THE LITERARY CLUB
Goldsmith's income accrued, not through royalties upon his few great
and immortal works, but from arduous and endless ephemeral tasks. This
ceaseless taxation of the mental faculties probably represents the
most exhausting of all the processes of gaining a decent livelihood.
Never the strongest of men, these relentless intellectual exactions
gave the brain no rest, and kept the physical frame in a condition of
constant nervous weakness. Writing from a bed of sickness, he tells
his employer almost pitifully, amid the strain of things, that he
cannot complete his translations from Plutarch. Without a pension or a
sinecure in some office of the State, literary life at that time was
fraught with such incalculable difficulties that it demanded the
maximum of prudence to achieve the minimum of subsistence. Men of
letters lived, and by some miracle enjoyed themselves. The commercial
basis of their being, and their professional and economic relationship
with both the booksellers and the public, were as unsatisfactory as
can be imagined. The sum received by Milton for "Paradise Lost"
indicates the usage of an earlier day. Things had not much improved.
Newbery gave five guineas for the copyright of _The Citizen of the
World_ and fourteen guineas for _The Life of Beau Nash_. A struggle
consequent upon the combination of very little means, and still less
practical prudence, soon began in Goldsmith's case. His mode of life,
if not luxurious, was easier than it had been. It bore the semblance
of secure prosperity. He left his chambers in Wine Office Court for a
more commodious set of apartments in Canonbury, then a delightful
village. Newbery made all the arrangements. From him Goldsmith's
landlady received her quarterly due for the board and lodging of this
celebrated author. However precautious this plan of payment may have
been, it probably led to Noll spending more on incidental outlays than
he otherwise would have done with a weekly reckoning to meet. His
cares never came from personal profusion or self-indulgence, but from
the warmth and impulse of his too generous heart and lavish love of
giving. With him the purpose of money was not its preservation for a
rainy day, but its distribution on a fine one. He never found much
fun in making guineas come, or hilarity in keeping them. It was a
vast delight to make them fly. At this feat no one was ever more
accomplished. Here we have the man and his mistakes, and the troubles
that came, and came to stay. Some might have grown rich from his
financial opportunities. Whilst making the most and the worst of
his prudential incompetence, it is easy to estimate too highly his
rewards. It is an exaggeration to speak of his having made in his
time thousands of pounds.
All he earned very hardly he squandered most carelessly. This
foreshadows that fierce stream of fatality in which he proved
powerless to the end. Underlying currents of embarrassments were as
constant as the grace and purity and beauty of his heart, and more
close to him than that they could not be. Those men of business who
never had their dues met, were better able to bear the losses than
would have been the poor pensioners whom Goldsmith's compassion
enriched. His was never the philanthropy of reasoned prudence, but
that of impotent prodigality. He scattered guineas as heedless of
himself as he was careless of his creditors. He was at this time most
industrious. In 1763 and 1764 he produced countless miscellaneous
articles and essays. He composed a _History of England_ in a series of
letters written after the manner of a nobleman to his son, and through
this mistakenly attributed to Lord Chesterfield. He may have penned
"Goody Two-Shoes"--it is too late to tell. Subsequently came another
and more responsible _History of England_, used until recently in many
of our public schools. Oliver Goldsmith had become one of the men of
his time.
[Illustration:
_It is agreed between Oliver Goldsmith M. B on one hand
and James Dodsley on the other that Oliver Goldsmith shall
write for James Dodsley a book called a Chronological history
of the lives of eminent persons of Great Britain and Ireland
or to that effect, consisting of about two volumes 8^vo about
the same size and letter with the universal history published
in 8^vo for the writing of which and compiling the same James
Dodsley shall pay Oliver Goldsmith three guineas for every
printed sheet, so that the whole shall be delivered complete
in the space of two years at farthest James Dodsley however
shall print the above book in whatever manner or size he
shall think fit only the universal history above mentioned
shall be the standard by which Oliver Goldsmith shall expect
to be paid. Oliver Goldsmith shall be paid one moiety upon
delivery of the whole copy complete, and the other moiety one
half of it at the conclusion of six months and the other half
at the expiration of twelve months next after the publication
of the work, James Dodsley giving however upon the delivery
of the whole copy two notes for the money left unpaid. Each
volume of the above intended work shall not contain more than
five and thirty sheets and if they should contain more the
surplus shall not be paid for by James Dodsley. Oliver
Goldsmith shall print his name to the said work._
_Oliver Goldsmith_
_Mar 31 1763_ _Jas Dodsley_
_Rischgitz Collection._] [_British Museum._
FACSIMILE OF THE ORIGINAL AGREEMENT BETWEEN GOLDSMITH AND
DODSLEY, MARCH 31, 1763.]
Nothing can be more interesting in every period in the history of
literature, art, science, and philosophy than the manner in which,
thrown together by the mysterious magnetism of mutually alluring
greatness and power, the first and highest minds of all epochs grow
inevitably associated. We find this now in the formation of the
Literary Club, of which many of the most moving minds of that day in
which Goldsmith lived were members. The Club met on Monday evenings in
the Turk's Head Tavern, Soho. It was in working order in 1764. Sir
Joshua Reynolds was its founder. Goldsmith's membership of the
Literary Club, happy as it was, marks great misunderstandings involved
in that misguided judgment passed upon the man by his contemporaries,
which posterity has been content too easily to accept. It was thought
that Oliver Goldsmith had no learning to substantiate his position,
and that he had no wit for conversation, but only for writing. There
is so little to support these ideas that it is surprising that they
should have arisen, and for any period, or in any mind, have
persisted. Horace Walpole, in his graceful way, called Goldsmith an
inspired idiot. Garrick told us that "Dear Noll wrote like an angel
and talked like poor Poll." Johnson said: "No man was more foolish
when he had not a pen in his hand." The charge that Goldsmith was
incapable of collected thought in conversation falls to the ground if
we recall one gentle utterance: "It must be much from you, sir, that
I take ill." These words from one who had suffered an indescribably
teasing impertinence at the hands of Johnson are the most collected
conceivable. They are not less chivalrous. In _The Retaliation_
Johnson alone is spared. To this friend nothing could shake
Goldsmith's admiring and unalterable faithfulness and affection.
