Lecture The Sixth. Sterne And Goldsmith
Roger Sterne, Sterne's father, was the second son of a numerous race,descendants of Richard Sterne, Archbishop of York, in the reign of JamesII; and children of Simon Sterne and Mary Jaques, his wife, heiress ofElvington, near York.(160) Roger was a lieutenant in Handyside's regiment,and engaged in Flanders in Queen Anne's wars. He married the daughter of anoted sutler--"N.B., he was in debt to him," his son writes, pursuing thepaternal biography--and marched through the world with this companionfollowing the regiment and bringing many children to poor Roger Sterne.The captain was an irascible but kind and simple little man, Sterne says,and informs us that his sire was run through the body at Gibraltar, by abrother officer, in a duel, which arose out of a dispute about a goose.Roger never entirely recovered from the effects of this rencontre, butdied presently at Jamaica, whither he had followed the drum.
Laurence, his second child, was born at Clonmel, in Ireland, in 1713, andtravelled for the first ten years of his life, on his father's march, frombarrack to transport, from Ireland to England.(161)
One relative of his mother's took her and her family under shelter for tenmonths at Mullingar: another collateral descendant of the Archbishop'shoused them for a year at his castle near Carrickfergus. Larry Sterne wasput to school at Halifax in England, finally was adopted by his kinsman ofElvington, and parted company with his father, the Captain, who marched onhis path of life till he met the fatal goose, which closed his career. Themost picturesque and delightful parts of Laurence Sterne's writings, weowe to his recollections of the military life. Trim's montero cap, and LeFevre's sword, and dear Uncle Toby's roquelaure, are doubtlessreminiscences of the boy, who had lived with the followers of William andMarlborough, and had beat time with his little feet to the fifes ofRamillies in Dublin barrack-yard, or played with the torn flags andhalberds of Malplaquet on the parade-ground at Clonmel.
Laurence remained at Halifax school till he was eighteen years old. Hiswit and cleverness appear to have acquired the respect of his master here:for when the usher whipped Laurence for writing his name on the newlywhitewashed schoolroom ceiling, the pedagogue in chief rebuked theunder-strapper, and said that the name should never be effaced, for Sternewas a boy of genius, and would come to preferment.
His cousin, the Squire of Elvington, sent Sterne to Jesus College,Cambridge, where he remained five years, and taking orders, got, throughhis uncle's interest, the living of Sutton and the prebendary of York.Through his wife's connexions, he got the living of Stillington. Hemarried her in 1741; having ardently courted the young lady for some yearspreviously. It was not until the young lady fancied herself dying, thatshe made Sterne acquainted with the extent of her liking for him. Oneevening when he was sitting with her, with an almost broken heart to seeher so ill (the Rev. Mr. Sterne's heart was a good deal broken in thecourse of his life), she said--"My dear Laurey, I never can be yours, for Iverily believe I have not long to live, but I have left you every shillingof my fortune," a generosity which overpowered Sterne: she recovered: andso they were married, and grew heartily tired of each other before manyyears were over. "Nescio quid est materia cum me," Sterne writes to one ofhis friends (in dog-Latin, and very sad dog-Latin too), "sed sum fatigatuset aegrotus de mea uxore plus quam unquam," which means, I am sorry tosay, "I don't know what is the matter with me: but I am more tired andsick of my wife than ever."(162)
This to be sure was five-and-twenty years after Laurey had been overcomeby her generosity and she by Laurey's love. Then he wrote to her of thedelights of marriage, saying--"We will be as merry and as innocent as ourfirst parents in Paradise, before the arch-fiend entered thatindescribable scene. The kindest affections will have room to expand inour retirement--let the human tempest and hurricane rage at a distance, thedesolation is beyond the horizon of peace. My L. has seen a polyanthusblow in December?--Some friendly wall has sheltered it from the bitingwind--no planetary influence shall reach us, but that which presides andcherishes the sweetest flowers. The gloomy family of care and distrustshall be banished from our dwelling, guarded by thy kind and tutelardeity--we will sing our choral songs of gratitude and rejoice to the end ofour pilgrimage. Adieu, my L. Return to one who languishes for thysociety!--As I take up my pen, my poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows,and tears are trickling down on my paper as I trace the word L."
And it is about this woman, with whom he finds no fault, but that shebores him, that our philanthropist writes, "Sum fatigatus etaegrotus"--_Sum mortaliter in amore_ with somebody else! That fine flowerof love, that polyanthus over which Sterne snivelled so many tears, couldnot last for a quarter of a century!
Or rather it could not be expected that a gentleman with such a fountainat command, should keep it to _arroser_ one homely old lady, when a scoreof younger and prettier people might be refreshed from the same gushingsource.(163)
It was in December, 1767, that the Rev. Laurence Sterne, the famousShandean, the charming Yorick, the delight of the fashionable world, thedelicious divine, for whose sermons the whole polite world wassubscribing,(164) the occupier of Rabelais's easy chair, only freshstuffed and more elegant than when in possession of the cynical old curateof Meudon(165)--the more than rival of the Dean of St. Patrick's, wrote theabove-quoted respectable letter to his friend in London: and it was inApril of the same year, that he was pouring out his fond heart to Mrs.Elizabeth Draper, wife of "Daniel Draper, Esq., Counsellor of Bombay, and,in 1775, chief of the factory of Surat--a gentleman very much respected inthat quarter of the globe".
