 | Rambles and reveries |  |
GOLDSMITH.
It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur to
those characters in literary history who are emphatically
favorites, and to glance at the cause of their popularity.
Such speculations frequently afford more important results
than the mere gratification of curiosity. They often lead
to a clearer perception of the true tests of genius, and
indicate the principle and methods by which the common
mind may be most successfully addressed. The advantage
of such retrospective inquiries is still greater at a period
like the present, when there is such an obvious tendency
to innovate upon some of the best established theories of
taste; when the passion for novelty seeks for such unlicensed
indulgence, and invention seems to exhaust itself
rather upon forms than ideas. In literature, especially,
we appear to be daily losing one of the most valuable
elements—simplicity. The prevalent taste is no longer
gratified with the natural. There is a growing appetite
for what is startling and peculiar, seldom accompanied by
any discriminating demand for the true and original; and
only permanent elements of literature; and no healthy
mind, cognizant of its own history, is unaware that the
only intellectual aliment which never palls upon the taste,
is that which is least indebted to extraneous accompaniments
for its relish.
It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles. The
study of the old masters may sometimes make the modern
artist despair of his own efforts; but if he have the genius
to discover, and follow out the great principle upon which
they wrought, he will not have contemplated their works
in vain. He will have learned that devotion to nature
is the grand secret of progress in art, and that the success
of her votaries depends upon the singleness, constancy,
and intelligence of their worship. If there is not enthusiasm
enough to kindle this flame in its purity, nor energy
sufficient to fulfil the sacrifice required at that high
altar, let not the young aspirant enter the priesthood of
art. When the immortal painter of the Transfiguration
was asked to embody his ideal of perfect female loveliness,
he replied—there would still be an infinite distance between
his work and the existent original. In this profound and
vivid perception of the beautiful in nature, we perceive
the origin of those lovely creations, which, for more than
three hundred years, have delighted mankind. And it is
equally true of the pen as the pencil, that what is drawn
from life and the heart, alone bears the impress of immortality.
Yet the practical faith of our day is diametrically
opposed to this truth. The writers of our times are constantly
making use of artificial enginery. They have, for
earnest directness of earlier epochs. There is less faith,
as we before said, in the natural; and when we turn from
the midst of the forced and hot bed products of the modern
school, and ramble in the garden of old English literature,
a cool and calm refreshment invigorates the
spirit, like the first breath of mountain air to the weary
wayfarer.
There are few writers of the period more generally beloved
than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries,
Burke excelled him in splendor of diction, and Johnson
in depth of thought. The former continues to enjoy a
larger share of admiration, and the latter of respect, but
the labors of their less pretending companion have secured
him a far richer heritage of love. Of all posthumous
tributes to genius, this seems the most truly desirable.
It recognizes the man as well as the author. It is
called forth by more interesting characteristics than talent.
It bespeaks a greater than ordinary association of
the individual with his works, and looking beyond the
mere embodiment of his intellect, it gives assurance of an
attractiveness in his character which has made itself felt
even through the artificial medium of writing. The authors
are comparatively few, who have awakened this feeling
of personal interest and affection. It is common, indeed,
for any writer of genius to inspire emotions of gratitude
in the breasts of those susceptible to the charm, but
the instances are rare in which this sentiment is vivified
and elevated into positive affection. And few, I apprehend,
among the wits and poets of old England, have
said this kind of literary fame was eminently desirable.
There is, indeed, something inexpressibly touching in the
thought of one of the gifted of our race, attaching to himself
countless hearts by the force of a charm woven in by-gone
years, when environed by neglect and discouragement.
