The Citizen of the World.--Beau Nash.
Meanwhile, to return to his literary work, the _Citizen of the World_
had grown out of his contributions to the _Public Ledger_, a daily
newspaper started by Mr. Newbery, another bookseller in St. Paul's
Churchyard. Goldsmith was engaged to write for this paper two letters
a week at a guinea a-piece; and these letters were, after a short time
(1760), written in the character of a Chinese who had come to study
European civilisation. It may be noted that Goldsmith had in the
_Monthly Review_, in mentioning Voltaire's memoirs of French writers,
quoted a passage about Montesquieu's _Lettres Persanes_ as follows:
"It is written in imitation of the _Siamese Letters_ of Du Freny and
of the _Turkish Spy_; but it is an imitation which shows what the
originals should have been. The success their works met with was, for
the most part, owing to the foreign air of their performances; the
success of the _Persian Letters_ arose from the delicacy of their
satire. That satire which in the mouth of an Asiatic is poignant,
would lose all its force when coming from an European." And it must
certainly be said that the charm of the strictures of the _Citizen of
the World_ lies wholly in their delicate satire, and not at all in any
foreign air which the author may have tried to lend to these
performances. The disguise is very apparent. In those garrulous,
vivacious, whimsical, and sometimes serious papers, Lien Chi Altangi,
writing to Fum Hoam in Pekin, does not so much describe the aspects of
European civilisation which would naturally surprise a Chinese, as he
expresses the dissatisfaction of a European with certain phases of the
civilisation visible everywhere around him. It is not a Chinaman, but
a Fleet-Street author by profession, who resents the competition of
noble amateurs whose works--otherwise bitter pills enough--are gilded
by their titles:--"A nobleman has but to take a pen, ink, and paper,
write away through three large volumes, and then sign his name to the
title-page; though the whole might have been before more disgusting
than his own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives value to
the deed, title being alone equivalent to taste, imagination, and
genius. As soon as a piece, therefore, is published, the first
questions are--Who is the author? Does he keep a coach? Where lies his
estate? What sort of a table does he keep? If he happens to be poor
and unqualified for such a scrutiny, he and his works sink into
irremediable obscurity, and too late he finds, that having fed upon
turtle is a more ready way to fame than having digested Tully. The
poor devil against whom fashion has set its face vainly alleges that
he has been bred in every part of Europe where knowledge was to be
sold; that he has grown pale in the study of nature and himself. His
works may please upon the perusal, but his pretensions to fame are
entirely disregarded. He is treated like a fiddler, whose music,
though liked, is not much praised, because he lives by it; while a
gentleman performer, though the most wretched scraper alive, throws
the audience into raptures. The fiddler, indeed, may in such a case
console himself by thinking, that while the other goes off with all
the praise, he runs away with all the money. But here the parallel
drops; for while the nobleman triumphs in unmerited applause, the
author by profession steals off with--nothing."
At the same time it must be allowed that the utterance of these
strictures through the mouth of a Chinese admits of a certain
_naïveté_, which on occasion heightens the sarcasm. Lien Chi
accompanies the Man in Black to a theatre to see an English play. Here
is part of the performance:--"I was going to second his remarks, when
my attention was engrossed by a new object; a man came in balancing a
straw upon his nose, and the audience were clapping their hands in all
the raptures of applause. 'To what purpose,' cried I, 'does this
unmeaning figure make his appearance? is he a part of the
plot?'--'Unmeaning do you call him?' replied my friend in black; 'this
is one of the most important characters of the whole play; nothing
pleases the people more than seeing a straw balanced: there is a great
deal of meaning in a straw: there is something suited to every
apprehension in the sight; and a fellow possessed of talents like
these is sure of making his fortune.' The third act now began with an
actor who came to inform us that he was the villain of the play, and
intended to show strange things before all was over. He was joined by
another who seemed as much disposed for mischief as he; their
intrigues continued through this whole division. 'If that be a
villain,' said I, 'he must be a very stupid one to tell his secrets
without being asked; such soliloquies of late are never admitted in
China.' The noise of clapping interrupted me once more; a child six
years old was learning to dance on the stage, which gave the ladies
and mandarins infinite satisfaction. 'I am sorry,' said I, 'to see the
pretty creature so early learning so bad a trade; dancing being, I
presume, as contemptible here as in China.'--'Quite the reverse,'
interrupted my companion; 'dancing is a very reputable and genteel
employment here; men have a greater chance for encouragement from the
merit of their heels than their heads. One who jumps up and nourishes
his toes three times before he comes to the ground may have three
hundred a year: he who flourishes them four times, gets four hundred;
but he who arrives at five is inestimable, and may demand what salary
he thinks proper. The female dancers, too, are valued for this sort of
jumping and crossing; and it is a cant word amongst them, that she
deserves most who shows highest. But the fourth act is begun; let us
be attentive.'"