"I got thy letter last night, Eliza," Sterne writes, "on my return fromLord Bathurst's, where I dined" (the letter has this merit in it that itcontains a pleasant reminiscence of better men than Sterne, and introducesus to a portrait of a kind old gentleman)--"I got thy letter last night,Eliza, on my return from Lord Bathurst's; and where I was heard--as Italked of thee an hour without intermission--with so much pleasure andattention, that the good old lord toasted your health three differenttimes; and now he is in his 85th year, says he hopes to live long enoughto be introduced as a friend to my fair Indian disciple, and to see hereclipse all other Nabobesses as much in wealth, as she does already inexterior, and what is far better" (for Sterne is nothing without hismorality)--"and what is far better, in interior merit. This nobleman is anold friend of mine. You know he was always the protector of men of wit andgenius, and has had those of the last century, Addison, Steele, Pope,Swift, Prior, &c., always at his table. The manner in which his noticebegan of me was as singular as it was polite. He came up to me one day asI was at the Princess of Wales's court, and said, 'I want to know you, Mr.Sterne, but it is fit you also should know who it is that wishes thispleasure. You have heard of an old Lord Bathurst, of whom your Popes andSwifts have sung and spoken so much? I have lived my life with geniuses ofthat cast; but have survived them; and, despairing ever to find theirequals, it is some years since I have shut up my books and closed myaccounts; but you have kindled a desire in me of opening them once morebefore I die: which I now do: so go home and dine with me.' This nobleman,I say, is a prodigy, for he has all the wit and promptness of a man ofthirty; a disposition to be pleased, and a power to please others, beyondwhatever I knew: added to which a man of learning, courtesy, and feeling."
"He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with uncommon satisfaction--for there wasonly a third person, _and of sensibility_, with us: and a most sentimentalafternoon till nine o'clock have we passed!(166) But thou, Eliza! wert thestar that conducted and enlivened the discourse! And when I talked not ofthee, still didst thou fill my mind, and warm every thought I uttered, forI am not ashamed to acknowledge I greatly miss thee. Best of all goodgirls!--the sufferings I have sustained all night in consequence of thine,Eliza, are beyond the power of words.... And so thou hast fixed thyBramin's portrait over thy writing desk, and will consult it in all doubtsand difficulties?--Grateful and good girl! Yorick smiles contentedly overall thou dost: his picture does not do justice to his own complacency. Iam g
lad your shipmates are friendly beings" (Eliza was at Deal, going backto the Counsellor at Bombay, and indeed it was high time she should beoff). "You could least dispense with what is contrary to your own nature,which is soft and gentle, Eliza; it would civilize savages--though pitywere it thou shouldst be tainted with the office. Write to me, my child,thy delicious letters. Let them speak the easy carelessness of a heartthat opens itself anyhow, every how. Such, Eliza, I write to thee!" (Theartless rogue, of course he did!) "And so I should ever love thee, mostartlessly, most affectionately, if Providence permitted thy residence inthe same section of the globe: for I am all that honour and affection canmake me 'THY BRAMIN'."
The Bramin continues addressing Mrs. Draper until the departure of the_Earl of Chatham_, Indiaman, from Deal, on the 2nd of April, 1767. He isamiably anxious about the fresh paint for Eliza's cabin; he is uncommonlysolicitous about her companions on board: "I fear the best of yourshipmates are only genteel by comparison with the contrasted crew withwhich thou beholdest them. So was--you know who--from the same fallacy whichwas put upon your judgement when--but I will not mortify you!"
"You know who" was, of course, Daniel Draper, Esq., of Bombay--a gentlemanvery much respected in that quarter of the globe, and about whose probablehealth our worthy Bramin writes with delightful candour.
"I honour you, Eliza, for keeping secret some things which, if explained,had been a panegyric on yourself. There is a dignity in venerableaffliction which will not allow it to appeal to the world for pity orredress. Well have you supported that character, my amiable, myphilosophic friend! And indeed, I begin to think you have as many virtuesas my Uncle Toby's widow. Talking of widows--pray, Eliza, if ever you aresuch, do not think of giving yourself to some wealthy Nabob, because Idesign to marry you myself. My wife cannot live long, and I know not thewoman I should like so well for her substitute as yourself. 'Tis true I amninety-five in constitution, and you but twenty-five; but what I want inyouth, I will make up in wit and good humour. Not Swift so loved hisStella, Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Saccharissa. Tell me, inanswer to this, that you approve and honour the proposal."
Approve and honour the proposal! The coward was writing gay letters to hisfriends this while, with sneering allusions to this poor foolish_Bramine_. Her ship was not out of the Downs, and the charming Sterne wasat the "Mount" Coffee-house, with a sheet of gilt-edged paper before him,offering that precious treasure his heart to Lady P----, asking whether itgave her pleasure to see him unhappy? whether it added to her triumph thather eyes and lips had turned a man into a fool?--quoting the Lord's Prayer,with a horrible baseness of blasphemy, as a proof that he had desired notto be led into temptation, and swearing himself the most tender andsincere fool in the world. It was from his home at Coxwould that he wrotethe Latin letter, which, I suppose, he was ashamed to put into English. Ifind in my copy of the _Letters_, that there is a note of I can't call itadmiration, at Letter 112, which seems to announce that there was a No. 3to whom the wretched worn-out old scamp was paying his addresses;(167) andthe year after, having come back to his lodgings in Bond Street, with his_Sentimental Journey_ to launch upon the town, eager as ever for praiseand pleasure; as vain, as wicked, as witty, as false as he had ever been,death at length seized the feeble wretch, and, on the 18th of March, 1768,that "bale of cadaverous goods", as he calls his body, was consigned toPluto.(168) In his last letter there is one sign of grace--the realaffection with which he entreats a friend to be a guardian to his daughterLydia.(169) All his letters to her are artless, kind, affectionate, and_not_ sentimental; as a hundred pages in his writings are beautiful, andfull, not of surprising humour merely, but of genuine love and kindness. Aperilous trade, indeed, is that of a man who has to bring his tears andlaughter, his recollections, his personal griefs and joys, his privatethoughts and feelings to market, to write them on paper, and sell them formoney. Does he exaggerate his grief, so as to get his reader's pity for afalse sensibility? feign indignation, so as to establish a character forvirtue? elaborate repartees, so that he may pass for a wit? steal fromother authors, and put down the theft to the credit side of his ownreputation for ingenuity and learning? feign originality? affectbenevolence or misanthropy? appeal to the gallery gods with claptraps andvulgar baits to catch applause?