Though a late, it is a beautiful recompense, transcending
mere critical approbation, or even the reverence
men offer to the monuments of mind. We can conceive
of no motive to effort which can be presented to a man of
true feeling, like the hope of winning the love of his kind
by the faithful exhibition of himself. It is a nobler purpose
than that entertained by heartless ambition. The
appeal is not merely to the judgment and imagination, it
is to the universal heart of mankind. Such fame is emphatically
rich. It gains its possessor warm friends instead
of mere admirers. To establish such an inheritance
in the breast of humanity, were indeed worthy of
sacrifice and toil. It is an offering not only to intellectual
but to moral graces, and its possession argues for the
sons of fame holier qualities than genius itself. It eloquently
indicates that its subject is not only capable of
interesting the general mind by the power of his creations,
but of captivating the feelings by the earnest beauty
of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it the
most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lovers
of painting regard the truest interpreters of the art. They
wonder at Michael Angelo but love Raphael, and gaze
upon the pensively beautiful delineation he has left us of
himself, with the regretful tenderness with which we look
music, too, dwell with glad astonishment upon the celebrated
operas of Rosini and some of the German composers,
but the memory of Bellini is absolutely loved. It is
well remarked by one of Goldsmith's biographers, that the
very fact of his being spoken of always with the epithet
“poor” attached to his name, is sufficient evidence of the
kind of fame he enjoys. Whence, then, the peculiar attraction
of his writings, and wherein consists the spell
which has so long rendered his works the favorites of so
many and such a variety of readers?
The primary and all-pervading charm of Goldsmith is
his truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful characteristic,
as it exhibits itself not less in his life than in his
writings. We see it displayed in the remarkable frankness
which distinguished his intercourse with others, and
in that winning simplicity which so frequently excited the
contemptuous laugh of the worldly-wise, but failed not to
draw towards him the more valuable sympathies of less
perverted natures. All who have sketched his biography
unite in declaring, that he could not dissemble; and we
have a good illustration of his want of tact in concealing
a defect, in the story which is related of him at the time
of his unsuccessful attempt at medical practice in Edinburgh—when,
his only velvet coat being deformed by a
huge patch on the right breast, he was accustomed, while
in the drawing room, to cover it in the most awkward
manner with his hat. It was his natural truthfulness
which led him to so candid and habitual a confession of
his faults. Johnson ridiculed him for so freely describing
first play; and, throughout his life, the perfect honesty of
his spirit made him the subject of innumerable practical
jokes. Credulity is perhaps a weakness almost inseparable
from eminently truthful characters. Yet, if such is the
case, it does not in the least diminish our faith in the superiority
and value of such characters. Waiving all moral
considerations, we believe it can be demonstrated that
truth is one of the most essential elements of real greatness,
and surest means of eminent success. Management,
chicanery and cunning, may advance men in the
career of the world; it may forward the views of the politician,
and clear the way of the diplomatist. But when
humanity is to be addressed in the universal language of
genius; when, through the medium of literature or art,
man essays to reach the heart of his kind, the more sincere
the appeal, the surer its effect; the more direct the
call, the deeper the response. In a word, the more largely
truth enters into a work, the more certain the fame of
its author. But a few months since, I saw the Parisian
populace crowding around the church where the remains
of Talleyrand lay in state, but the fever of curiosity alone
gleamed from their eyes, undimmed by tears. When
Goldsmith died, Reynolds, then in the full tide of success,
threw his pencil aside in sorrow, and Burke turned
from the fast-brightening vision of renown, to weep.
Truth is an endearing quality. None are so beloved
as the ingenuous. We feel in approaching them that the
look of welcome is unaffected—that the friendly grasp is
from the heart, and we regret their departure as an actual
principle through the labours of genius. It immortalizes
history—it is the true origin of eloquence, and
constitutes the living charm of poetry. When Goldsmith
penned the lines—
One native charm than all the gloss of art,
the secret which has embalmed his memory. It was the
clearness of his own soul which reflected so truly the
imagery of life. He did but transcribe the unadorned
convictions that glowed in his mind, and faithfully traced
the pictures which nature threw upon the mirror of his
fancy. Hence the unrivalled excellence of his descriptions.
Rural life has never found a sweeter eulogist. To
countless memories have his village landscapes risen
pleasantly, when the “murmur” rose at eventide.
Where do we not meet with a kind-hearted philosopher
delighting in some speculative hobby, equally dear as the
good Vicar's theory of Monogamy? The vigils of many
an ardent student have been beguiled by his portraiture of
a country clergyman—brightening the dim vista of futurity
as his own ideal of destiny; and who has not, at
times, caught the very solace of retirement from his
sweet apostrophe?
The genius of Goldsmith was chiefly fertilized by observation.