The Man in Black here mentioned is one of the notable features of this
series of papers. The mysterious person whose acquaintance the
Chinaman made in Westminster Abbey, and who concealed such a wonderful
goodness of heart under a rough and forbidding exterior, is a charming
character indeed; and it is impossible to praise too highly the vein
of subtle sarcasm in which he preaches worldly wisdom. But to assume
that any part of his history which he disclosed to the Chinaman was a
piece of autobiographical writing on the part of Goldsmith, is a very
hazardous thing. A writer of fiction must necessarily use such
materials as have come within his own experience; and Goldsmith's
experience--or his use of those materials--was extremely limited:
witness how often a pet fancy, like his remembrance of _Johnny
Armstrong's Last Good Night_, is repeated. "That of these simple
elements," writes Professor Masson, in his _Memoir of Goldsmith_,
prefixed to an edition of his works, "he made so many charming
combinations, really differing from each other, and all, though
suggested by fact, yet hung so sweetly in an ideal air, proved what an
artist he was, and was better than much that is commonly called
invention. In short, if there is a sameness of effect in Goldsmith's
writings, it is because they consist of poetry and truth, humour and
pathos, from his own life, and the supply from such a life as his was
not inexhaustible."
The question of invention is easily disposed of. Any child can invent
a world transcending human experience by the simple combination of
ideas which are in themselves incongruous--a world in which the horses
have each five feet, in which the grass is blue and the sky green, in
which seas are balanced on the peaks of mountains. The result is
unbelievable and worthless. But the writer of imaginative literature
uses his own experiences and the experiences of others, so that his
combination of ideas in themselves compatible shall appear so natural
and believable that the reader--although these incidents and
characters never did actually exist--is as much interested in them as
if they had existed. The mischief of it is that the reader sometimes
thinks himself very clever, and, recognising a little bit of the story
as having happened to the author, jumps to the conclusion that such
and such a passage is necessarily autobiographical. Hence it is that
Goldsmith has been hastily identified with the Philosophic Vagabond in
the _Vicar of Wakefield_, and with the Man in Black in the _Citizen of
the World_. That he may have used certain experiences in the one, and
that he may perhaps have given in the other a sort of fancy sketch of
a person suggested by some trait in his own character, is possible
enough; but further assertion of likeness is impossible. That the Man
in Black had one of Goldsmith's little weaknesses is obvious enough:
we find him just a trifle too conscious of his own kindliness and
generosity. The Vicar of Wakefield himself is not without a spice of
this amiable vanity. As for Goldsmith, every one must remember his
reply to Griffiths' accusation: "No, sir, had I been a sharper, _had I
been possessed of less good nature and native generosity_, I might
surely now have been in better circumstances."
The Man in Black, in any case, is a delightful character. We detect
the warm and generous nature even in his pretence of having acquired
worldly wisdom: "I now therefore pursued a course of uninterrupted
frugality, seldom wanted a dinner, and was consequently invited to
twenty. I soon began to get the character of a saving hunks that had
money, and insensibly grew into esteem. Neighbours have asked my
advice in the disposal of their daughters; and I have always taken
care not to give any. I have contracted a friendship with an alderman,
only by observing, that if we take a farthing from a thousand pounds
it will be a thousand pounds no longer. I have been invited to a
pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate gravy; and am now actually
upon treaty of marriage with a rich widow, for only having observed
that the bread was rising. If ever I am asked a question, whether I
know it or not, instead of answering, I only smile and look wise. If a
charity is proposed I go about with the hat, but put nothing in
myself. If a wretch solicits my pity, I observe that the world is
filled with impostors, and take a certain method of not being deceived
by never relieving. In short, I now find the truest way of finding
esteem, even from the indigent, is to give away nothing, and thus have
much in our power to give." This is a very clever piece of writing,
whether it is in strict accordance with the character of the Man in
Black, or not. But there is in these _Public Ledger_ papers another
sketch of character, which is not only consistent in itself, and in
every way admirable, but is of still further interest to us when we
remember that at this time the various personages in the _Vicar of
Wakefield_ were no doubt gradually assuming definite form in
Goldsmith's mind. It is in the figure of Mr. Tibbs, introduced
apparently at haphazard, but at once taking possession of us by its
quaint relief, that we find Goldsmith showing a firmer hand in
character-drawing. With a few happy dramatic touches Mr. Tibbs starts
into life; he speaks for himself; he becomes one of the people whom we
know. And yet, with this concise and sharp portraiture of a human
being, look at the graceful, almost garrulous, ease of the style:--
"Our pursuer soon came up and joined us with all the
familiarity of an old acquaintance. 'My dear Drybone,' cries
he, shaking my friend's hand, 'where have you been hiding
this half a century? Positively I had fancied you were gone
to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country.'
