CONSUMMATE COMEDY
In 1771 Goldsmith was full of hope for that capital essay in comedy,
_She Stoops to Conquer_. Two years passed before he could obtain its
definite acceptance. He found his manager not in Garrick, as one might
have anticipated, but again in Colman. The pretty piece appeared at
Covent Garden. Tried as Goldsmith had been ere _The Good-natured Man_
was produced, the negotiations and delays about _She Stoops to
Conquer_ were not less torturing. Colman kept the manuscript in his
hands for months and months without coming to any decision. The
playwright's letters to the manager are absolute supplications.
Humiliation appears the very discipline of genius. At one time the
manuscript was actually recalled by its author and despatched to
Garrick. Before it had really come under his consideration, which very
likely might have been just as obtuse, Johnson intervened. To send it
to Garrick, in his opinion, would be tantamount to an acknowledgment
of its refusal by Colman. This had not taken place. The manager would
neither accept the piece nor produce it. He said he would keep his
faith, but whatever that might mean in his mind, he did nothing.
Johnson finally and very firmly brought the man to book. When Colman
had accepted the piece, through his gloomy forebodings he biassed the
actors against the play before they had even seen it, but no sooner
had the rehearsals begun in earnest than they warmed to their assigned
parts, and in due time admired and revelled in the comedy. Colman,
niggard, would risk nothing in the production of the piece, neither in
new costumes nor theatrical fittings. He actually held forth
disparagingly in his own box-office to those who sent to purchase
tickets for the play.
In the Republic of Letters rumours of wrong run like riot through the
realm. Indignant at Goldsmith's sufferings through Colman's insults,
and still more from their love of the playwright, his friends
determined that if popular support and applause on the first night
could make his comedy succeed, then no effort in this direction should
be spared upon his behalf. An illustrious and a memorable house
greeted the rising curtain. This assemblage of celebrities and the men
and women who loved and admired and were resolved to stand by and
support Oliver Goldsmith was moving in itself, and one of the greatest
possible evidences of the honour and popularity in which the man was
held. The people rallied to the rescue of their favourite--the best
beloved of all the authors. This is one of the finest demonstrations
of public sympathy and regard the history of literature affords. It
was enough for Oliver Goldsmith to have lived for that night, and, if
need be, for that alone. The whole affair proved an unequivocal
success. Those friends, bent on conquest, applauded everything, and
led the streams of welcoming mirth and merriment. The fact that the
comedy did not require this protection could not make the personal
kindliness less pleasing. Johnson, Burke, Reynolds, Stevens,
Fitzherbert, and a rallying host, dined together before proceeding to
the theatre. Johnson led them like a commander-in-chief. The hearty
meal at the Shakespeare Tavern was one of the most jovial imaginable.
The party mustered on the battle-field. It was Goldsmith's Waterloo.
That great victory, like the triumph of _She Stoops to Conquer_, was
assured ere it was fought. Goldsmith, very nervous at the dinner, did
not go at once to the theatre, but strolled away, and rambled alone in
St. James's Park. He crept back, or, rather, was persuaded by Stevens
to come, and arrived at the opening of the fifth act. Strangely
enough, as he entered he caught the only sign of disapproval heard
that night.
_She Stoops to Conquer_, owing much to its capital central motive, is
as graceful as it is diverting. Its humour is unfailing. The
delightful force of Goldsmith's dialogue lies in entire naturalness.
The author of "The School for Scandal" creates for his comedies an
atmosphere of superheated wit and intellectualism, which, whilst
inevitably pleasing, is beyond probability. Certain novelists vaunt
and revel in the creation of impossibly vivacious wits. Nature has a
finer grace; its faithful reflection is purer art. Those true to
natural humour and the spontaneous rather than the fabricated repartee
represent a small minority. Amongst the novelists Goldsmith and Jane
Austen have few to follow them, and with the dramatists Moliere and
Pinero are almost his solitary associates. Perfectly natural are the
arguments, 'mid trips and assaults, between Mr. Burchell and Mrs.
Primrose in _The Vicar of Wakefield_, and Hastings and Mrs. Hardcastle
in _She Stoops to Conquer_. This play achieved a revolution in
dramatic presentation. It changed the course of comedy, heightened
humour, and rang like laughter round the town. It was performed as
long as there were nights to spare. In book-form it proved a great
success. In this we have the beautiful words of the dedication to Dr.
Johnson. The town was disgusted to the depths with Colman. No one will
ever pity him for the private contempt and the public derision he
brought upon himself through his mean discernment and his want of
appreciation of the very best play of the period. The press so teemed
with caustic and sarcastic epigrams at his expense that he fled for
refuge to Bath during the run of the piece, and at last begged
Goldsmith to intercede and rescue him from the scorn of the critics.
After all the worries and vexations, it is not surprising that poor
Noll should write: "I am sick of the stage!"
When it was known that the King would visit the theatre to see _She
Stoops to Conquer_, he said: "I wish he would;" and then added,
carried away by the undercurrent of pressing trials: "Not that it
would do me the least good." "Then," said Johnson, "let us hope that
it will do him good."