He was not one of those who regard books
as the only, or even the principal sources of knowledge
so richly spread over the volume of nature, and shadowed
forth so variously from the scenes of every-day life and
the teachings of individual experience. There is a class
of minds, second to none in native acuteness and reflective
power, so constituted as to flourish almost exclusively
by observation. Too impatient of restraint to endure
the long vigils of the scholar, they are yet keenly alive to
every idea and truth which is evolved from life. Without
a tithe of that spirit of application that binds the German
student for years to his familiar tomes, they suffer not a
single impression which events or character leave upon
their memories to pass unappreciated. Unlearned, in a
great measure, in the history of the past, the present is
not allowed to pass without eliciting their intelligent comment.
Unskilled in the technicalities of learning, they
contrive to appropriate, with surprising facility, the wisdom
born of the passing moment. No striking trait of
character—no remarkable effect in nature—none of the
phenomena of social existence, escape them. Like Hogarth,
they are constantly enriching themselves with
sketches from life; and, as he drew street-wonders upon
his thumb-nail, they note and remember, and afterwards
elaborate and digest whatever of interest experience affords.
Goldsmith was a true specimen of this class.
He vindicated, indeed, his claim to the title of scholar, by
research and study; but the field most congenial to his
taste, was the broad universe of nature and man. It was
his love of observation which gave zest to the roving life
he began so early to indulge. His boyhood was passed
migrating from the house of one kinsman or friend to
that of another; and on these occasions, as well as when
at home, he was silently but faithfully observing. The
result is easily traced in his writings. Few authors, indeed,
are so highly indebted to personal observation for
their materials. It is well known that the original of the
Vicar of Wakefield was his own father. Therein has he
embodied in a charming manner his early recollections of
his parent, and the picture is rendered still more complete
in his papers on the “Man in Black.” The inimitable
description, too, of the “Village Schoolmaster,”
is drawn from the poet's early teacher; and the veteran,
who “shouldered his crutch and told how fields were
won,” had often shared the hospitality of his father's roof.
The leading incident in “She Stoops to Conquer,” was
his own adventure; and there is little question, that, in
the quaint tastes of Mr. Burchell, he aimed to exhibit
many of his own peculiar traits. But it is not alone in
the leading characters of his novel, plays and poems, that
we discover Goldsmith's observing power. It is equally
discernible throughout his essays and desultory papers.
Most of his illustrations are borrowed from personal experience,
and his opinions are generally founded upon
experiment. His talent for fresh and vivid delineation,
is ever most prominently displayed when he is describing
what he actually witnessed, or drawing from the rich fund
of his early impressions or subsequent adventures. No
appeal to humor, curiosity, or imagination, was unheeded;
and it is the blended pictures he contrived to combine
lively an interest to his pages. One moment we find
him noting, with philosophic sympathy, the pastimes of a
foreign peasantry, and, another, studying the operations
of a spider at his garret window,—now busy in nomenclating
the peculiarities of the Dutch, and anon alluding to
the exhibition of Cherokee Indians. The natural effect
of this thirst for experimental knowledge, was to beget a
love for foreign travel. Accordingly, we find that Goldsmith,
after exhausting the narrow circle which his limited
means could compass at home, projected a continential
tour, and long cherished the hope of visiting the East.
Indeed, we could scarcely have a stronger proof of his enthusiasm,
than the long journey he undertook and actually
accomplished on foot. The remembrance of his romantic
wanderings over Holland, France, Germany, and
Italy, imparts a singular interest to his writings. It was
indeed worthy of a true poet that, enamored of nature and
delighting in the observation of his species, he should
thus manfully go forth, with no companion but his flute,
and wander over these fair lands hallowed by past associations
and existent beauty. A rich and happy era despite
its moments of discomfort, to such a spirit, was that year
of solitary pilgrimage. Happy and proud must have been
the imaginative pedestrian, as he reposed his weary frame
in the peasant's cottage “beside the murmuring Loire;”
and happier still when he stood amid the green valleys of
Switzerland, and looked around upon her snow-capt hills,
hailed the old towers of Verona, or entered the gate of
Florence—the long-anticipated goals to which his weary
enhance the pleasure of musing amid these scenes of
poetic interest, it must have been the consciousness of
having reached them by so gradual and self-denying a
progress. There is, in truth, no more characteristic portion
of Goldsmith's biography, than that which records
this remarkable tour; and there are few more striking
instances of the available worth of talent. Unlike the
bards of old, he won not his way to shelter and hospitality
by appealing to national feeling; for the lands through
which he roamed were not his own, and the lay of the last
Minstrel had long since died away in oblivion. But he
gained the ready kindness of the peasantry by playing the
flute, as they danced in the intervals of toil; and won the
favor of the learned by successful disputation at the convents
and universities—a method of rewarding talent
which was extensively practised in Europe at that period.