During the reply I had an opportunity of surveying the
appearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with
peculiar smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp;
round his neck he wore a broad black riband, and in his
bosom a buckle studded with glass; his coat was trimmed with
tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black
hilt; and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were
grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with the
peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter
part of my friend's reply, in which he complimented Mr.
Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his
countenance. 'Pshaw, pshaw, Will,' cried the figure, 'no
more of that, if you love me: you know I hate flattery,--on
my soul I do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with the
great will improve one's appearance, and a course of venison
will fatten; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as
you do; but there are a great many damn'd honest fellows
among them, and we must not quarrel with one half, because
the other wants weeding. If they were all such as my Lord
Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever
squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of
their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of
Piccadilly's. My lord was there. "Ned," says he to me,
"Ned," says he, "I'll hold gold to silver, I can tell you
where you were poaching last night." "Poaching, my lord?"
says I: "faith, you have missed already; for I staid at home
and let the girls poach for me. That's my way: I take a fine
woman as some animals do their prey--stand still, and,
swoop, they fall into my mouth."' 'Ah, Tibbs, thou art a
happy fellow,' cried my companion, with looks of infinite
pity; 'I hope your fortune is as much improved as your
understanding, in such company?' 'Improved!' replied the
other: 'you shall know,--but let it go no farther--a great
secret--five hundred a year to begin with--my lord's word of
honour for it. His lordship took me down in his own chariot
yesterday, and we had a _tête-à-tête_ dinner in the country,
where we talked of nothing else.'--'I fancy you forget,
sir,' cried I; 'you told us but this moment of your dining
yesterday in town.'--'Did I say so?' replied he, coolly; 'to
be sure, if I said so, it was so. Dined in town! egad, now I
do remember, I did dine in town; but I dined in the country
too; for you must know, my boys, I ate two dinners. By the
bye, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. I'll tell
you a pleasant affair about that: we were a select party of
us to dine at Lady Grogram's,--an affected piece, but let it
go no farther--a secret.--Well, there happened to be no
asafoetida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which, says I,
I'll hold a thousand guineas, and say done, first,
that--But, dear Drybone, you are an honest creature; lend me
half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till ----; but
hearkee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be
twenty to one but I forget to pay you.'"
Returning from those performances to the author of them, we find him a
busy man of letters, becoming more and more in request among the
booksellers, and obtaining recognition among his fellow-writers. He
had moved into better lodgings in Wine Office Court (1760-2); and it
was here that he entertained at supper, as has already been mentioned,
no less distinguished guests than Bishop, then Mr., Percy, and Dr.,
then Mr., Johnson. Every one has heard of the surprise of Percy, on
calling for Johnson, to find the great Cham dressed with quite unusual
smartness. On asking the cause of this "singular transformation,"
Johnson replied, "Why, sir, I hear that Goldsmith, who is a very great
sloven, justifies his disregard of cleanliness and decency by quoting
my practice; and I am desirous this night to show him a better
example." That Goldsmith profited by this example--though the tailors
did not--is clear enough. At times, indeed, he blossomed out into the
splendours of a dandy; and laughed at himself for doing so. But
whether he was in gorgeous or in mean attire, he remained the same
sort of happy-go-lucky creature; working hard by fits and starts;
continually getting money in advance from the booksellers; enjoying
the present hour; and apparently happy enough when not pressed by
debt. That he should have been thus pressed was no necessity of the
case; at all events we need not on this score begin now to abuse the
booksellers or the public of that day. We may dismiss once for all the
oft-repeated charges of ingratitude and neglect.
