THE TRAVELLER.
This poem of the _Traveller_, the fruit of much secret labour and the
consummation of the hopes of many years, was lying completed in
Goldsmith's desk when the incident of the arrest occurred; and the
elder Newbery had undertaken to publish it. Then, as at other times,
Johnson lent this wayward child of genius a friendly hand. He read
over the proof-sheets for Goldsmith; was so kind as to put in a line
here or there where he thought fit; and prepared a notice of the poem
for the _Critical Review_. The time for the appearance of this new
claimant for poetical honours was propitious. "There was perhaps no
point in the century," says Professor Masson, "when the British Muse,
such as she had come to be, was doing less, or had so nearly ceased to
do anything, or to have any good opinion of herself, as precisely
about the year 1764. Young was dying; Gray was recluse and indolent;
Johnson had long given over his metrical experimentations on any
except the most inconsiderable scale; Akenside, Armstrong, Smollett,
and others less known, had pretty well revealed the amount of their
worth in poetry; and Churchill, after his ferocious blaze of what was
really rage and declamation in metre, though conventionally it was
called poetry, was prematurely defunct. Into this lull came
Goldsmith's short but carefully finished poem." "There has not been so
fine a poem since Pope's time," remarked Johnson to Boswell, on the
very first evening after the return of young Auchinleck to London. It
would have been no matter for surprise had Goldsmith dedicated this
first work that he published under his own name to Johnson, who had
for so long been his constant friend and adviser; and such a
dedication would have carried weight in certain quarters. But there
was a finer touch in Goldsmith's thought of inscribing the book to his
brother Henry; and no doubt the public were surprised and pleased to
find a poor devil of an author dedicating a work to an Irish parson
with £40 a year, from whom he could not well expect any return. It
will be remembered that it was to this brother Henry that Goldsmith,
ten years before, had sent the first sketch of the poem; and now the
wanderer,
"Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow."
declares how his heart untravelled
"Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain."
The very first line of the poem strikes a key-note--there is in it a
pathetic thrill of distance, and regret, and longing; and it has the
soft musical sound that pervades the whole composition. It is
exceedingly interesting to note, as has already been mentioned, how
Goldsmith altered and altered these lines until he had got them full
of gentle vowel sounds. Where, indeed, in the English language could
one find more graceful melody than this?--
"The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave."
It has been observed also that Goldsmith was the first to introduce
into English poetry sonorous American--or rather Indian--names, as
when he writes in this poem,
"Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound,"
--and if it be charged against him that he ought to have known the
proper accentuation of Niagara, it may be mentioned as a set-off that
Sir Walter Scott, in dealing with his own country, mis-accentuated
"Glenaládale," to say nothing of his having made of Roseneath an
island. Another characteristic of the _Traveller_ is the extraordinary
choiceness and conciseness of the diction, which, instead of
suggesting pedantry or affectation, betrays on the contrary nothing
but a delightful ease and grace.
The English people are very fond of good English; and thus it is that
couplets from the _Traveller_ and the _Deserted Village_ have come
into the common stock of our language, and that sometimes not so much
on account of the ideas they convey, as through their singular
precision of epithet and musical sound. It is enough to make the
angels weep, to find such a couplet as this--
"Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes,"
murdered in several editions of Goldsmith's works by the substitution
of the commonplace "breathes" for "breasts"--and that, after Johnson
had drawn particular attention to the line by quoting it in his
Dictionary. Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted that the literary
charm of the _Traveller_ is more apparent than the value of any
doctrine, however profound or ingenious, which the poem was supposed
to inculcate. We forget all about the "particular principle of
happiness" possessed by each European state, in listening to the
melody of the singer, and in watching the successive and delightful
pictures that he calls up before the imagination.
"As in those domes where Cæsars once bore sway,
Defaced by time, and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile."
Then notice the blaze of patriotic idealism that bursts forth when he
comes to talk of England. What sort of England had he been familiar
with when he was consorting with the meanest wretches--the poverty
stricken, the sick, and squalid--in those Fleet-Street dens? But it is
an England of bright streams and spacious lawns of which he writes;
and as for the people who inhabit the favoured land--
"Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by."
"Whenever I write anything," Goldsmith had said, with a humorous
exaggeration which Boswell, as usual, takes _au sérieux_, "the public
_make a point_ to know nothing about it." But we have Johnson's
testimony to the fact that the _Traveller_ "brought him into high
reputation." No wonder. When the great Cham declares it to be the
finest poem published since the time of Pope, we are irresistibly
forced to think of the _Essay on Man_. What a contrast there is
between that tedious and stilted effort, and this clear burst of
bird-song! The _Traveller_, however, did not immediately become
popular. It was largely talked about, naturally, among Goldsmith's
friends; and Johnson would scarcely suffer any criticism of it. At a
dinner given long afterwards at Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and fully
reported by the invaluable Boswell, Reynolds remarked, "I was glad to
hear Charles Fox say it was one of the finest poems in the English
language." "Why were you glad?" said Langton. "You surely had no doubt
of this before?" Hereupon Johnson struck in: "No; the merit of the
_Traveller_ is so well established, that Mr. Fox's praise cannot
augment it, nor his censure diminish it." And he went on to
say--Goldsmith having died and got beyond the reach of all critics and
creditors some three or four years before this time "Goldsmith was a
man who, whatever he wrote, did it better than any other man could do.
He deserved a place in Westminster Abbey; and every year he lived
would have deserved it better."
Presently people began to talk about the new poem. A second edition
was issued; a third; a fourth. It is not probable that Goldsmith
gained any pecuniary benefit from the growing popularity of the little
book; but he had "struck for honest fame," and that was now coming to
him. He even made some slight acquaintance with "the great;" and here
occurs an incident which is one of many that account for the love that
the English people have for Goldsmith. It appears that Hawkins,
calling one day on the Earl of Northumberland, found the author of the
_Traveller_ waiting in the outer room, in response to an invitation.
Hawkins, having finished his own business, retired, but lingered about
until the interview between Goldsmith and his lordship was over,
having some curiosity about the result. Here follows Goldsmith's
report to Hawkins. "His lordship told me he had read my poem, and was
much delighted with it; that he was going to be Lord-lieutenant of
Ireland; and that, hearing that I was a native of that country, he
should be glad to do me any kindness." "What did you answer?" says
Hawkins, no doubt expecting to hear of some application for pension or
post. "Why," said Goldsmith, "I could say nothing but that I had a
brother there, a clergyman, that stood in need of help,"--and then he
explained to Hawkins that he looked to the booksellers for support,
and was not inclined to place dependence on the promises of great men.
"Thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world," adds Hawkins, with
a fatuity that is quite remarkable in its way, "trifle with his
fortunes, and put back the hand that was held out to assist him! Other
offers of a like kind he either rejected or failed to improve,
contenting himself with the patronage of one nobleman, whose mansion
afforded him the delights of a splendid table and a retreat for a few
days from the metropolis." It is a great pity we have not a
description from the same pen of Johnson's insolent ingratitude in
flinging the pair of boots down stairs.