Oliver Goldsmith, the son of a clergyman, was, according to some
writers, born in 1729, at Elphin, in Roscommon, Ireland; but,
according to the inscription on his monument, at Fernes, in the
province of Leinster, on the 29th of November, 1731. After having
acquired the rudiments of education at a private school, he was, in
June, 1744, admitted a sizer of Trinity College, Dublin, where he
graduated B. A., in 1749, but did not display remarkable abilities in
the course of his academical studies. Being destined for the medical
profession, he attended some courses of anatomy in Dublin; and, in
1751, entered the University of Edinburgh, where he studied medicine
under the different professors. His thoughtless, though generous,
disposition, soon involved him in difficulties; and in order to avoid
arrest for the debt of a friend, for which he had made himself
responsible, he was obliged to quit Scotland abruptly. He arrived at
Sunderland in the early part of 1754, when his person was secured,
but, being released, through the friendship of Dr. Sleigh, he sailed
to Rotterdam; and, after visiting great part of Flanders, proceeded to
Louvain, where he remained some time, at the expense of his uncle, and
took his degree of bachelor in physic. Hence, it is said, with only
one clean shirt, and no money in his pocket, he set out on foot for
Geneva, which he reached by a circuitous route, in the course of which
he supported himself by his abilities, musical and classical. ‘My
learning,’ he says, ‘procured me a favorable reception at most of the
religious houses I visited, and whenever I approached a peasant’s
house, I played one of my most merry tunes, and that generally
procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day;
this, however, was not the case with the rich, who generally despised
both me and my music.’
On his arrival at Geneva, he was appointed tutor and traveling
companion to a young gentleman of fortune, with whom he continued
until they entered the south of France, where, in consequence of a
disagreement, they parted. Goldsmith, however, did not turn his steps
homeward, till he had still further gratified his passion for travel,
although he was obliged to resort to his flute, as before, for lodging
and subsistence. The death of his uncle, during our author’s stay
abroad, had reduced him to these exigencies, and on his arrival in
London, in the winter of 1758, a few halfpence constituted the whole
of his finances. In this extremity, he applied for employment to the
apothecaries, but his awkward appearance, and broad Irish accent, were
much against him; and it was only from motives of humanity, that a
chemist, at length, consented to take him into his service. Hearing,
however, that his old friend, Dr. Sleigh, was in London, he paid him a
visit, and accepted an asylum in his house, but soon afterwards left
it, for an ushership at the Rev. Dr. Milner’s academy at Peckham. In
this situation he did not remain long; for, having obtained some
reputation from criticisms he had written in The Monthly Review, he
entered into an engagement with the proprietor, and, coming to London,
took lodgings near the Old Bailey, and commenced authorship as a
profession. Besides writing for The Review, he produced a weekly
pamphlet, called The Bee; An inquiry into the Present State of
Learning in Europe; and contributed several Essays to The Public
Ledger, in which his Citizen of the World appeared, under the title of
Chinese Letters. These publications had brought him both fame and
emolument, and, in 1765, at which time he resided in the Temple, he
added to them by the production of his celebrated poem The Traveler.
This had been written during his residence abroad, and was revised and
printed at the recommendation of Dr. Johnson, his acquaintance with
whom was soon followed by that of other eminent literary characters of
the day. In 1766, appeared his Vicar of Wakefield, and his History of
England, in a series of letters, two of his most successful
performances, and which were received with immediate applause. In
1768, his comedy of The Good-natured Man, was brought out at Covent
Garden, with a prologue by Dr. Johnson; but the success of it was not
proportionate to its merits. In 1770, appeared his exquisite poem of
The Deserted Village, for which he received £100, but could hardly be
prevailed upon to accept it, until satisfied that the profits of the
bookseller could afford that sum. It is, indeed, said by one of his
biographers, that he went back and returned the money, observing, ‘he
had not been easy since he received it;’ and left it to the bookseller
to pay him according to the profits of the sale.
