The next day the news of the prompt and vigorous action taken by
Goldsmith in respect of the scurrility of Kenrick had spread round the
literary circle of which Johnson was the centre, and the general feeling
was one of regret that Kenrick had not received the beating instead of
Evans. Of course, Johnson, who had threatened two writers with an oak
stick, shook his head--and his body as well--in grave disapproval of
Goldsmith's use of his cane; but Reynolds, Garrick and the two Burkes
were of the opinion that a cane had never been more appropriately used.
What Colman's attitude was in regard to the man who had put thousands
of pounds into his pocket may be gathered from the fact that, shortly
afterwards, he accepted and produced a play of Kenrick's at his theatre,
which was more decisively damned than any play ever produced under
Colman's management.
Of course, the act of an author in resenting the scurrility of a man who
had delivered his stab under the cloak of criticism, called for a howl
of indignation from the scores of hacks who existed at that period--some
in the pay of the government others of the opposition--solely by
stabbing men of reputation; for the literary cut-throat, in the person
of the professional libeller-critic, and the literary cut-purse, in
the form of the professional blackmailer, followed as well as preceded
Junius.
The howl went up that the liberty of the press was in danger, and the
public, who took then, as they do now, but the most languid interest
in the quarrels of literature, were forced to become the unwilling
audience. When, however, Goldsmith published his letter in the _Daily
Advertiser_--surely the manliest manifesto ever printed--the howls
became attenuated, and shortly afterwards died away. It was admitted,
even by Dr. Johnson--and so emphatically, too, that his biographer
could not avoid recording his judgment--that Goldsmith had increased his
reputation by the incident.
(Boswell paid Goldsmith the highest compliment in his power on account
of this letter, for he fancied that it had been written by Johnson, and
received another rebuke from the latter to gloat over.)
For some days Goldsmith had many visitors at his chambers, including
Baretti, who remarked that he took it for granted that he need not now
search for the fencingmaster, as his quarrel was over. Goldsmith allowed
him to go away under the impression that he had foreseen the quarrel
when he had consulted him regarding the fencingmaster.
But at the end of a week, when Evans had been conciliated by the friends
of his assailant, Goldsmith, on returning to his chambers one afternoon,
found Johnson gravely awaiting his arrival. His hearty welcome was not
responded to quite so heartily by his visitor.
“Dr. Goldsmith,” said Johnson, after he had made some of those
grotesque movements with which his judicial utterances were invariably
accompanied--“Dr. Goldsmith, we have been friends for a good many years,
sir.”
“That fact constitutes one of my pleasantest reflections, sir,” said
Goldsmith. He spoke with some measure of hesitancy, for he had a feeling
that his friend had come to him with a reproof. He had expected him to
come rather sooner.
“If our friendship was not such as it is, I would not have come to you
to-day, sir, to tell you that you have been a fool,” said Johnson.
“Yes, sir,” said Goldsmith, “you were right in assuming that you could
say nothing to me that would offend me; I know that I have been a
fool--at many times--in many ways.”
“I suspected that you were a fool before I set out to come hither, sir,
and since I entered this room I have convinced myself of the accuracy of
my suspicion.”
“If a man suspects that I am a fool before seeing me, sir, what will he
do after having seen me?” said Goldsmith.
“Dr. Goldsmith,” resumed Johnson, “it was, believe me, sir, a great pain
to me to find, as I did in this room--on that desk--such evidence of
your folly as left no doubt on my mind in this matter.”
“What do you mean, sir? My folly--evidence--on that desk? Ah, I know now
what you mean. Yes, poor Filby's bill for my last coats and I suppose
for a few others that have long ago been worn threadbare. Alas, sir, who
could resist Filby's flatteries?”
“Sir,” said Johnson, “you gave me permission several years ago to read
any manuscript of yours in prose or verse at which you were engaged.”
“And the result of your so honouring me, Dr. Johnson, has invariably
been advantageous to my work. What, sir, have I ever failed in respect
for your criticisms? Have I ever failed to make a change that you
suggested?”
“It was in consideration of that permission, Dr. Goldsmith, that while
waiting for you here to-day, I read several pages in your handwriting,”
said Johnson sternly.
Goldsmith glanced at his desk.
“I forget now what work was last under my hand,” said he; “but whatever
it was, sir----”
“I have it here, sir,” said Johnson, and Goldsmith for the first time
noticed that he held in one of his hands a roll of manuscript. Johnson
laid it solemnly on the table, and in a moment Goldsmith perceived
that it consisted of a number of the poems which he had written to the
Jessamy Bride, but which he had not dared to send to her. He had had
them before him on the desk that day while he asked himself what would
be the result of sending them to her.
He was considerably disturbed when he discovered what it was that his
friend had been reading in his absence, and his attempt to treat the
matter lightly only made his confusion appear the greater.
“Oh, those verses, sir,” he stammered; “they are poor things. You will,
I fear, find them too obviously defective to merit criticism; they
resemble my oldest coat, sir, which I designed to have repaired for my
man, but Filby returned it with the remark that it was not worth the
cost of repairing. If you were to become a critic of those trifles----”
“They are trifles, Goldsmith, for they represent the trifling of a man
of determination with his own future--with his own happiness and the
happiness of others.”
“I protest, sir, I scarcely understand----”
“Your confusion, sir, shows that you do understand.”
“Nay, sir, you do not suppose that the lines which a poet writes in the
character of a lover should be accepted as damning evidence that his own
heart speaks.”
“Goldsmith, I am not the man to be deceived by any literary work that
may come under my notice. I have read those verses of yours; sir, your
heart throbs in every line.”