How much of the paint and emphasis is necessary for the fair business ofthe stage, and how much of the rant and rouge is put on for the vanity ofthe actor? His audience trusts him: can he trust himself? How much wasdeliberate calculation and imposture--how much was false sensibility--andhow much true feeling? Where did the lie begin, and did he know where? andwhere did the truth end in the art and scheme of this man of genius, thisactor, this quack? Some time since, I was in the company of a Frenchactor, who began after dinner, and at his own request, to sing Frenchsongs of the sort called _des chansons grivoises_, and which he performedadmirably, and to the dissatisfaction of most persons present. Havingfinished these, he commenced a sentimental ballad--it was so charminglysung that it touched all persons present, and especially the singerhimself, whose voice trembled, whose eyes filled with emotion, and who wassnivelling and weeping quite genuine tears by the time his own ditty wasover. I suppose Sterne had this artistical sensibility; he used to blubberperpetually in his study, and finding his tears infectious, and that theybrought him a great popularity, he exercised the lucrative gift ofweeping; he utilized it, and cried on every occasion. I own that I don'tvalue or respect much the cheap dribble of those fountains. He fatigues mewith his perpetual disquiet and his uneasy appeals to my risible orsentimental faculties. He is always looking in my face, watching hiseffect, uncertain whether I think him an impostor or not; posture-making,coaxing, and imploring me. "See what sensibility I have--own now that I'mvery clever--do cry now, you can't resist this." The humour of Swift andRabelais, whom he pretended to succeed, poured from them as naturally assong does from a bird; they lose no manly dignity with it, but laugh theirhearty great laugh out of their broad chests as nature bade them. But thisman--who can make you laugh, who can make you cry, too--never lets hisreader alone, or will permit his audience repose: when you are quiet, hefancies he must rouse you, and turns over head and heels, or sidles up andwhispers a nasty story. The man is a great jester, not a great humourist.He goes to work systematically and of cold blood; paints his face, puts onhis ruff and motley clothes, and lays down his carpet and tumbles on it.
For instance, take the _Sentimental Journey_, and see in the writer thedeliberate propensity to make points and seek applause. He gets toDessein's Hotel, he wants a carriage to travel to Paris, he goes to theinn-yard, and begins what the actors call "business" at once. There isthat little carriage the _desobligeant_. "Four months had elapsed since ithad finished its career of Europe in the corner of Monsieur Dessein'scourtyard, and having sallied out thence but a vamped-up business atfirst, though it had been twice taken to pieces on Mount Sennis, it hadnot profited much by its adventures, but by none so little as the standingso many months unpitied in the corner of Monsieur Dessein's coachyard.Much, indeed, was not to be said for it--but something might--and when a fewwords will rescue misery out of her distress, I hate the man who can be achurl of them."
_Le tour est fait!_ Paillasse has tumbled! Paillasse has jumped over the_desobligeant_, cleared it, hood and all, and bows to the noble company.Does anybody believe that this is a real Sentiment? that this luxury ofgenerosity, this gallant rescue of Misery--out of an old cab, is genuinefeeling? It is as genuine as the virtuous oratory of Joseph Surface whenhe begins, "The man who," &c. &c., and wishes to pass off for a saint withhis credulous, good-humoured dupes.
Our friend purchases the carriage--after turning that notorious old monk togood account, and effecting (like a soft and good-natured Paillasse as hewas, and very free with his money when he had it), an exchange ofsnuff-boxes with the old Franciscan, jogs out of Calais; sets down inimmense figures on the credit side of his account the sous he gives awayto the Montreuil beggars; and, at Nampont, gets out of the
chaise andwhimpers over that famous dead donkey, for which any sentimentalist maycry who will. It is agreeably and skilfully done--that dead jackass; likeM. de Soubise's cook, on the campaign, Sterne dresses it, and serves it upquite tender and with a very piquante sauce. But tears, and fine feelings,and a white pocket-handkerchief, and a funeral sermon, and horses andfeathers, and a procession of mutes, and a hearse with a dead donkeyinside! Psha! Mountebank! I'll not give thee one penny more for thattrick, donkey and all!
This donkey had appeared once before with signal effect. In 1765, threeyears before the publication of the _Sentimental Journey_, the seventh andeighth volumes of _Tristram Shandy_ were given to the world, and thefamous Lyons donkey makes his entry in those volumes (pp. 315, 316):--
"'Twas by a poor ass, with a couple of large panniers at his back, who hadjust turned in to collect eleemosynary turnip-tops and cabbage-leaves, andstood dubious, with his two forefeet at the inside of the threshold, andwith his two hinder feet towards the street, as not knowing very wellwhether he was to go in or no.
"Now 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) I cannot bear to strike;there is a patient endurance of suffering wrote so unaffectedly in hislooks and carriage which pleads so mightily for him, that it alwaysdisarms me, and to that degree that I do not like to speak unkindly tohim: on the contrary, meet him where I will, whether in town or country,in cart or under panniers, whether in liberty or bondage, I have eversomething civil to say to him on my part; and, as one word begets another(if he has as little to do as I), I generally fall into conversation withhim; and surely never is my imagination so busy as in framing responsesfrom the etchings of his countenance; and where those carry me not deepenough, in flying from my own heart into his, and seeing what is naturalfor an ass to think--as well as a man, upon the occasion. In truth, it isthe only creature of all the classes of beings below me with whom I can dothis.... With an ass I can commune for ever.
" 'Come, Honesty,' said I, seeing it was impracticable to pass betwixt himand the gate, 'art thou for coming in or going out?'
"The ass twisted his head round to look up the street.
" 'Well!' replied I, 'we'll wait a minute for thy driver.'
"He turned his head thoughtful about, and looked wistfully the oppositeway.