Thus, solely befriended by his wits, the roving poet rambled
over the continent, and, notwithstanding the vicissitudes
incident to so precarious a mode of seeing the world,
to a mind like his, there was ample compensation in the
superior opportunities for observation thus afforded. He
mingled frankly with the people, and saw things as they
were. The scenery which environed him flitted not before
his senses, like the shifting scenes of a panorama,
but became familiar to his eye under the changing aspects
of time and season. Manners and customs he quietly
studied, with the advantage of sufficient opportunity to institute
just comparisons and draw fair inferences. In
short, Goldsmith was no tyro in the philosophy of travel;
its superior results are abundantly evidenced
throughout his works. We have, indeed, no formal narrative
of his journeyings; but what is better, there is
scarcely a page thrown off, to supply the pressing wants
of the moment, which is not enriched by some pleasing
reminiscence or sensible thought, garnered from the recollection
and scenes of that long pilgrimage. Nor did
he fail to embody the prominent impressions of so interesting
an epoch of his chequered life, in a more enduring
and beautiful form. The poem of “The Traveller,”
originally sketched in Switzerland, was subsequently revised
and extended. It was the foundation of Goldsmith's
poetical fame. The subject evinces the taste of
the author. The unpretending vein of enthusiasm which
runs through it, is only equalled by the force and simplicity
of the style. The rapid sketches of the several countries
it presents, are vigorous and pleasing; and the reflections
interspersed, abound with that truly humane
spirit, and that deep sympathy with the good, the beautiful,
and the true, which distinguishes the poet. This production
may be regarded as the author's first deliberate attempt
in the career of genius. It went through nine editions
during his life, and its success contributed, in a
great measure, to encourage and sustain him in future and
less genial efforts.
The faults which are said to have deformed the character
of Goldsmith, belong essentially to the class of foibles
rather than absolute and positive errors. Recent biographers
agree in the opinion, that his alleged devotion to
temporary mania; and we should infer from his own
allusion to the subject, that he had, with the flexibility of
disposition that belonged to him, yielded only so far to
its seductions as to learn from experience the supreme
folly of the practice. It is at all events certain, that his
means were too restricted, and his time, while in London
too much occupied, to allow of his enacting the part of a
regular and professed gamester; and during the latter
and most busy years of his life, we have the testimony
of the members of the celebrated club to which he was
attached, to the temperance and industry of his habits.
Another, and in the eyes of the world, perhaps, greater
weakness recorded of him, was a mawkish vanity, sometimes
accompanied by jealousy of more successful competitors
for the honors of literature. Some anecdotes,
illustrative of this unamiable trait, are preserved, which
would amuse us, were they associated with less noble endowments
or a more uninteresting character. As it is,
however, not a few of them challenge credulity, from their
utter want of harmony with certain dispositions which he
is universally allowed to have possessed. But it is one
of the greatest and most common errors in judging of
character, to take an isolated and partial, instead of a
broad and comprehensive view of the various qualities
which go to form the man, and the peculiar circumstances
that have influenced their development. Upon a candid
retrospect of Goldsmith's life, it appears to us that the
display of vanity, which in the view of many are so demeaning,
may be easily and satisfactorily explained.