There is a certain spirit in expression that must stand inevitably
associated with the collected mind. When it was wondered why Johnson
cared for some unhappy mortal who had no charm or talent, Goldsmith
said, in his quiet and reflective way: "The man is poor and honest,
which is recommendation enough for Johnson." Concerning one who was
undeserving, according to the manner of the world, who had no honour,
and had forfeited all claim to character, yet still retained Johnson's
compassion, Goldsmith rejoined: "This man has become miserable, and
that ensures the protection of Johnson." Goldsmith, who could so
readily reply to protests with answers at once as felicitous and as
reflective as these, could not have been an uncollected
conversationalist. Not merely the words, but also the manner that one
must associate with their utterance preclude the possibility.
Goldsmith is supposed to have had no learning because one day he
called upon Gibbon, who gulled him. He questioned the author of "The
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire" upon some historic issue, and
the historian led him grotesquely astray. Who would not have accepted
anything Gibbon said without criticism? Who would have expected this
great personage capable of indulging in a school-boy prank?
Goldsmith's writings prove him well instructed and widely read, and
show his mind as curiously stored and equipped as its whole genius was
charming and gracious. If he could not talk, but could only write,
then the pen in his hand is taken as an instrument capable of exerting
hypnotic force, and converting by magic a fool into a wit.
In his own time, from some unaccountable cause, it became a habit to
treat Goldsmith with a form of moral and intellectual patronage. This
has never entirely passed away. Carlyle, following Horace Walpole's
idea, writing of Johnson, thus speaks of Goldsmith: "An inspired idiot
hangs strangely about him. Yet on the whole there is no evil in the
gooseberry fool, but rather much good--of a fine, if of a weaker sort
than Johnson's--and all the more genuine that he himself could never
become conscious of it."
In the sphere of the high-minded of that period, with the possible but
not the clear and certain exception of Johnson himself, not one in all
that circle, illustrious as it was, so impressed the kindred spirits
of that time and age as Oliver Goldsmith did. His impressiveness
swayed its force and influence over all. This was due first to the
winning grace, but partly to the greatness of the man. "Dr.
Goldsmith," said Johnson, "is one of the first men we now have as an
author, and he is a very worthy man, too." At another time he said:
"As a writer he was of the most distinguished abilities. Whatever he
composed he did it better than any other man could, and whether we
consider him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as a historian, so far
as regards his power of composition he was one of the finest writers
of his time, and will ever stand in the foremost class." These words
were uttered shortly after Goldsmith's death. One can imagine the
looking back with love upon the companionship and the conversation of
one friend at least who would never be forgotten. All natures in some
sphere, touch the infinite. In the silence of his great heart, the
radiance of his intellect, and in his uttered word, the very soul of
Goldsmith's genius lies in a loving understanding. In this man there
flows and shines the very grace of the very Christ. Unfailing
gentleness lives lighted by divinity.
Those were happy days passed in heart-to-heart friendships and
affections, and they were merry hours that sped so swiftly at the
Literary Club. The great are never greater than in the hearts of their
homes and the simplicities of their friendships. At this club the gods
forgot their power and high beings laid aside their loftiness. In the
midst we find the man they teased the man most welcome; that one that
all affected to despise, each in his inmost heart unfeignedly
respected. The man most laughed at was most loved. Oliver Goldsmith
made the mirth of things. He was always forbearing, and to this
passive pleasingness he added that finest of activities, unfailing
kindliness. If it is no wonder that they loved him, it is no marvel
that they laughed at him as well.
[Illustration:
_Rischgitz Collection._]
GOLDSMITH IN MIDDLE AGE.
(From an engraving by Ridley.)]
It is commonly said that Goldsmith had a thick-set figure. This does
not mean that he was a sturdy, muscular man. Weakness of constitution,
a habit of stooping as he strolled in his meditative manner, and
constantly bending as he wrote at desk or table, and early
deprivations both of soul and body, had huddled up the low stature and
given the compressed frame a semblance of solidity. His cheeks were
sunken, and there were dark rims about the eyes, and the minimum of
fleshly and substantial covering clad these limbs. Goldsmith had a
queer little manner of bobbing. This bob he fondly imagined a bow.
That it was meant to be dignified there is no doubt. It came a little
from that personal vanity from which no one will ever wish to deem him
entirely exempt, and a little, too, from great nervousness. It flowed
also from an innate good breeding and cultured and natural chivalry.
This bobbing as he entered or left a room was finely caricatured by
Garrick. No doubt the actor's own bowing was the perfection of formal
grace. Yet if the motive of politeness and personal ceremonial condone
its outward and practical shortcomings, then we shall discover more
true soul in Goldsmith's bob than Garrick's bow. Noll bobbed timidly
when compliments were paid him, and gratefully and affirmatively when
in his presence he heard others praised. If anything noble or
beautiful was told of anyone, then came the revering little bob, this
time intended as a tribute to human honour and the virtue of the heart
and the valour of the race.