" 'I understand thee perfectly,' answered I: 'if thou takest a wrong stepin this affair, he will cudgel thee to death. Well! a minute is but aminute; and if it saves a fellow creature a drubbing, it shall not be setdown as ill spent.'
"He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse went on, and, inthe little peevish contentions between hunger and unsavouriness, haddropped it out of his mouth half a dozen times, and had picked it upagain. 'God help thee, Jack!' said I, 'thou hast a bitter breakfaston't--and many a bitter day's labour, and many a bitter blow, I fear, forits wages! 'Tis all, all bitterness to thee--whatever life is to others!And now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter. I dare say,as soot' (for he had cast aside the stem), 'and thou hast not a friendperhaps in all this world that will give thee a macaroon.' In saying this,I pulled out a paper of 'em, which I had just bought, and gave himone;--and, at this moment that I am telling it, my heart smites me thatthere was more of pleasantry in the conceit of seeing _how_ an ass wouldeat a macaroon than of benevolence in giving him one, which presided inthe act.
"When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I pressed him to come in. The poorbeast was heavy loaded--his legs seemed to tremble under him--he hung ratherbackward, and, as I pulled at his halter, it broke in my hand. He lookedup pensive in my face: 'Don't thrash me with it: but if you will you may.''If I do,' said I, 'I'll be d----.' "
A critic who refuses to see in this charming description wit, humour,pathos, a kind nature speaking, and a real sentiment, must be hard indeedto move and to please. A page or two farther we come to a description notless beautiful--a landscape and figures, deliciously painted by one who hadthe keenest enjoyment and the most tremulous sensibility:--
"'Twas in the road between Nismes and Lunel, where is the best Muscattowine in all France: the sun was set, they had done their work; the nymphshad tied up their hair afresh, and the swains were preparing for acarousal. My mule made a dead point. ''Tis the pipe and tambourine,' saidI--'I never will argue a point with one of your family as long as I live;'so leaping off his back, and kicking off one boot into this ditch andt'other into that, 'I'll take a dance,' said I, 'so stay you here.'
"A sunburnt daughter of labour rose up from the group to meet me as Iadvanced towards them; her hair, which was of a dark chestnut approachingto a black, was tied up in a knot, all but a single tress.
" 'We want a cavalier,' said she, holding out both her hands, as if tooffer them. 'And a cavalier you shall have,' said I, taking hold of bothof them. 'We could not have done without you,' said she, letting go onehand, with self-taught politeness, and leading me up with the other.
"A lame youth, whom Apollo had recompensed with a pipe, and to which hehad added a tambourine of his own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude, ashe sat upon the bank. 'Tie me up this tress instantly,' said Nannette,putting a piece of string into my hand. It taught me to forget I was astranger. The whole knot fell down--we had been seven years acquainted. Theyouth struck the note upon the tambourine, his pipe followed, and off webounded.
"The sister of the youth--who had stolen her voice from Heaven--sangalternately with her brother. 'Twas a Gascoigne roundelay. '_Viva la joia,fidon la tristessa!_'--the nymphs joined in unison, and their swains anoctave below them.
"_Viva la joia_ was in Nannette's lips, _viva la joia_ in her eyes. Atransient spark of amity shot across the space betwixt us. She lookedamiable. Why could I not live and end my days thus? 'Just Disposer of ourjoys and sorrows!' cried I, 'why could not a man sit down in the lap ofcontent here, and dance, and sing, and say his prayers, and go to heavenwith this nut-brown maid?' Capriciously did she bend her head on one side,and dance up insidious. 'Then 'tis time to dance off,' quoth I."
And with this pretty dance and chorus, the volume artfully concludes. Evenhere one can't give the whole description. There is not a page in Sterne'swriting but has something that were better away, a latent corruption--ahint, as of an impure presence.(170)
Some of that dreary _double entendre_ may be attributed to freer times andmanners than ours, but not all. The foul Satyr's eyes leer out of theleaves constantly: the last words the famous author wrote were bad andwicked--the last lines the poor stricken wretch penned were for pity andpardon. I think of these past writers and of one who lives amongst us now,and am grateful for the innocent laughter and the sweet and unsullied pagewhich the author of _David Copperfield_ gives to my children.
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Jete sur cette boule, Laid, chetif et souffrant; Etouffe dans la foule, Faute d'etre assez grand;
Une plainte touchante De ma bouche sortit; Le bon Dieu me dit: Chante, Chante, pauvre petit!
Chanter, ou je m'abuse, Est ma tache ici-bas. Tous ceux qu'ainsi j'amuse, Ne m'aimeront-ils pas?
In those charming lines of Beranger, one may fancy described the career,the sufferings, the genius, the gentle nature of GOLDSMITH, and the esteemin which we hold him. Who, of the millions whom he has amused, doesn'tlove him? To be the most beloved of English writers, what a title that isfor a man!(171) A wild youth, wayward, but full of tenderness andaffection, quits the country village where his boyhood has been passed inhappy musing, in idle shelter, in fond longing to see the great world outof doors, and achieve name and fortune--and after years of dire struggle,and neglect and poverty, his heart turning back as fondly to his nativeplace, as it had longed eagerly for change when sheltered there, he writesa book and a poem, full of the recollections and feelings of home--hepaints the friends and scenes of his youth, and peoples Auburn andWakefield with remembrances of Lissoy. Wander he must, but he carries awaya home-relic with him, and dies with it on his breast. His nature istruant;
in repose it longs for change: as on the journey it looks back forfriends and quiet. He passes to-day in building an air-castle forto-morrow, or in writing yesterday's elegy; and he would fly away thishour, but that a cage and necessity keep him. What is the charm of hisverse, of his style, and humour? His sweet regrets, his delicatecompassion, his soft smile, his tremulous sympathy, the weakness which heowns? Your love for him is half pity. You come hot and tired from theday's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you. Who could harm thekind vagrant harper? Whom did he ever hurt? He carries no weapon--save theharp on which he plays to you; and with which he delights great andhumble, young and old, the captains in the tents, or the soldiers roundthe fire, or the women and children in the villages, at whose porches hestops and sings his simple songs of love and beauty. With that sweet storyof the _Vicar of Wakefield_,(172) he has found entry into every castle andevery hamlet in Europe. Not one of us, however busy or hard, but once ortwice in our lives has passed an evening with him, and undergone the charmof his delightful music.
