BEGINNING OF AUTHORSHIP.--THE BEE.
During the period that now ensued, and amid much quarrelling with
Griffiths and hack-writing for the _Critical Review_, Goldsmith
managed to get his _Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning
in Europe_ completed; and it is from the publication of that work, on
the 2nd of April, 1759, that we may date the beginning of Goldsmith's
career as an author. The book was published anonymously; but Goldsmith
was not at all anxious to disclaim the parentage of his first-born;
and in Grub Street and its environs, at least, the authorship of the
book was no secret. Moreover there was that in it which was likely to
provoke the literary tribe to plenty of fierce talking. The _Enquiry_
is neither more nor less than an endeavour to prove that criticism has
in all ages been the deadly enemy of art and literature; coupled with
an appeal to authors to draw their inspiration from nature rather than
from books, and varied here and there by a gentle sigh over the loss
of that patronage, in the sunshine of which men of genius were wont to
bask. Goldsmith, not having been an author himself, could not have
suffered much at the hands of the critics; so that it is not to be
supposed that personal feeling dictated this fierce onslaught on the
whole tribe of critics, compilers, and commentators. They are
represented to us as rank weeds, growing up to choke all
manifestations of true art. "Ancient learning," we are told at the
outset, "may be distinguished into three periods: its commencement, or
the age of poets; its maturity, or the age of philosophers; and its
decline, or the age of critics." Then our guide carries us into the
dark ages; and, with lantern in hand, shows us the creatures swarming
there in the sluggish pools--"commentators, compilers, polemic
divines, and intricate metaphysicians." We come to Italy: look at the
affectations with which the Virtuosi and Filosofi have enchained the
free spirit of poetry. "Poetry is no longer among them an imitation of
what we see, but of what a visionary might wish. The zephyr breathes
the most exquisite perfume; the trees wear eternal verdure; fawns, and
dryads, and hamadryads, stand ready to fan the sultry shepherdess, who
has forgot, indeed, the prettiness with which Guarini's shepherdesses
have been reproached, but is so simple and innocent as often to have
no meaning. Happy country, where the pastoral age begins to
revive!--where the wits even of Rome are united into a rural group of
nymphs and swains, under the appellation of modern Arcadians!--where
in the midst of porticoes, processions, and cavalcades, abbés turned
shepherds and shepherdesses without sheep indulge their innocent
_divertimenti_!"
In Germany the ponderous volumes of the commentators next come in for
animadversion; and here we find an epigram, the quaint simplicity of
which is peculiarly characteristic of Goldsmith. "Were angels to write
books," he remarks, "they never would write folios." But Germany gets
credit for the money spent by her potentates on learned institutions;
and it is perhaps England that is delicately hinted at in these words:
"Had the fourth part of the immense sum above-mentioned been given in
proper rewards to genius, in some neighbouring countries, it would
have rendered the name of the donor immortal, and added to the real
interests of society." Indeed, when we come to England, we find that
men of letters are in a bad way, owing to the prevalence of critics,
the tyranny of booksellers, and the absence of patrons. "The author,
when unpatronized by the great, has naturally recourse to the
bookseller. There cannot perhaps be imagined a combination more
prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of the one to allow
as little for writing, and of the other to write as much as possible.
Accordingly, tedious compilations and periodical magazines are the
result of their joint endeavours. In these circumstances the author
bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only. Imagination
is seldom called in. He sits down to address the venal muse with the
most phlegmatic apathy; and, as we are told of the Russian, courts his
mistress by falling asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in
a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not
for the fineness of his compositions, but the quantity he works off in
a given time.
"A long habit of writing for bread thus turns the ambition of every
author at last into avarice. He finds that he has written many years,
that the public are scarcely acquainted even with his name; he
despairs of applause, and turns to profit, which invites him. He finds
that money procures all those advantages, that respect, and that ease
which he vainly expected from fame. Thus the man who, under the
protection of the great, might have done honour to humanity, when only
patronized by the bookseller, becomes a thing little superior to the
fellow who works at the press."