seems designed by the Creator, that the very sense of
capacity should urge genius to fulfil its mission, and
support its early and lonely efforts by the earnest conviction
of ultimate success. To beings thus endowed, the neglect
and contumely of the world—the want of sympathy
—the feeling of misappreciation, is often a keen sorrow
felt precisely in proportion to the susceptibility of the
individual, and expressed according as he is ingenuous
and frank. In the case of Goldsmith, his long and solitary
struggle with poverty—his years of obscure toil—
his ill-success in every scheme for support, coupled as
they were with an intuitive and deep consciousness of
mental power and poetic gifts, were calculated to render
him painfully alive to the superior consideration bestowed
upon less deserving but more presumptuous men, and the
unmerited and unjust disregard to his own claims. Weak
it undoubtedly was, for him to give vent so childishly to
such feelings, but this sprung from the spontaneous honesty
of his nature. He felt as thousands have felt under
similar circumstances, but, unlike the most of men, “he
knew not the art of concealment.” Indeed, this free-spoken
and candid disposition was inimical to his success
in more than one respect. He was ever a careless talker,
unabled to play the great man, and instinctively preferring
the spontaneous to the formal, and “thinking aloud” to
studied and circumspect speech. The “exquisite sensibility
to contempt,” too, which he confesses belonged to
him, frequently induced an appearance of conceit, when
no undue share existed. The truth is, the legitimate pride
itself in Goldsmith greatly to his disadvantage. The
fault was rather in his destiny than himself. He ran
away from college with the design of embarking for
America, because he was reproved by an unfeeling tutor
before a convivial party of his friends; and descended to
a personal rencontre with a printer, who impudently delivered
Dodsley's refusal that he should undertake an
improved edition of Pope. He concealed his name when
necessity obliged him to apply for the office of usher;
and received visits and letters at a fashionable coffee-house,
rather than expose the poorness of his lodgings.
He joined the crowd to hear his own ballads sung when
a student; and openly expressed his wonder at the stupidity
of people, in preferring the tricks of a mountebank
to the society of a man like himself. While we smile at,
twe cannot wholly deride such foibles, and are constrained
o say of Goldsmith as he said of the Village Pastor—
It is not easy to say, whether the improvidence of our
poet arose more from that recklessness of the future, characteristic
of the Irish temperament, or the singular confidence
in destiny which is so common a trait in men of
ideal tendencies. It would naturally be supposed, that
the stern lesson of severe experience would have eventually
corrected this want of foresight. It was but the
thoughtlessness of youth which lured him to forget amid
the convivialities of a party, the vessel on board which he
had taken passage and embarked his effects, on his firs
wandering out on the first evening of his arrival in Edinburgh,
without noting the street or number of his lodgings;
inviting a party of strangers in a public garden to take tea
with him, without a sixpence in his pocket; and obstinately
persisting, during his last illness, in taking a favorite
medicine, notwithstanding it aggravated his disease. A
life of greater vicissitude it would be difficult to find in
the annals of literature. Butler and Otaway were, indeed,
victims of indigence, and often perhaps, found
themselves, like our bard, “in a garret writing for bread,
and expecting every moment to be dunned for a milk-score,”
but the biography of Goldsmith displays a greater
variety of shifts resorted to for subsistence. He was successively
an itinerant musician, a half-starved usher, a chemist's
apprentice, private tutor, law-student, practising
physician, eager disputant, hack-writer, and even, for a
week or two, one of a company of strolling players. In
the history of George Primrose, he is supposed to have
described much of his personal experience prior to the period
when he became a professed litterateur. We cannot
but admire the independent spirit he maintained
through all these struggles with adverse fortune. Notwithstanding
his poverty, the attempt to chain his talents
to the service of a political faction by mercenary motives
was indignantly spurned, and when his good genius proved
triumphant, he preferred to incribe its first acknowledged
offspring to his brother, than, according to the
servile habits of the day, dedicate it to any aristocratic
patron, “that thrift might follow fawning.” With all his
to have forgotten the self-respect becoming one of nature's
nobility.
The high degree of excellence attained by Goldsmith
in such various and distinct species of literary effort, is
worthy of remark. As an essayist, he has contributed
some of the most pure and graceful specimens of English
prose discoverable in the whole range of literature. His
best comedy continues to maintain much of its original
popularity, notwithstanding the revolutions which public
taste has undergone since it was first produced; and
“The Hermit” is still an acknowledged model in ballad-writing.
If from his more finished works, we turn to
those which were thrown off under the pressing exigencies
of his life, it is astonishing what a contrast of subjects
employed his pen. During his college days, he was
constantly writing ballads on popular events, which he
disposed of at five shillings each, and subsequently, after
his literary career had fairly commenced, we find him sedulously
occupied in preparing prefaces, historical compilations,
translations, and reviews for the booksellers; one
day throwing off a pamphlet on the Cock-Lane ghost,
and the next inditing Biographical Sketches of Beau
Nash; at one moment, busy upon a festive song, and at
another deep in composing the words for an Oratorio. It
is curious, with the intense sentiment and finished pictures
of fashionable life with which the fictions of our
day abound, fresh in the memory, to open the Vicar of
Wakefield. We seem to be reading the memoirs of an
earlier era, instead of a different sphere of life. There
and with the exception of Burchell's incognito, no attempt
to excite interest through the attraction of mystery.