Goldsmith's father was no doubt the good Doctor Primrose, whom we all ofus know.(173) Swift was yet alive, when the little Oliver was born atPallas, or Pallasmore, in the county of Longford, in Ireland. In 1730, twoyears after the child's birth, Charles Goldsmith removed his family toLissoy, in the county Westmeath, that sweet "Auburn" which every personwho hears me has seen in fancy. Here the kind parson(174) brought up hiseight children; and loving all the world, as his son says, fancied all theworld loved him. He had a crowd of poor dependants besides those hungrychildren. He kept an open table; round which sat flatterers and poorfriends, who laughed at the honest rector's many jokes, and ate theproduce of his seventy acres of farm. Those who have seen an Irish housein the present day can fancy that one of Lissoy. The old beggar still hashis allotted corner by the kitchen turf; the maimed old soldier still getshis potatoes and buttermilk; the poor cottier still asks his honour'scharity, and prays God bless his Reverence for the sixpence; the raggedpensioner still takes his place by right and sufferance. There's still acrowd in the kitchen, and a crowd round the parlour-table, profusion,confusion, kindness, poverty. If an Irishman comes to London to make hisfortune, he has a half-dozen of Irish dependants who take a percentage ofhis earnings. The good Charles Goldsmith(175) left but little provisionfor his hungry race when death summoned him; and one of his daughtersbeing engaged to a squire of rather superior dignity, Charles Goldsmithimpoverished the rest of his family to provide the girl with a dowry.
The small-pox, which scourged all Europe at that time, and ravaged theroses off the cheeks of half the world, fell foul of poor little Oliver'sface, when the child was eight years old, and left him scarred anddisfigured for his life. An old woman in his father's village taught himhis letters, and pronounced him a dunce: Paddy Byrne, thehedge-schoolmaster, took him in hand; and from Paddy Byrne, he wastransmitted to a clergyman at Elphin. When a child was sent to school inthose days, the classic phrase was that he was placed under Mr.So-and-so's _ferule_. Poor little ancestors! It is hard to think howruthlessly you were birched; and how much of needless whipping and tearsour small forefathers had to undergo! A relative--kind Uncle Contarine,took the main charge of little Noll; who went through his school-daysrighteously doing as little work as he could: robbing orchards, playing atball, and making his pocket-money fly about whenever fortune sent it tohim. Everybody knows the story of that famous "Mistake of a Night", whenthe young schoolboy, provided with a guinea and a nag, rode up to the"best house" in Ardagh, called for the landlord's company over a bottle ofwine at supper, and for a hot cake for breakfast in the morning; andfound, when he asked for the bill, that the best house was SquireFeatherstone's, and not the inn for which he mistook it. Who does not knowevery story about Goldsmith? That is a delightful and fantastic picture ofthe child dancing and capering about in the kitchen at home, when the oldfiddler gibed at him for his ugliness--and called him Aesop, and littleNoll made his repartee of "Heralds proclaim aloud this saying--See Aesopdancing and his monkey playing". One can fancy a queer pitiful look ofhumour and appeal upon that little scarred face--the funny little dancingfigure, the funny little brogue. In his life, and his writings, which arethe honest expression of it, he is constantly bewailing that homely faceand person; anon, he surveys them in the glass ruefully; and presentlyassumes the most comical dignity. He likes to deck out his little personin splendour and fine colours. He presented himself to be examined forordination in a pair of scarlet breeches, and said honestly that he didnot like to go into the Church, because he was fond of coloured clothes.When he tried to practise as a doctor, he got by hook or by crook a blackvelvet suit, and looked as big and grand as he could, and kept his hatover a patch on the old coat: in better days he bloomed out inplum-colour, in blue silk, and in new velvet. For some of those splendoursthe heirs and assignees of Mr. Filby, the tailor, have never been paid tothis day; perhaps the kind tailor and his creditor have met and settledthe little account in Hades.(176)
They showed until lately a window at Trinity College, Dublin, on which thename of O. Goldsmith was engraved with a diamond. Whose diamond was it?Not the young sizar's, who made but a poor figure in that place oflearning. He was idle, penniless, and fond of pleasure:(177) he learnedhis way early to the pawnbroker's shop. He wrote ballads, they say, forthe street-singers, who paid him a crown for a poem: and his pleasure wasto steal out at night and hear his verses sung. He was chastised by histutor for giving a dance in his rooms, and took the box on the ear so muchto heart, that he packed up his all, pawned his books and little property,and disappeared from college and family. He said he intended to go toAmerica, but when his money was spent, the young prodigal came homeruefully, and the good folks there killed their calf--it was but a leanone--and welcomed him back.
After college, he hung about his mother's house, and lived for some yearsthe life of a buckeen--passed a month with this relation and that, a yearwith one patron, a great deal of time at the public-house.(178) Tired ofthis life, it was resolved that he should go to London, and study at theTemple; but he got no farther on the road to London and the woolsack thanDublin, where he gambled away the fifty pounds given to him for hisoutfit, and whence he returned to the indefatigable forgiveness of home.Then he determined to be a doctor, and Uncle Contarine helped him to acouple of years at Edinburgh. Then from Edinburgh he felt that he ought tohear the famous professors of Leyden and Paris, and wrote most amusingpompous letters to his uncle about the great Farheim, Du Petit, andDuhamel du Monceau, whose lectures he proposed to follow. If UncleContarine believed those letters--if Oliver's mother believed that storywhich the youth related of his going to Cork, with the purpose ofembarking for America, of his having paid his passage-money, and havingsent his kit on board; of the anonymous captain sailing away with Oliver'svaluable luggage in a nameless ship, never to return; if Uncle Contarineand the mother at Ballymahon believed his stories, they must have been avery simple pair; as it was a very simple rogue indeed who cheated them.When the lad, after failing in his clerical examination, after failing inhis plan for studying the law, took leave of these projects and of hisparents, and set out for Edinburgh, he saw mother, and uncle, and lazyBallymahon, and green native turf, and sparkling river for the last time.He was never to look on old Ireland more, and only in fancy revisit her.