Nor was he afraid to attack the critics of his own day, though he knew
that the two Reviews for which he had recently been writing would have
something to say about his own _Enquiry_. This is how he disposes of
the _Critical_ and the _Monthly_: "We have two literary Reviews in
London, with critical newspapers and magazines without number. The
compilers of these resemble the commoners of Rome; they are all for
levelling property, not by increasing their own, but by diminishing
that of others. The man who has any good-nature in his disposition
must, however, be somewhat displeased to see distinguished reputations
often the sport of ignorance,--to see, by one false pleasantry, the
future peace of a worthy man's life disturbed, and this only because
he has unsuccessfully attempted to instruct or amuse us. Though
ill-nature is far from being wit, yet it is generally laughed at as
such. The critic enjoys the triumph, and ascribes to his parts what is
only due to his effrontery. I fire with indignation, when I see
persons wholly destitute of education and genius indent to the press,
and thus turn book-makers, adding to the sin of criticism the sin of
ignorance also; whose trade is a bad one, and who are bad workmen in
the trade." Indeed there was a good deal of random hitting in the
_Enquiry_, which was sure to provoke resentment. Why, for example,
should he have gone out of his way to insult the highly respectable
class of people who excel in mathematical studies? "This seems a
science," he observes, "to which the meanest intellects are equal. I
forget who it is that says 'All men might understand mathematics if
they would.'" There was also in the first edition of the _Enquiry_ a
somewhat ungenerous attack on stage-managers, actors, actresses, and
theatrical things in general; but this was afterwards wisely excised.
It is not to be wondered at that, on the whole, the _Enquiry_ should
have been severely handled in certain quarters. Smollett, who reviewed
it in the _Critical Review_, appears to have kept his temper pretty
well for a Scotchman; but Kenrick, a hack employed by Griffiths to
maltreat the book in the _Monthly Review_, flourished his bludgeon in
a brave manner. The coarse personalities and malevolent insinuations
of this bully no doubt hurt Goldsmith considerably; but, as we look at
them now, they are only remarkable for their dulness. If Griffiths had
had another Goldsmith to reply to Goldsmith, the retort would have
been better worth reading: one can imagine the playful sarcasm that
would have been dealt out to this new writer, who, in the very act of
protesting against criticism, proclaimed himself a critic. But
Goldsmiths are not always to be had when wanted; while Kenricks can be
bought at any moment for a guinea or two a head.
Goldsmith had not chosen literature as the occupation of his life; he
had only fallen back on it, when other projects failed. But it is
quite possible that now, as he began to take up some slight position
as an author, the old ambition of distinguishing himself--which had
flickered before his imagination from time to time--began to enter
into his calculations along with the more pressing business of earning
a livelihood. And he was soon to have an opportunity of appealing to a
wider public than could have been expected for that erudite treatise
on the arts of Europe. Mr. Wilkie, a bookseller in St. Paul's
Churchyard, proposed to start a weekly magazine, price threepence, to
contain essays, short stories, letters on the topics of the day, and
so forth, more or less after the manner of the _Spectator_. He asked
Goldsmith to become sole contributor. Here, indeed, was a very good
opening; for, although there were many magazines in the field, the
public had just then a fancy for literature in small doses; while
Goldsmith, in entering into the competition, would not be hampered by
the dulness of collaborateurs. He closed with Wilkie's offer; and on
the 6th of October, 1759, appeared the first number of the _Bee_.
For us now there is a curious autobiographical interest in the opening
sentences of the first number; but surely even the public of the day
must have imagined that the new writer who was now addressing them,
was not to be confounded with the common herd of magazine-hacks. What
could be more delightful than this odd mixture of modesty, humour, and
an anxious desire to please?--"There is not, perhaps, a more
whimsically dismal figure in nature than a man of real modesty, who
assumes an air of impudence--who, while his heart beats with anxiety,
studies ease and affects good-humour. In this situation, however, a
periodical writer often finds himself upon his first attempt to
address the public in form. All his power of pleasing is damped by
solicitude, and his cheerfulness dashed with apprehension. Impressed
with the terrors of the tribunal before which he is going to appear,
his natural humour turns to pertness, and for real wit he is obliged
to substitute vivacity. His first publication draws a crowd; they part
dissatisfied; and the author, never more to be indulged with a
favourable hearing, is left to condemn the indelicacy of his own
address or their want of discernment. For my part, as I was never
distinguished for address, and have often even blundered in making my
bow, such bodings as these had like to have totally repressed my
ambition. I was at a loss whether to give the public specious
promises, or give none; whether to be merry or sad on this solemn
occasion. If I should decline all merit, it was too probable the hasty
reader might have taken me at my word. If, on the other hand, like
labourers in the magazine trade, I had, with modest impudence, humbly
presumed to promise an epitome of all the good things that ever were
said or written, this might have disgusted those readers I most desire
to please. Had I been merry, I might have been censured as vastly low;
and had I been sorrowful, I might have been left to mourn in solitude
and silence; in short, whichever way I turned, nothing presented but
prospects of terror, despair, chandlers' shops, and waste paper."