The interval in time was not wide that divided the last triumph from
the last day of Goldsmith's life. He was still toiling amid many
monetary perplexities, that he had not bettered by accepting payment
for works before they were completed. It was now all pouring out and
nothing coming in, and there was no hope. He projected a _Dictionary
of Arts and Sciences_ upon a comprehensive system, at once practical
and ambitious. Failing health had made him sadly dilatory. The
booksellers, who had lost confidence in his schemes, did not hold him
the man for this encyclopaedic labour or suited for long and strenuous
strain. Friends ineffectually tried to procure him a pension. He had
made many notes and written sundry essays, intended for a treatise in
two volumes, to be entitled _A Survey of Experimental Philosophy_. In
the midst of vain strivings he died. The knack of hoping could not do
all. The heart was broken and the soul passing. It is a tragedy to
remember that his one chance lay now in writing another comedy. In
these distressed days Garrick came to his aid, helping him over one
stile, at least, by paying liberally, and probably from charity, for
the promise of a play. The poet's physical strength was poorer even
than his empty purse. In this sad state he pursued his labours,
toiling like a slave almost to the last, looking back and recovering
nothing, forward and seeing nothing, pressing on with all the poor
power he had left, and making no headway. He gave one last extravagant
dinner to his old friends, which in his poverty, and for very shame
and pity, and a little even in rebuke, they would not take at his
expense. Then for a time he sought once again the fresh, sweet country
air. He returned to town. The old talent was not yet fled. He wrote
that fine _Retaliation_ at this time. It is pathetically possible that
the weakening appearance of the poet induced his lively friends to pen
epitaphs upon the little man. Many jests have their serious motives,
not wholly known to those who perpetrate the jokes. If unconscious of
the forces really leading to the episode, little did they dream that
its results would live till now, and to all intents for ever. Each
wrote an epitaph on Noll, and he in turn an epitaph on all. The
_Retaliation_ shows his power in compressed expression, and his fine
discernment of men and character. The little poem lives, a veritable,
and, in its way, a wholesale contribution to national biography. It
is a candid commentary upon some of the best men of that day. Garrick
is treated more elaborately than the rest. He had been the prime
offender, and naturally came foremost for the fire of the reply. The
poem was never finished. The kind words about Sir Joshua were
practically the last the poet penned. Reynolds, to the very end trying
to cheer Goldsmith and be with him whenever he could, proved now, as
he had ever been, the sweetest of friends--a true and loving, tender
man.
Home at the Temple, and in the dear London he loved, Goldsmith grew
ill very rapidly, and in his illness fell into a deep sleep. He slept
to wake; he stooped to conquer. This, instead of being the sleep of
restoring strength, was that in which disease takes its last, firm
grasp. One struggle with the feeble frame, and the wrestle for life
was over for ever. His biographers write of this sleep, that was
watched with so much anxiety by his physicians: "It was hoped that a
favourable crisis had arrived." It had. It marked the advent of the
last reprieve, that release that can never be recalled. The clouds
have passed away for ever, and in the sunshine came the solace of all
cares, the finality of pain, and the soothing and the solution of all
sorrow. Heaven had sent its last call and its greatest message to the
heart. In all, only forty-seven years had been given, and all that may
have been ill in the time is forgotten and forgiven, and the fairest
part of all that was well and high and true is with us even now, and
the radiance must last for long, cheering many hearts, brightening
souls that are failing, and blessing homes that are and will be. The
night of passing death has led on to the day of unpassing life.
On April 4, 1774, the spirit of Oliver Goldsmith conquered that which
men call death. Burke burst into tears at the news of the passing of
the man and the friend he cherished and revered. Reynolds laid his
work aside and rose, shaken in his great sorrow, and trembling with
the sense of an untold loss. Looking back upon the fading figure, so
dear to so many, and a light for years to come, shining still in many
homes and many hearts and many lands, Johnson, in his sacred
solemnity, said: "Poor Goldsmith! He was a very great man."
The body of Oliver Goldsmith was buried in the quiet Temple
churchyard. There is a tablet to his memory in the church itself, but
no one now knows exactly where the mortal remnant was laid, for no
memorial marked that last resting-place. The epitaph on Goldsmith in
Westminster Abbey runs: "He left no spheres of writing untouched or
unadorned by his pen. Noble, pure, and delicate, his memory will last
as long as society retains affection, friendship is not devoid of
honour, and reading wants not her admirers." Intimately we are guided
most of all by those whom most we love. The eyes may close, but not
the life. There is the knowledge of loving power wielded on the heart
by those whom men call dead. There is a soul in men rising beyond
visible activities; its story is not told in the recognised deeds of a
career and their outward record. Beyond the acknowledged actions and
admitted attainments, there stays the prevailing essence. The glory of
Christianity is seen in its illuminating stars, living everlastingly.
Through grace and gentleness, Goldsmith was one in that long train in
which shine Sister Dora and St. Francis of Assisi.
Oliver Goldsmith was the most pure and suasive spirit of his age. To
this day his gentle touch and soothing spell, by that magnetic power
that flows through purity of sympathy, still sway the heart. His
charming radiance and pure, divine delight move and master those who
admire and honour this all-loving soul and most graceful writer. In
reading his works, there is for all, and there must ever be, that
sense of compassion and that absolving perception which must have
moved the finer feelings of those who lived in his own time, and
actually knew the man himself. Not less does his purifying power, with
its elevating inspiration, survive. It is a silent and unseen, but
still a lofty, a lasting, and an impressive influence. Lovers of
Goldsmith feel friendship and affection for the moving and immortal
spirit of the man. His works need no learned commentary. The common
heart is their sufficing commentary.