestow upon him. Did he not tell us so himself no one would believe he was so exceedingly ill-natured.”
He told them so himself because he was too open and unreserved to disguise his feelings, and because he really considered the praise lavished on Beattie extravagant, as in fact it was. It was all, of course, set down to sheer envy and uncharitableness. To add to his annoyance, he found his friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds, joining in the universal adulation. He had painted a full-length portrait of Beattie decked in the doctor’s robes in which he had figured at Oxford, with the Essay on Truth under his arm and the angel of truth at his side, while Voltaire figured as one of the demons of infidelity, sophistry, and falsehood, driven into utter darkness.
Goldsmith had known Voltaire in early life; he had been his admirer and his biographer; he grieved to find him receiving such an insult from the classic pencil of his friend. “It is unworthy of you,” said he to Sir Joshua, “to debase so high a genius as Voltaire before so mean a writer as Beattie. Beattie and his book will be forgotten in ten years, while Voltaire’s fame will last forever. Take care it does not perpetuate this picture to the shame of such a man as you.” This noble and high-minded rebuke is the only instance on record of any reproachful words between the poet and the painter; and we are happy to find that it did not destroy the harmony of their intercourse.
TOIL WITHOUT HOPE—THE POET IN THE GREEN-ROOM—IN THE FLOWER GARDEN—AT VAUXHALL—DISSIPATION WITHOUT GAYETY—CRADOCK IN TOWN—FRIENDLY SYMPATHY—A PARTING SCENE—AN INVITATION TO PLEASURE
Thwarted in the plans and disappointed in the hopes which had recently cheered and animated him, Goldsmith found the labor at his half-finished tasks doubly irksome from the consciousness that the completion of them could not relieve him from his pecuniary embarrassments. His impaired health, also, rendered him less capable than formerly of sedentary application, and continual perplexities disturbed the flow of thought necessary for original composition. He lost his usual gayety and good-humor, and became, at times, peevish and irritable. Too proud of spirit to seek sympathy or relief from his friends, for the pecuniary difficulties he had brought upon himself by his errors and extravagance; and unwilling, perhaps, to make known their amount, he buried his cares and anxieties in his own bosom, and endeavored in company to keep up his usual air of gayety and unconcern. This gave his conduct an appearance of fitfulness and caprice, varying suddenly from moodiness to mirth, and from silent gravity to shallow laughter; causing surprise and ridicule in those who were not aware of the sickness of heart which lay beneath.
His poetical reputation, too, was sometimes a disadvantage to him; it drew upon him a notoriety which he was not always in the mood or the vein to act up to. “Good heavens, Mr. Foote,” exclaimed an actress at the Haymarket Theater, “what a humdrum kind of man Dr. Goldsmith appears in our green-room compared with the figure he makes in his poetry!” “The reason of that, madam,” replied Foote, “is because the muses are better company than the players.”
Beauclerc’s letters to his friend, Lord Charlemont, who was absent in Ireland, give us now and then an indication of the whereabout of the poet during the present year. “I have been but once to the club since you left England,” writes he; “we were entertained, as usual, with Goldsmith’s absurdity.” With Beauclerc everything was absurd that was not polished and pointed. In another letter he threatens, unless Lord Charlemont returns to England, to bring over the whole club, and let them loose upon him to drive him home by their peculiar habits of annoyance—Johnson shall spoil his books; Goldsmith shallpull his flowers;and last, and most intolerable of all, Boswell shall—talk to him. It would appear that the poet, who had a passion for flowers, was apt to pass much of his time in the garden when on a visit to a country seat, much to the detriment of the flowerbeds and the despair of the gardener.
The summer wore heavily away with Goldsmith. He had not his usual solace of a country retreat; his health was impaired and his spirits depressed. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who perceived the state of his mind, kindly gave him much of his company. In the course of their interchange of thought, Goldsmith suggested to him the story of Ugolino, as a subject for his pencil. The painting founded on it remains a memento of their friendship.
On the 4th of August we find them together at Vauxhall; at that time a place in high vogue, and which had once been to Goldsmith a scene of Oriental splendor and delight. We have, in fact, in the Citizen of the World, a picture of it as it had struck him in former years and in his happier moods. “Upon entering the gardens,” says the Chinese philosopher, “I found every sense occupied with more than expected pleasure; the lights everywhere glimmering through the scarcely-moving trees; the full-bodied concert bursting on the stillness of the night; the natural concert of the birds in the more retired part of the grove, vying with that which was formed by art; the company gayly dressed, looking satisfaction, and the tables spread with various delicacies, all conspired to fill my imagination with the visionary happiness of the Arabian lawgiver, and lifted me into an ecstasy of admiration.” [Footnote: Citizen of the World, Letter xxi]
Everything now, however, is seen with different eyes; with him it is dissipation without pleasure; and he finds it impossible any longer, by mingling in the gay and giddy throng of apparently prosperous and happy beings, to escape from the carking care which is clinging to his heart.