“Nay, sir, you would make me believe that my poor attempts to realise
the feelings of one who has experienced the tender passion are more
happy than I fancied.”
“Sir, this dissimulation is unworthy of you.”
“Sir, I protest that I--that is--no, I shall protest nothing. You have
spoken the truth, sir; any dissimulation is unworthy of me. I wrote
those verses out of my own heart--God knows if they are the first that
came from my heart--I own it, sir. Why should I be ashamed to own it?”
“My poor friend, you have been Fortune's plaything all your life; but I
did not think that she was reserving such a blow as this for you.”
“A blow, sir? Nay, I cannot regard as a blow that which has been
the sweetest--the only consolation of a life that has known but few
consolations.”
“Sir, this will not do. A man has the right to make himself as miserable
as he pleases, but he has no right to make others miserable. Dr.
Goldsmith, you have ill-repaid the friendship which Miss Horneck and her
family have extended to you.”
“I have done nothing for which my conscience reproaches me, Dr. Johnson.
What, sir, if I have ventured to love that lady whose name had better
remain unspoken by either of us--what if I do love her? Where is the
indignity that I do either to her or to the sentiment of friendship?
Does one offer an indignity to friendship by loving?”
“My poor friend, you are laying up a future of misery for yourself--yes,
and for her too; for she has a kind heart, and if she should come to
know--and, indeed, I think she must--that she has been the cause, even
though the unwilling cause, of suffering on the part of another, she
will not be free from unhappiness.”
“She need not know, she need not know. I have been a bearer of burdens
all my life. I will assume without repining this new burden.”
“Nay, sir, if I know your character--and I believe I have known it
for some years--you will cast that burden away from you. Life, my dear
friend, you and I have found to be not a meadow wherein to sport, but a
battle field. We have been in the struggle, you and I, and we have not
come out of it unscathed. Come, sir, face boldly this new enemy, and put
it to flight before it prove your ruin.”
“Enemy, you call it, sir? You call that which gives everything there
is of beauty--everything there is of sweetness--in the life of man--you
call it our enemy?”
“I call it _your_ enemy, Goldsmith.”
“Why mine only? What is there about me that makes me different from
other men? Why should a poet be looked upon as one who is shut out for
evermore from all the tenderness, all the grace of life, when he
has proved to the world that he is most capable of all mankind of
appreciating tenderness and grace? What trick of nature is this? What
paradox for men to vex their souls over? Is the poet to stand aloof from
men, evermore looking on happiness through another man's eyes? If you
answer 'yes,' then I say that men who are not poets should go down on
their knees and thank Heaven that they are not poets. Happy it is for
mankind that Heaven has laid on few men the curse of being poets. For
myself, I feel that I would rather be a man for an hour than a poet for
all time.”
“Come, sir, let us not waste our time railing against Heaven. Let us
look at this matter as it stands at present. You have been unfortunate
enough to conceive a passion for a lady whose family could never be
brought to think of you seriously as a lover. You have been foolish
enough to regard their kindness to you--their acceptance of you as a
friend--as encouragement in your mad aspirations.”
“You have no right to speak so authoritatively, sir.”
“I have the right as your oldest friend, Goldsmith; and you know I speak
only what is true. Does your own conscience, your own intelligence, sir,
not tell you that the lady's family would regard her acceptance of you
as a lover in the light of the greatest misfortune possible to happen to
her? Answer me that question, sir.”
But Goldsmith made no attempt to speak. He only buried his face in his
hands, resting his elbows on the table at which he sat.
“You cannot deny what you know to be a fact, sir,” resumed Johnson. “I
will not humiliate you by suggesting that the young lady herself would
only be moved to laughter were you to make serious advances to her; but
I ask you if you think her family would not regard such an attitude on
your side as ridiculous--nay, worse--a gross affront.”
Still Goldsmith remained silent, and after a short pause his visitor
resumed his discourse.
“The question that remains for you to answer is this, sir: Are you
desirous of humiliating yourself in the eyes of your best friends,
and of forfeiting their friendship for you, by persisting in your
infatuation?”
Goldsmith started up.
“Say no more, sir; for God's sake, say no more,” he cried almost
piteously. “Am I, do you fancy, as great a fool as Pope, who did not
hesitate to declare himself to Lady Mary? Sir, I have done nothing that
the most honourable of men would shrink from doing. There are the verses
which I wrote--I could not help writing them--but she does not know that
they were ever written. Dr. Johnson, she shall never hear it from me. My
history, sir, shall be that of the hopeless lover--a blank--a blank.”
“My poor friend,” said Johnson after a pause--he had laid his hand
upon the shoulder of his friend as he seated himself once more at the
table--“My poor friend, Providence puts into our hands many cups which
are bitter to the taste, but cannot be turned away from. You and I have
drank of bitter cups before now, and perhaps we may have to drink of
others before we die. To be a man is to suffer; to be a poet means
to have double the capacity of men to suffer. You have shown yourself
before now worthy of the admiration of all good men by the way you have
faced life, by your independence of the patronage of the great. You
dedicated 'The Traveller' to your brother, and your last comedy to me.
You did not hesitate to turn away from your door the man who came to
offer you money for the prostitution of the talents which God has given
you. Dr. Goldsmith, you have my respect--you have the respect of every
good man. I came to you to-day that you may disappoint those of your
detractors who are waiting for you to be guilty of an act that would
give them an opportunity of pointing a finger of malice at you. You will
not do anything but that which will reflect honour upon yourself, and
show all those who are your friends that their friendship for you is
well founded. I am assured that I can trust you, sir.”
Goldsmith took the hand that he offered, but said no word.