And it is just possible that if Goldsmith had kept to this vein of
familiar _causerie_, the public might in time have been attracted by
its quaintness. But no doubt Mr. Wilkie would have stared aghast; and
so we find Goldsmith, as soon as his introductory bow is made, setting
seriously about the business of magazine-making. Very soon, however,
both Mr. Wilkie and his editor perceived that the public had not been
taken by their venture. The chief cause of the failure, as it appears
to any one who looks over the magazine now, would seem to be the lack
of any definite purpose. There was no marked feature to arrest public
attention, while many things were discarded on which the popularity of
other periodicals had been based. There was no scandal to appeal to
the key-hole and back-door element in human nature; there were no
libels and gross personalities to delight the mean and envious; there
were no fine airs of fashion to charm milliners anxious to know how
the great talked, and posed, and dressed; and there was no solemn and
pompous erudition to impress the minds of those serious and sensible
people who buy literature as they buy butter, by its weight. At the
beginning of No. IV. he admits that the new magazine has not been a
success; and, in doing so, returns to that vein of whimsical, personal
humour with which he had started: "Were I to measure the merit of my
present undertaking by its success or the rapidity of its sale, I
might be led to form conclusions by no means favourable to the pride
of an author. Should I estimate my fame by its extent, every newspaper
and magazine would leave me far behind. Their fame is diffused in a
very wide circle--that of some as far as Islington, and some yet
farther still; while mine, I sincerely believe, has hardly travelled
beyond the sound of Bow Bell; and, while the works of others fly like
unpinioned swans, I find my own move as heavily as a new-plucked
goose. Still, however, I have as much pride as they who have ten times
as many readers. It is impossible to repeat all the agreeable
delusions in which a disappointed author is apt to find comfort. I
conclude, that what my reputation wants in extent is made up by its
solidity. _Minus juvat gloria lata quam magna._ I have great
satisfaction in considering the delicacy and discernment of those
readers I have, and in ascribing my want of popularity to the
ignorance or inattention of those I have not. All the world may
forsake an author, but vanity will never forsake him. Yet,
notwithstanding so sincere a confession, I was once induced to show my
indignation against the public, by discontinuing my endeavours to
please; and was bravely resolved, like Raleigh, to vex them by burning
my manuscript in a passion. Upon recollection, however, I considered
what set or body of people would be displeased at my rashness. The
sun, after so sad an accident, might shine next morning as bright as
usual; men might laugh and sing the next day, and transact business as
before, and not a single creature feel any regret but myself."
Goldsmith was certainly more at home in this sort of writing, than in
gravely lecturing people against the vice of gambling; in warning
tradesmen how ill it became them to be seen at races; in demonstrating
that justice is a higher virtue than generosity; and in proving that
the avaricious are the true benefactors of society. But even as he
confesses the failure of his new magazine, he seems determined to show
the public what sort of writer this is, whom as yet they have not
regarded too favourably. It is in No. IV. of the _Bee_ that the famous
_City Night Piece_ occurs. No doubt that strange little fragment of
description was the result of some sudden and aimless fancy, striking
the occupant of the lonely garret in the middle of the night. The
present tense, which he seldom used--and the abuse of which is one of
the detestable vices of modern literature--adds to the mysterious
solemnity of the recital:--
"The clock has just struck two, the expiring taper rises and sinks in
the socket, the watchman forgets the hour in slumber, the laborious
and the happy are at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt,
revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the destroying
bowl, the robber walks his midnight round, and the suicide lifts his
guilty arm against his own sacred person.
"Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity or the
sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where
Vanity, ever changing, but a few hours past walked before me--where
she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed
with her own importunities.
"What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp feebly emits a yellow
gleam; no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant
watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is forgotten; an hour like
this may well display the emptiness of human vanity.
"There will come a time, when this temporary solitude may be made
continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and
leave a desert in its room.
"What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, had
their victories as great, joy as just and as unbounded; and, with
short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality! Posterity
can hardly trace the situation of some; the sorrowful traveller
wanders over the awful ruins of others; and, as he beholds, he learns
wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary possession.
"'Here,' he cries, 'stood their citadel, now grown over with weeds;
there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile;
temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of
ruin. They are fallen, for luxury and avarice first made them feeble.
The rewards of the state were conferred on amusing, and not on useful,
members of society. Their riches and opulence invited the invaders,
who, though at first repulsed, returned again, conquered by
perseverance, and at last swept the defendants into undistinguished
destruction.'"