His kind friend, Cradock, came up to town toward autumn, when all the fashionable world was in the country, to give his wife the benefit of a skillful dentist. He took lodgings in Norfolk Street, to be in Goldsmith’s neighborhood, and passed most of his mornings with him. “I found him,” he says, “much altered and at times very low. He wished me to look over and revise some of his works; but, with a select friend or two, I was more pressing that he should publish by subscription his two celebrated poems of the Traveler and the Deserted Village, with notes.” The idea of Cradock was that the subscription would enable wealthy persons, favorable to Goldsmith, to contribute to his pecuniary relief without wounding his pride. “Goldsmith,” said he, “readily gave up to me his private copies, and said, ‘Pray do what you please with them.’ But while he sat near me, he rather submitted to than encouraged my zealous proceedings.
“I one morning called upon him, however, and found him infinitely better than I had expected; and, in a kind of exulting style, he exclaimed, ‘Here are some of the best of my prose writings;I have been hard at work since midnight,and I desire you to examine them.’ ‘These,’ said I, ‘are excellent indeed.’ ‘They are,’ replied he, ‘intended as an introduction to a body of arts and sciences.’”
Poor Goldsmith was, in fact, gathering together the fragments of his shipwreck; the notes and essays and memoranda collected for his dictionary, and proposed to found on them a work in two volumes, to be entitled A Survey of Experimental Philosophy.
The plan of the subscription came to nothing, and the projected survey never was executed. The head might yet devise, but the heart was failing him; his talent at hoping, which gave him buoyancy to carry out his enterprises, was almost at an end.
Cradock’s farewell scene with him is told in a simple but touching manner.
“The day before I was to set out for Leicestershire I insisted upon his dining with us. He replied, ‘I will, but on one condition, that you will not ask me to eat anything.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘this answer is absolutely unkind, for I had hoped, as we are supplied from the Crown and Anchor, that you would have named something you might have relished.’ ‘Well,’ was the reply, ‘if you will but explain it to Mrs. Cradock, I will certainly wait upon you.’
“The doctor found, as usual, at my apartments, newspapers and pamphlets, and with a pen and ink he amused himself as well as he could. I had ordered from the tavern some fish, a roasted joint of lamb, and a tart; and the doctor either sat down or walked about just as he pleased. After dinner he took some wine with biscuits; but I was obliged soon to leave him for a while, as I had matters to settle prior to my next day’s journey. On my return coffee was ready, and the doctor appeared more cheerful (for Mrs. Cradock was always rather a favorite with him), and in the evening he endeavored to talk and remark as usual, but all was forced. He stayed till midnight, and I insisted on seeing him safe home, and we most cordially shook hands at the Temple gate.” Cradock little thought that this was to be their final parting. He looked back to it with mournful recollections in after years, and lamented that he had not remained longer in town at every inconvenience, to solace the poor broken-spirited poet.
The latter continued in town all the autumn. At the opening of the Opera House, on the 20th of November, Mrs. Yates, an actress whom he held in great esteem, delivered a poetical exordium of his composition. Beauclerc, in a letter to Lord Charlemont, pronounced it very good, and predicted that it would soon be in all the papers. It does not appear, however, to have been ever published. In his fitful state of mind Goldsmith may have taken no care about it, and thus it has been lost to the world, although it was received with great applause by a crowded and brilliant audience.
A gleam of sunshine breaks through the gloom that was gathering over the poet. Toward the end of the year he receives another Christmas invitation to Barton. A country Christmas! with all the cordiality of the fireside circle, and the joyous revelry of the oaken hall—what a contrast to the loneliness of a bachelor’s chambers in the Temple! It is not to be resisted. But how is poor Goldsmith to raise the ways and means? His purse is empty; his booksellers are already in advance to him. As a last resource, he applies to Garrick. Their mutual intimacy at Barton may have suggested him as an alternative. The old loan of forty pounds has never been paid; and Newbery’s note, pledged as a security, has never been taken up. An additional loan of sixty pounds is now asked for, thus increasing the loan to one hundred; to insure the payment, he now offers, besides Newbery’s note, the transfer of the comedy of the Good-Natured Man to Drury Lane, with such alterations as Garrick may suggest. Garrick, in reply, evades the offer of the altered comedy, alludes significantly to a new one which Goldsmith had talked of writing for him, and offers to furnish the money required on his own acceptance.
The reply of Goldsmith bespeaks a heart brimful of gratitude and overflowing with fond anticipations of Barton and the smiles of its fair residents. “My dear friend,” writes he, “I thank you. I wish I could do something to serve you. I shall have a comedy for you in a season, or two at furthest, that I believe will be worth your acceptance, for I fancy I will make it a fine thing. You shall have the refusal.... I will draw upon you one month after date for sixty pounds, and your acceptance will be ready money,part of which I want to go down to Barton with. May God preserve my honest little man, for he has my heart. Ever,
And having thus scrambled together a little pocket-money, by hard contrivance, poor Goldsmith turns his back upon care and trouble, and Temple quarters, to forget for a time his desolate bachelorhood in the family circle and a Christmas fireside at Barton.