But me not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care, Impelled, with step unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view;
That like the circle bounding earth and skies Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies: My fortune leads to traverse realms unknown, And find no spot of all the world my own.
I spoke in a former lecture of that high courage which enabled Fielding,in spite of disease, remorse, and poverty, always to retain a cheerfulspirit and to keep his manly benevolence and love of truth intact, as ifthese treasures had been confided to him for the public benefit, and hewas accountable to posterity for their honourable empl
oy; and a constancyequally happy and admirable I think was shown by Goldsmith, whose sweetand friendly nature bloomed kindly always in the midst of a life's storm,and rain, and bitter weather.(179) The poor fellow was never so friendlessbut he could befriend some one; never so pinched and wretched but he couldgive of his crust, and speak his word of compassion. If he had but hisflute left, he could give that, and make the children happy in the drearyLondon court. He could give the coals in that queer coal-scuttle we readof to his poor neighbour: he could give away his blankets in college tothe poor widow, and warm himself as he best might in the feathers: hecould pawn his coat to save his landlord from gaol: when he was aschool-usher, he spent his earnings in treats for the boys, and thegood-natured schoolmaster's wife said justly that she ought to keep Mr.Goldsmith's money as well as the young gentlemen's. When he met his pupilsin later life, nothing would satisfy the Doctor but he must treat themstill. "Have you seen the print of me after Sir Joshua Reynolds?" he askedof one of his old pupils. "Not seen it? not bought it? Sure, Jack, if yourpicture had been published, I'd not have been without it half an hour."His purse and his heart were everybody's, and his friends' as much as hisown. When he was at the height of his reputation, and the Earl ofNorthumberland, going as Lord Lieutenant to Ireland, asked if he could beof any service to Dr. Goldsmith, Goldsmith recommended his brother, andnot himself, to the great man. "My patrons," he gallantly said, "are thebooksellers, and I want no others."(180) Hard patrons they were, and hardwork he did; but he did not complain much: if in his early writings somebitter words escaped him, some allusions to neglect and poverty, hewithdrew these expressions when his works were republished, and betterdays seemed to open for him; and he did not care to complain that printeror publisher had overlooked his merit, or left him poor. The Court facewas turned from honest Oliver, the Court patronized Beattie; the fashiondid not shine on him--fashion adored Sterne.(181)
Fashion pronounced Kelly to be the great writer of comedy of his day. Alittle--not ill humour, but plaintiveness--a little betrayal of woundedpride which he showed render him not the less amiable. The author of the_Vicar of Wakefield_ had a right to protest when Newbery kept back the MS.for two years; had a right to be a little peevish with Sterne; a littleangry when Colman's actors declined their parts in his delightful comedy,when the manager refused to have a scene painted for it, and pronouncedits damnation before hearing. He had not the great public with him; but hehad the noble Johnson, and the admirable Reynolds, and the great Gibbon,and the great Burke, and the great Fox--friends and admirers illustriousindeed, as famous as those who, fifty years before, sat round Pope'stable.
Nobody knows, and I dare say Goldsmith's buoyant temper kept no account ofall the pains which he endured during the early period of his literarycareer. Should any man of letters in our day have to bear up against such,Heaven grant he may come out of the period of misfortune with such a purekind heart as that which Goldsmith obstinately bore in his breast. Theinsults to which he had to submit are shocking to read of--slander,contumely, vulgar satire, brutal malignity perverting his commonestmotives and actions: he had his share of these, and one's anger is rousedat reading of them, as it is at seeing a woman insulted or a childassaulted, at the notion that a creature so very gentle and weak, and fullof love, should have had to suffer so. And he had worse than insult toundergo--to own to fault, and deprecate the anger of ruffians. There is aletter of his extant to one Griffiths, a bookseller, in which poorGoldsmith is forced to confess that certain books sent by Griffiths are inthe hands of a friend from whom Goldsmith had been forced to borrow money."He was wild, sir," Johnson said, speaking of Goldsmith to Boswell, withhis great, wise benevolence and noble mercifulness of heart, "Dr.Goldsmith was wild, sir; but he is so no more." Ah! if we pity the goodand weak man who suffers undeservedly, let us deal very gently with himfrom whom misery extorts not only tears, but shame; let us think humblyand charitably of the human nature that suffers so sadly and falls so low.Whose turn may it be tomorrow? What weak heart, confident before trial,may not succumb under temptation invincible? Cover the good man who hasbeen vanquished--cover his face and pass on.