When Goldsmith was writing those letters in the _Public Ledger_--with
"pleasure and instruction for others," Mr. Forster says, "though at
the cost of suffering to himself"--he was receiving for them alone
what would be equivalent in our day to £200 a year. No man can affirm
that £200 a year is not amply sufficient for all the material wants of
life. Of course there are fine things in the world that that amount of
annual wage cannot purchase. It is a fine thing to sit on the deck of
a yacht on a summer's day, and watch the far islands shining over the
blue; it is a fine thing to drive four-in-hand to Ascot--if you can do
it; it is a fine thing to cower breathless behind a rock and find a
splendid stag coming slowly within sure range. But these things are
not necessary to human happiness: it is possible to do without them
and yet not "suffer." Even if Goldsmith had given half of his
substance away to the poor, there was enough left to cover all the
necessary wants of a human being; and if he chose so to order his
affairs as to incur the suffering of debt, why, that was his own
business, about which nothing further needs be said. It is to be
suspected, indeed, that he did not care to practise those excellent
maxims of prudence and frugality which he frequently preached; but the
world is not much concerned about that now. If Goldsmith had received
ten times as much money as the booksellers gave him, he would still
have died in debt. And it is just possible that we may exaggerate
Goldsmith's sensitiveness on this score. He had had a life-long
familiarity with duns and borrowing; and seemed very contented when
the exigency of the hour was tided over. An angry landlady is
unpleasant, and an arrest is awkward; but in comes an opportune
guinea, and the bottle of Madeira is opened forthwith.
In these rooms in Wine Office Court, and at the suggestion or
entreaty of Newbery, Goldsmith produced a good deal of miscellaneous
writing--pamphlets, tracts, compilations, and what not--of a more or
less marketable kind. It can only be surmised that by this time he may
have formed some idea of producing a book not solely meant for the
market, and that the characters in the _Vicar of Wakefield_ were
already engaging his attention; but the surmise becomes probable
enough when we remember that his project of writing the _Traveller_,
which was not published till 1764, had been formed as far back as
1755, while he was wandering aimlessly about Europe, and that a sketch
of the poem was actually forwarded by him then to his brother Henry in
Ireland. But in the meantime this hack-work, and the habits of life
connected with it, began to tell on Goldsmith's health; and so, for a
time, he left London (1762), and went to Tunbridge and then to Bath.
It is scarcely possible that his modest fame had preceded him to the
latter place of fashion; but it may be that the distinguished folk of
the town received this friend of the great Dr. Johnson with some small
measure of distinction; for we find that his next published work, _The
Life of Richard Nash, Esq._, is respectfully dedicated to the Right
Worshipful the Mayor, Recorder, Aldermen, and Common Council of the
City of Bath. The Life of the recently deceased Master of Ceremonies
was published anonymously (1762); but it was generally understood to
be Goldsmith's; and indeed the secret of the authorship is revealed in
every successive line. Among the minor writings of Goldsmith there is
none more delightful than this: the mock-heroic gravity, the
half-familiar contemptuous good-nature with which he composes this
Funeral March of a Marionette, are extremely whimsical and amusing.
And then what an admirable picture we get of fashionable English
society in the beginning of the eighteenth century, when Bath and Nash
were alike in the heyday of their glory--the fine ladies with their
snuff-boxes, and their passion for play, and their extremely effective
language when they got angry; young bucks come to flourish away their
money, and gain by their losses the sympathy of the fair; sharpers on
the look-out for guineas, and adventurers on the look-out for
weak-minded heiresses; duchesses writing letters in the most doubtful
English, and chair-men swearing at any one who dared to walk home on
foot at night.
No doubt the _Life of Beau Nash_ was a bookseller's book; and it was
made as attractive as possible by the recapitulation of all sorts of
romantic stories about Miss S----n, and Mr. C----e, and Captain
K----g; but throughout we find the historian very much inclined to
laugh at his hero, and only refraining now and again in order to
record in serious language traits indicative of the real goodness of
disposition of that fop and gambler. And the fine ladies and
gentlemen, who lived in that atmosphere of scandal, and intrigue, and
gambling, are also from time to time treated to a little decorous and
respectful raillery. Who does not remember the famous laws of polite
breeding written out by Mr. Nash--Goldsmith hints that neither Mr.
Nash nor his fair correspondent at Blenheim, the Duchess of
Marlborough, excelled in English composition--for the guidance of the
ladies and gentlemen who were under the sway of the King of Bath? "But
were we to give laws to a nursery, we should make them childish
laws," Goldsmith writes gravely. "His statutes, though stupid, were
addressed to fine gentlemen and ladies, and were probably received
with sympathetic approbation. It is certain they were in general
religiously observed by his subjects, and executed by him with
impartiality; neither rank nor fortune shielded the refractory from
his resentment." Nash, however, was not content with prose in
enforcing good manners. Having waged deadly war against the custom of
wearing boots, and having found his ordinary armoury of no avail
against the obduracy of the country squires, he assailed them in the
impassioned language of poetry, and produced the following "Invitation
to the Assembly," which, as Goldsmith remarks, was highly relished by
the nobility at Bath on account of its keenness, severity, and
particularly its good rhymes.