In 1772, was acted his celebrated comedy of She Stoops to Conquer,
concerning the acceptance and success of which he appears to have been
equally anxious and doubtful. His letter to Colman, about this time,
does not represent his circumstances in a very favorable light: ‘I
have, as you know,’ he says, ‘a large sum of money to make up shortly;
by accepting my play, I can readily satisfy my creditors that way; at
any rate, I must look about to some certainty to be prepared. For
God’s sake, take the play, and let us make the best of it; and let me
have the same measure, at least, which you have given as bad plays as
mine.’ During the first performance of the comedy, he is said to have
walked all the time in St. James’ Park, in great uneasiness, until,
thinking it must be over, he hastened to the theatre. His ears were
assailed with hisses as he entered the green-room; when he eagerly
inquired of Mr. Colman the cause.――‘Psha! psha!’ said Colman, ‘don’t
be afraid of squibs, when we have been sitting on a barrel of
gunpowder these two hours.’ The fact was, that the comedy had been
completely successful, and that it was the farce which had excited
these sounds so terrific to Goldsmith.
In the following year, his last theatrical piece, entitled The
Grumbler, a farce, altered from Sedley, was acted, for the benefit of
Mr. Quick; but it was not repeated, and was never printed. His other
productions are, a Roman History, a History of England, in four
volumes, a Grecian History, and a History of the Earth and Animated
Nature, compiled from Buffon and others. He had acquired more than a
sufficiency, by his writings, for his comforts and necessaries; but
his indiscriminate and improvident liberality, added to a passion for
gaming, rendered his emoluments comparatively useless; and at length
threw him into a state of despondency, which terminated in a nervous
fever, and deprived him of life on the 4th of April, 1774. He was
buried in the Temple Church, and a monument was afterwards erected to
his memory in Westminster Abbey, at the expense of a literary club to
which he belonged, with an inscription by Dr. Johnson. He is described
as a ‘poet, natural philosopher, and historian; who left no species of
writing untouched, or unadorned by his pen, whether to move laughter,
or draw tears. He was a powerful master over the affections, though,
at the same time, a gentle tyrant; of a genius at once sublime,
lively, and equal to every subject: in expression at once noble, pure,
and delicate.’
The character of Goldsmith was in the highest degree good-natured and
benevolent; he was every one’s friend, and any one’s dupe; retaining,
as he did, amid all his worldly experience, his natural simplicity and
philanthropy of heart. But he was not truly estimable; for he was,
with all his good qualities, improvident, dissipated, and meanly
jealous of a literary rival. He was also, at times, impetuous and
passionate; but corrected himself upon a moment’s reflection; and it
is said his servants would throw themselves in his way upon these
occasions, as they were certain of being rewarded after the anger of
their master had subsided. Mrs. Piozzi describes him as a poor fretful
creature, eaten up with affectation and envy, and the only person she
ever knew who acknowledged himself to be envious. It is known that he
used his pen better than his tongue; and the same lady calls his
conversation a strange mixture of absurdity and silliness. Some one
who saw him for the first time in company, declared he was ‘the most
solemn coxcomb he had ever met with;’ and the phrase of ‘inspired
idiot’ is well known as applied to him. As an author he is to be
considered in the character of a poet, historical compiler, novelist,
essayist, and dramatist; in all of which he has been so far
successful, as to leave some work in these respective departments of
literature, alone sufficient to perpetuate his reputation. It is as a
poet, however, that he will be chiefly esteemed; The Traveler, The
Deserted Village, and The Hermit, are unrivaled in their class; and,
though Dr. Aikin has placed them at the head of the minor
compositions, will always retain their original popularity. His
literary qualifications cannot be better described than in the words
of Dr. Johnson, who calls him ‘a man of such variety of powers, and
such felicity of performance, that he always seemed to do best that
which he was doing: a man, who had the art of being minute, without
tediousness; and general, without confusion; whose language was
copious, without exuberance; exact, without constraint; and easy,
without weakness.’ Johnson was always ready to testify to the merits
of Goldsmith; and being, one day, of a party at Sir Joshua Reynolds’,
where several affirmed that the author of The Traveler had neither
talent nor originality, he rose with great dignity, looked them full
in the face, and exclaimed, ‘If nobody was suffered to abuse poor
Goldy but those who could write as well, he would have few censors.’