For the last half-dozen years of his life, Goldsmith was far removed fromthe pressure of any ignoble necessity: and in the receipt, indeed, of apretty large income from the booksellers, his patrons. Had he lived but afew years more, his public fame would have been as great as his privatereputation, and he might have enjoyed alive a part of that esteem whichhis country has ever since paid to the vivid and versatile genius who hastouched on almost every subject of literature, and touched nothing that hedid not adorn. Except in rare instances, a man is known in our profession,and esteemed as a skilful workman, years before the lucky hit whichtrebles his usual gains, and stamps him a popular author. In the strengthof his age, and the dawn of his reputation, having for backers and friendsthe most illustrious literary men of his time,(182) fame and prosperitymight have been in store for Goldsmith, had fate so willed it; and, atforty-six, had not sudden disease carried him off. I say prosperity ratherthan competence, for it is probable that no sum could have put order intohis affairs or sufficed for his irreclaimable habits of dissipation. Itmust be remembered that he owed 2,000_l._ when he died. "Was ever poet,"Johnson asked, "so trusted before?" As has been the case with many anothergood fellow of his nation, his life was tracked and his substance wastedby crowds of hungry beggars, and lazy dependants. If they came at a luckytime (and be sure they knew his affairs better than he did himself, andwatched his pay-day), he gave them of his money: if they begged onempty-purse days he gave them his promissory bills: or he treated them toa tavern where he had credit; or he obliged them with an order upon honestMr. Filby for coats, for which he paid as long as he could earn, and untilthe shears of Filby were to cut for him no more. Staggering under a loadof debt and labour, tracked by bailiffs and reproachful creditors, runningfrom a hundred poor dependants, whose appealing looks were perhaps thehardest of all pains for him to bear, devising fevered plans for themorrow, new histories, new comedies, all sorts of new literary schemes,flying from all these into seclusion, and out of seclusion intopleasure--at last, at five-and-forty, death seized him and closed hiscareer.(183) I have been many a time in the chambers in the Temple whichwere his, and passed up the staircase, which Johnson, and Burke, andReynolds trod to see their friend, their poet, their kind Goldsmith--thestair on which the poor women sat weeping bitterly when they heard thatthe greatest and most generous of all men was dead within the black oakdoor.(184) Ah, it was a different lot from that for which the poor fellowsighed, when he wrote with heart yearning for home those most charming ofall fond verses, in which he fancies he revisits Auburn--
Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangled walks and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, Swells at my heart, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care In all my griefs--and God has given my share, I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose; I still had hopes--for pride attends us still-- Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. Pants to the place from whence at first she flew-- I still had hopes--my long vexations past, Here to return, and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline! Retreats from care that never must be mine-- How blest is he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches born to work and weep Explore the mine or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state To spurn imploring famine from his gate: But on he mo
ves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, Whilst resignation gently slopes the way; And all his prospects brightening at the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past.
In these verses, I need not say with what melody, with what touchingtruth, with what exquisite beauty of comparison--as indeed in hundreds morepages of the writings of this honest soul--the whole character of the manis told--his humble confession of faults and weakness; his pleasant littlevanity, and desire that his village should admire him; his simple schemeof good in which everybody was to be happy--no beggar was to be refused hisdinner--nobody in fact was to work much, and he to be the harmless chief ofthe Utopia, and the monarch of the Irish Yvetot. He would have told again,and without fear of their failing, those famous jokes(185) which had hungfire in London; he would have talked of his great friends of the Club--ofmy Lord Clare and my Lord Bishop, my Lord Nugent--sure he knew themintimately, and was hand and glove with some of the best men in town--andhe would have spoken of Johnson and of Burke, from Cork, and of Sir Joshuawho had painted him--and he would have told wonderful sly stories ofRanelagh and the Pantheon, and the masquerades at Madame Cornelys'; and hewould have toasted, with a sigh, the Jessamy Bride--the lovely MaryHorneck.
The figure of that charming young lady forms one of the prettiestrecollections of Goldsmith's life. She and her beautiful sister, whomarried Bunbury, the graceful and humorous amateur artist of those days,when Gilray had but just begun to try his powers, were among the kindestand dearest of Goldsmith's many friends, cheered and pitied him, travelledabroad with him; made him welcome at their home, and gave him many apleasant holiday. He bought his finest clothes to figure at their countryhouse at Barton--he wrote them droll verses. They loved him, laughed athim, played him tricks and made him happy. He asked for a loan fromGarrick, and Garrick kindly supplied him, to enable him to go toBarton--but there were to be no more holidays, and only one brief strugglemore for poor Goldsmith--a lock of his hair was taken from the coffin andgiven to the Jessamy Bride. She lived quite into our time. Hazlitt saw heran old lady, but beautiful still, in Northcote's painting-room, who toldthe eager critic how proud she always was that Goldsmith had admired her.The younger Colman has left a touching reminiscence of him (vol. i. 63,64).
"I was only five years old," he says, "when Goldsmith took me on his kneeone evening whilst he was drinking coffee with my father, and began toplay with me, which amiable act I returned, with the ingratitude of apeevish brat, by giving him a very smart slap on the face: it must havebeen a tingler, for it left the marks of my spiteful paw on his cheek.This infantile outrage was followed by summary justice, and I was lockedup by my indignant father in an adjoining room to undergo solitaryimprisonment in the dark. Here I began to howl and scream most abominably,which was no bad step towards my liberation, since those who were notinclined to pity me might be likely to set me free for the purpose ofabating a nuisance.
"At length a generous friend appeared to extricate me from jeopardy, andthat generous friend was no other than the man I had so wantonly molestedby assault and battery--it was the tender-hearted Doctor himself, with alighted candle in his hand, and a smile upon his countenance, which wasstill partially red from the effects of my petulance. I sulked and sobbedas he fondled and soothed, till I began to brighten. Goldsmith seized thepropitious moment of returning good humour, when he put down the candleand began to conjure. He placed three hats, which happened to be in theroom, and a shilling under each. The shillings he told me were England,France, and Spain. 'Hey presto cockalorum!' cried the Doctor, and lo, onuncovering the shillings, which had been dispersed each beneath a separatehat, they were all found congregated under one. I was no politician atfive years old, and therefore might not have wondered at the suddenrevolution which brought England, France, and Spain all under one crown;but, as also I was no conjurer, it amazed me beyond measure.... From thattime, whenever the Doctor came to visit my father, 'I plucked his gown toshare the good man's smile'; a game at romps constantly ensued, and wewere always cordial friends and merry playfellows. Our unequalcompanionship varied somewhat as to sports as I grew older; but it did notlast long: my senior playmate died in his forty-fifth year, when I hadattained my eleventh.... In all the numerous accounts of his virtues andfoibles, his genius and absurdities, his knowledge of nature and ignoranceof the world, his 'compassion for another's woe' was always predominant;and my trivial story of his humouring a froward child weighs but as afeather in the recorded scale of his benevolence."