And yet, few novels have enjoyed such extensive and
permanent favor. It is yet the standard work for introducing
students on the continent to a knowledge of our
language, and although popular taste at present demands
quite a different style of entertainment, yet Goldsmith's
novel is often reverted to with delight, from the vivid contrast
it presents to the reigning school; while the attractive
picture it affords of rural life and humble virtue, will
ever render it intrinsically dear and valuable.
But the “Deserted Village” is, of all Goldsmith's productions,
unquestionably the favorite. It carries back
the mind to the early season of life, and re-asserts the
power of unsophisticated tastes. Hence, while other poems
grow stale, this preserves its charm. Dear to the heart
and sacred to the imagination, are those sweet delineations
of unperverted existence. There is true pathos in
that tender lament over the superseded sports and ruined
haunts of rustic enjoyment, which never fails to find a response
in every feeling breast. It is an elaborate and touching
epitaph, written in the cemetery of the world, over what
is dear to all humanity. There is a truth in the eloquent
defence of agricultural pursuits and natural pastimes, that
steals like a well-remembered strain over the heart immersed
in the toil and crowds of cities. There is an unborn
beauty in the similes of the bird and her “unfledged
offspring,” the hare that “pants to the place from whence
at first he flew,” and the “tall cliff that lifts its awful form,”
And no clear and susceptible mind can ever lose
its interest in the unforced, unexaggerated and heart-stirring
numbers, which animate with pleasure the pulses of
youth, gratify the mature taste of manhood, and fall with a
soothing sweetness upon the ear of age. We are not
surprised at the exclamation of a young lady who had been
accustomed to say, that our poet was the homliest of men,
after reading the “Deserted Village”—“I shall never
more think Dr. Goldsmith ugly!” This poem passed
through five editions in as many months, and from its domestic
character became immediately popular throughout
England. Its melodious versification is doubtless, in a
measure, to be ascribed to its author's musical taste, and
the fascinating ease of its flow is the result of long study
and careful revision. Nothing is more deceitful than the
apparent facility observable in poetry. No poet exhibits
more of this characteristic than Ariosto, and yet his manuscripts
are filled with erasures and repetitions. Few
things appear more negligently graceful than the well-arranged
drapery of a statue, yet how many experiments
must the artist try before the desired effect is produced.
So thoroughly did the author revise the “Deserted Village,”
that not a single original line remained. The
clearness and warmth of his style is, to my mind, as indicative
of Goldsmith's truth, as the candor of his character
or the sincerity of his sentiments. It has been said
of Pitt's elocution, that it had the effect of impressing one
with the idea that the man was greater than the orator.
A similar influence it seems to me is produced by the
It is not, indeed, by an analysis, however critical, of
the intellectual distinctions of any author, that we can
arrive at a complete view of his genius. It is to the feelings
that we must look for that earnestness which gives
vigor to mental efforts, and imparts to them their peculiar
tone and coloring. And it will generally be found that
what is really and permanently attractive in the works of
genius, independent of mere diction, is to be traced rather
to the heart than the head. We may admire the original
conception, the lofty imagery or winning style of a
popular author, but what touches us most deeply is the sentiment
of which these are the vehicles. The fertile invention
of Petrarch, in displaying under such a variety of
disguises the same favorite subject, is not so moving as
the unalterable devotion which inspires his fancy and
quickens his muse. The popularity of Mrs. Hemans is
more owing to the delicate and deep enthusiasm than to
the elegance of her poetry, and Charles Lamb is not less
attractive for his kindly affections than for his quaint
humor. Not a little of the peculiar charm of Goldsmith,
is attributable to the excellence of his heart. Mere
talent would scarcely have sufficed to interpret and display
so enchantingly the humble characters and scenes to
which his most brilliant efforts were devoted. It was his
sincere and ready sympathy with man, his sensibility to
suffering in every form, his strong social sentiment and
his amiable interest in all around, which brightened to his
mind's eye, what to the less susceptible is unheeded and
his own experience of privation prevented them
from indurating through age or prosperity. He cherished
throughout his life an earnest faith in the better feelings
of our nature. He realized the universal beauty
and power of Love; and neither the solitary pursuits of
literature, the elation of success, nor the blandishments of
pleasure or society, ever banished from his bosom the
generous and kindly sentiments which adorned his character.