Many anecdotes are told of his credulous simplicity, and
indiscriminate benevolence. Sitting, one evening, at the tavern where
he was accustomed to take his supper, he called for a mutton chop,
which was no sooner placed on the table, than a gentleman near him,
with whom he was intimately acquainted, showed great tokens of
uneasiness, and wondered how the doctor could suffer the waiter to
place such a stinking chop before him. ‘Stinking!’ said Goldsmith, ‘in
good truth I do not smell it.’ ‘I never smelled anything more
unpleasant in my life,’ answered the gentleman; ‘the fellow deserves a
caning for bringing you meat unfit to eat.’ ‘In good troth,’ said the
poet, relying on his judgment, ‘I think so too; but I will be less
severe in my punishment.’ He instantly called the waiter, and insisted
that he should eat the chop, as a punishment. The waiter resisted, but
the doctor threatened to knock him down with his cane if he did not
immediately comply. When he had eaten half the chop, the doctor gave
him a glass of wine, thinking that it would make the remainder of the
sentence less painful to him. When the waiter had finished his repast,
Goldsmith’s friend burst into a loud laugh. ‘What ails you now?’ said
the poet. ‘Indeed, my good friend,’ said the other, ‘I never could
think that any man, whose knowledge of letters is so extensive as
yours, could be so great a dupe to a stroke of humor; the chop was as
fine a one as I ever saw in my life.’ ‘Was it?’ said Dr. Goldsmith,
‘then I will never give credit to what you say again; and so, in good
truth, I think I am even with you.’ Being pressed by his tailor for a
debt, he appointed a day for payment, and procured the money in due
time; but before the tailor came, Glover called on the doctor, and
related a piteous tale of his goods being seized for rent. The
thoughtless and benevolent Goldsmith immediately gave Glover all the
money he possessed. When the tailor arrived, Goldsmith assured him
that had he called a little earlier he should have had his money;
‘but’ added he, ‘I have just parted with every penny I had in the
world to a friend in distress. I should have been a cruel wretch, you
know, not to have relieved him when it was in my power.’ In the suite
of the doctor’s pensioners was one Jack Pilkington, who had served the
doctor so many tricks, that he despaired of getting any more money
from him, without resorting to a _chef d’œuvre_ once for all. He
accordingly called on the doctor one morning, and running about the
room in a fit of joy, told him his fortune was made. ‘How so Jack?’
says the doctor. ‘Why,’ replied Jack, ‘the Duchess of Marlborough, you
must know, has long had a strange _penchant_ for a pair of white mice;
now, as I knew they were sometimes found in the East Indies, I
commissioned a friend of mine, who was going out there, to get them
for me, and he is this morning arrived with two of the most beautiful
little animals in nature.’ After Jack had finished this account with a
transport of joy, he lengthened his visage, by telling the doctor all
was ruined, for without two guineas, to buy a cage for the mice, he
could not present them. The doctor unfortunately, as he said himself,
had but half-a-guinea in the world, which he offered him. But
Pilkington was not to be beat out of his scheme; he perceived the
doctor’s watch hanging up in his room, and after premising on the
indelicacy of the proposal, hinted that if he could spare that watch
for a week, he could raise a few guineas on it, which he would repay
him with gratitude. The doctor accordingly took down the watch,
and gave it to him, which Jack immediately carried to the
pawnbroker’s,――raised what he could on it, and never once looked after
the doctor, till he sent to borrow another half-guinea from him on his
deathbed, which the other, under such circumstances, very generously
sent him. One afternoon, as Colonel O’Moore and Mr. Burke were going
to dine with Sir Joshua Reynolds, they observed Goldsmith (also on his
way to Sir Joshua’s) standing near a crowd of people, who were staring
and shouting at some foreign women in the windows of one of the houses
in Leicester Square. ‘Observe Goldsmith,’ said Mr. Burke to Colonel
O’Moore, ‘and mark what passes between him and me by-and-by at Sir
Joshua’s.’ They passed on, and arrived before Goldsmith, who came soon
after, and Mr. Burke affected to receive him very coolly. This seemed
to vex poor Goldsmith, who begged Mr. Burke would tell him how he had
the misfortune to offend him. Burke appeared very reluctant to speak,
but, after a good deal of pressing, said ‘that he was really ashamed
to keep up an intimacy with one who could be guilty of such monstrous
indiscretions as Goldsmith had just exhibited in the square.’
Goldsmith, with great earnestness, protested he was unconscious of
what was meant. ‘Why,’ said Burke, ‘did you not exclaim, as you were
looking up at those women, What stupid beasts the crowd must be for
staring with such admiration at those painted Jezebels, while a man of
my talents passes by unnoticed?’ Goldsmith was horror-struck, and
said, ‘Surely, surely, my dear friend, I did not say so.’ ‘Nay,’
replied Burke, ‘If you had not said so, how should I have known it?’
‘That’s true,’ answered Goldsmith, with great humility: ‘I am very
sorry; it was very foolish: I do recollect that something of that kind
passed through my mind, but I did not think I had uttered it.’