Think of him reckless, thriftless, vain if you like--but merciful, gentle,generous, full of love and pity. He passes out of our life, and goes torender his account beyond it. Think of the poor pensioners weeping at hisgrave; think of the noble spirits that admired and deplored him; think ofthe righteous pen that wrote his epitaph--and of the wonderful andunanimous response of affection with which the world has paid back thelove he gave it. His humour delighting us still: his song fresh andbeautiful as when first he charmed with it: his words in all our mouths:his very weaknesses beloved and familiar--his benevolent spirit seems stillto smile upon us: to do gentle kindnesses: to succour with sweet charity:to soothe, caress, and forgive: to plead with the fortunate for theunhappy and the poor.
His name is the last in the list of those men of humour who have formedthe themes of the discourses which you have heard so kindly.
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Long before I had ever hoped for such an audience, or dreamed of thepossibility of the good fortune which has brought me so many friends, Iwas at issue with some of my literary brethren upon a point--which theyheld from tradition I think rather than experience--that our profession wasneglected in this country; and that men of letters were ill-received andheld in slight esteem. It would hardly be grateful of me now to alter myold opinion that we do meet with goodwill and kindness, with generoushelping hands in the time of our necessity, with cordial and friendlyrecognition. What claim had any one of these of whom I have been speaking,but genius? What return of gratitude, fame, affection, did it not bring toall?
What punishment befell those who were unfortunate among them, but thatwhich follows reckless habits and careless lives? For these faults a witmust suffer like the dullest prodigal that ever ran in debt. He must paythe tailor if he wears the coat; his children must go in rags if he spendshis money at the tavern; he can't come to London and be made LordChancellor if he stops on the road and gambles away his last shilling atDublin. And he must pay the social penalty of these follies too, andexpect that the world will shun the man of bad habits, that women willavoid the man of loose life, that prudent folks will close their doors asa precaution, and before a demand should be made on their pockets by theneedy prodigal. With what difficulty had any one of these men to contend,save that eternal and mechanical one of want of means and lack of capital,and of which thousands of young lawyers, young doctors, young soldiers andsailors, of inventors, manufacturers, shopkeepers, have to complain?Hearts as brave and resolute as ever beat in the breast of any wit orpoet, sicken and break daily in the vain endeavour and unavailing struggleagainst life's difficulty. Don't we see daily ruined inventors,grey-haired midshipmen, balked heroes, blighted curates, barristers pininga hungry life out in chambers, the attorneys never mounting to theirgarrets, whilst scores of them are rapping at the door of the successfulquack below? If these suffer, who is the author, that he should be exempt?Let us bear our ills with the same constancy with which others endurethem, accept our manly part in life, hold our own, and ask no more. I canconceive of no kings or laws causing or curing Goldsmith's improvidence,or Fielding's fatal love of pleasure, or Dick Steele's mania for runningraces with the constable. You never can outrun that sure-footedofficer--not by any swiftness or by dodges devised by any genius, howevergreat; and he carries off the Tatler to the spunging-house, or taps theCitizen of the World on the shoulder as he would any other mortal.
D
oes society look down on a man because he is an author? I suppose ifpeople want a buffoon they tolerate him only in so far as he is amusing;it can hardly be expected that they should respect him as an equal. Isthere to be a guard of honour provided for the author of the last newnovel or poem? how long is he to reign, and keep other potentates out ofpossession? He retires, grumbles, and prints a lamentation that literatureis despised. If Captain A. is left out of Lady B.'s parties he does notstate that the army is despised: if Lord C. no longer asks Counsellor D.to dinner, Counsellor D. does not announce that the Bar is insulted. He isnot fair to society if he enters it with this suspicion hankering abouthim; if he is doubtful about his reception, how hold up his head honestly,and look frankly in the face that world about which he is full ofsuspicion? Is he place-hunting, and thinking in his mind that he ought tobe made an Ambassador, like Prior, or a Secretary of State, like Addison?his pretence of equality falls to the ground at once: he is scheming for apatron, not shaking the hand of a friend, when he meets the world. Treatsuch a man as he deserves; laugh at his buffoonery, and give him a dinnerand a _bon jour_; laugh at his self-sufficiency and absurd assumptions ofsuperiority, and his equally ludicrous airs of martyrdom: laugh at hisflattery and his scheming, and buy it, if it's worth the having. Let thewag have his dinner and the hireling his pay, if you want him, and make aprofound bow to the _grand homme incompris_, and the boisterous martyr,and show him the door. The great world, the great aggregate experience,has its good sense, as it has its good humour. It detects a pretender, asit trusts a loyal heart. It is kind in the main: how should it beotherwise than kind, when it is so wise and clear-headed? To any literaryman who says, "It despises my profession," I say, with all my might--no,no, no. It may pass over your individual case--how many a brave fellow hasfailed in the race, and perished unknown in the struggle!--but it treatsyou as you merit in the main. If you serve it, it is not unthankful; ifyou please it, it is pleased; if you cringe to it, it detects you, andscorns you if you are mean; it returns your cheerfulness with its goodhumour; it deals not ungenerously with your weaknesses; it recognizes mostkindly your merits; it gives you a fair place and fair play. To any one ofthose men of whom we have spoken was it in the main ungrateful? A kingmight refuse Goldsmith a pension, as a publisher might keep hismasterpiece and the delight of all the world in his desk for two years;but it was mistake, and not ill will. Noble and illustrious names ofSwift, and Pope, and Addison! dear and honoured memories of Goldsmith andFielding! kind friends, teachers, benefactors! who shall say that ourcountry, which continues to bring you such an unceasing tribute ofapplause, admiration, love, sympathy, does not do honour to the literarycalling in the honour which it bestows upon _you!_
THE GEORGES