"Come, one and all, to Hoyden Hall,
For there's the assembly this night;
None but prude fools
Mind manners and rules;
We Hoydens do decency slight.
Come, trollops and slatterns,
Cocked hats and white aprons,
This best our modesty suits;
For why should not we
In dress be as free
As Hogs-Norton squires in boots?"
The sarcasm was too much for the squires, who yielded in a body; and
when any stranger through inadvertence presented himself in the
assembly-rooms in boots, Nash was so completely master of the
situation that he would politely step up to the intruder and suggest
that he had forgotten his horse.
Goldsmith does not magnify the intellectual capacity of his hero; but
he gives him credit for a sort of rude wit that was sometimes
effective enough. His physician, for example, having called on him to
see whether he had followed a prescription that had been sent him the
previous day, was greeted in this fashion: "Followed your
prescription? No. Egad, if I had, I should have broken my neck, for I
flung it out of the two pair of stairs window." For the rest, this
diverting biography contains some excellent warnings against the vice
of gambling; with a particular account of the manner in which the
Government of the day tried by statute after statute to suppress the
tables at Tunbridge and Bath, thereby only driving the sharpers to new
subterfuges. That the Beau was in alliance with sharpers, or, at
least, that he was a sleeping partner in the firm, his biographer
admits; but it is urged on his behalf that he was the most generous of
winners, and again and again interfered to prevent the ruin of some
gambler by whose folly he would himself have profited. His constant
charity was well known; the money so lightly come by was at the
disposal of any one who could prefer a piteous tale. Moreover he made
no scruple about exacting from others that charity which they could
well afford. One may easily guess who was the duchess mentioned in the
following story of Goldsmith's narration:--
"The sums he gave and collected for the Hospital were great,
and his manner of doing it was no less admirable. I am told
that he was once collecting money in Wiltshire's room for
that purpose, when a lady entered, who is more remarkable
for her wit than her charity, and not being able to pass by
him unobserved, she gave him a pat with her fan, and said,
'You must put down a trifle for me, Nash, for I have no
money in my pocket.' 'Yes, madam,' says he, 'that I will
with pleasure, if your grace will tell me when to stop;'
then taking an handful of guineas out of his pocket, he
began to tell them into his white hat--' One, two, three,
four, five ----' 'Hold, hold!' says the duchess, 'consider
what you are about.' 'Consider your rank and fortune,
madam,' says Nash, and continues telling--'six, seven,
eight, nine, ten.' Here the duchess called again, and seemed
angry. 'Pray compose yourself, madam,' cried Nash, 'and
don't interrupt the work of charity,--eleven, twelve,
thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.' Here the duchess stormed, and
caught hold of his hand. 'Peace, madam,' says Nash, 'you
shall have your name written in letters of gold, madam, and
upon the front of the building, madam,--sixteen, seventeen,
eighteen, nineteen, twenty.' 'I won't pay a farthing more,'
says the duchess. 'Charity hides a multitude of sins,'
replies Nash,--'twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three,
twenty-four, twenty-five.' 'Nash,' says she, 'I protest you
frighten me out of my wits. L--d, I shall die!' 'Madam, you
will never die with doing good; and if you do, it will be
the better for you,' answered Nash, and was about to
proceed; but perceiving her grace had lost all patience, a
parley ensued, when he, after much altercation, agreed to
stop his hand and compound with her grace for thirty
guineas. The duchess, however, seemed displeased the whole
evening, and when he came to the table where she was
playing, bid him, 'Stand farther, an ugly devil, for she
hated the sight of him.' But her grace afterwards having a
run of good luck, called Nash to her. 'Come,' says she, 'I
will be friends with you, though you are a fool; and to let
you see I am not angry, there is ten guineas more for your
charity. But this I insist on, that neither my name nor the
sum shall be mentioned.'"
At the ripe age of eighty-seven the "beau of three generations"
breathed his last (1761); and, though he had fallen into poor ways,
there were those alive who remembered his former greatness, and who
chronicled it in a series of epitaphs and poetical lamentations. "One
thing is common almost with all of them," says Goldsmith, "and that is
that Venus, Cupid, and the Graces are commanded to weep, and that Bath
shall never find such another." These effusions are forgotten now; and
so would Beau Nash be also, but for this biography, which, no doubt
meant merely for the book-market of the day, lives and is of permanent
value by reason of the charm of its style, its pervading humour, and
the vivacity of its descriptions of the fashionable follies of the
eighteenth century. _Nullum fere genus scribendi non tetigit. Nullum
quod tetigit non ornavit._ Who but Goldsmith could have written so
delightful a book about such a poor creature as Beau Nash?