He was not the mere creature of attainment, the
reserved scholar or abstracted dreamer. Pride of intellect
usurped not his heart. Pedantry congealed not the
fountains of feeling. He rejoiced in the exercise of
all those tender and noble sentiments which are so much
more honorable to man than the highest triumphs of
mind. And it is these which make us love the man not
less than admire the author. Goldsmith's early sympathy
with the sufferings of the peasantry, is eloquently expressed
in both his poems and frequently in his prose writings.
How expressive that lament for the destruction of the
`Ale-House'—that it would
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.'
There is more true benevolence in the feeling which
prompted such a thought, than in all the cold and calculating
philosophy with which so many expect to elevate
the lower classes in these days of ultra-reform. When
shall we learn that we must sympathize with those we
would improve? At college, we are told, one bitter night
shivering at the gate, and having no money to give them
bringing out all his bed clothes to keep himself from freezing,
cut open his bed and slept within it. When hard at
work earning a scanty pittance in his garret, he spent every
spare penny in cakes for the children of his poorer neighbors,
and when he could do nothing else, taught them
dancing, by way of cheering their poverty. Notwithstanding
his avowed antipathy to Baretti, he visited and
relieved him in prison; and when returning home with
the £100 received from his book-seller for the `Deserted
Village,' upon being told by an acquaintance he fell
in with, that it was a great price for so little a thing, replied,
`perhaps it is more than he can afford,' and returning
offered to refund a part. To his poor countrymen
he was a coustant benefactor, and while he had a shilling
was ready to share it with them, so that they familiarly
styled him `our doctor.' In Leyden, when on the point
of commencing his tour, he stripped himself of all his
funds to send a collection of flower-roots to an uncle who
was devoted to botany; and on the first occasion that patronage
was offered him, declined aid for himself, to bespeak
a vacant living for his brother. In truth, his life
abounds in anecdotes of a like nature. We read one
day of his pawning his watch for Pilkington, another of
his bringing home a poor foreigner from Temple gardens
to be his amanuensis, and again of his leaving the card-table
to relieve a poor woman, whose tones as she chanted
some ditty in passing, came to him above the hum of
gaiety and indicated to his ear distress.. Though the frequent
never known to write severely against any one. His
talents were sacredly devoted to the cause of virtue and
humanity. No malignant satire ever came from his
pen. He loved to dwell upon the beautiful vindications in
nature of the paternity of God, and expatiate upon the
noblest and most universal attributes of man. `If I
were to love you by rule,' he writes to his brother, `I
dare say I never could do it sincerely.' There was in his
nature, an instinctive aversion to the frigid, ceremonial and
meaningless professions which so coldly imitate the language
of feeling. Goldsmith saw enough of the world,
to disrobe his mind of that scepticism born of custom
which `makes dotards of us all.' He did not wander
among foreign nations, sit at the cottage fire-side, nor
mix in the thoroughfare and gay saloon, in vain Travel
liberalized his views and demolished the barriers of local
prejudice. He looked around upon his kind with the
charitable judgment and interest born of an observing
mind and a kindly heart—`with an infinite love, an infinite
pity.' He delighted in the delineation of humble
life, because he knew it to be the most unperverted.
Simple pleasures warmed his fancy because he had learned
their preëminent truth. Childhood with its innocent
playfulness, intellectual character with its tutored wisdom,
and the uncultivated but `bold peasantry,' interested him
alike. He could enjoy an hour's friendly chat with his
fellow-lodger—the watchmaker in Green Arbor court—
not less than a literary discussion with Dr. Johnson. `I
must own,' he writes, `I should prefer the title of the ancient
of an Englishman, a Frenchman, an European, or that
of any appellation whatever.' And this title he has nobly
earned, by the wide scope of his sympathies and the
beautiful pictures of life and nature universally recognized
and universally loved, which have spread his name
over the world. Pilgrims to the supposed scene of the
Deserted Village have long since carried away every vestige
of the haw-thron at Lissoy, but the laurels of Goldsmith
will never be garnered by the hand of time, or
blighted by the frost of neglect, as long as there are minds
to appreciate, or hearts to reverence the household lore
of English literature.
| Rambles and reveries | |