INCREASING DIFFICULTIES.--THE END.
The pecuniary success of _She Stoops to Conquer_ did but little to
relieve Goldsmith from those financial embarrassments which were now
weighing heavily on his mind. And now he had less of the old high
spirits that had enabled him to laugh off the cares of debt. His
health became disordered; an old disease renewed its attacks, and was
grown more violent because of his long-continued sedentary habits.
Indeed, from this point to the day of his death--not a long interval,
either--we find little but a record of successive endeavours, some of
them wild and hopeless enough, to obtain money anyhow. Of course he
went to the Club, as usual; and gave dinner-parties; and had a laugh
or a song ready for the occasion. It is possible, also, to trace a
certain growth of confidence in himself, no doubt the result of the
repeated proofs of his genius he had put before his friends. It was
something more than mere personal intimacy that justified the rebuke
he administered to Reynolds, when the latter painted an allegorical
picture representing the triumph of Beattie and Truth over Voltaire
and Scepticism. "It very ill becomes a man of your eminence and
character," he said, "to debase so high a genius as Voltaire before so
mean a writer as Beattie. Beattie and his book will be forgotten in
ten years, while Voltaire's fame will last for ever. Take care it does
not perpetuate this picture, to the shame of such a man as you." He
was aware, too, of the position he had won for himself in English
literature. He knew that people in after-days would ask about him; and
it was with no sort of unwarrantable vainglory that he gave Percy
certain materials for a biography which he wished him to undertake.
Hence the _Percy Memoir_.
He was only forty-five when he made this request; and he had not
suffered much from illness during his life; so that there was
apparently no grounds for imagining that the end was near. But at this
time Goldsmith began to suffer severe fits of depression; and he grew
irritable and capricious of temper--no doubt another result of failing
health. He was embroiled in disputes with the booksellers; and, on one
occasion, seems to have been much hurt because Johnson, who had been
asked to step in as arbiter, decided against him. He was offended with
Johnson on another occasion because of his sending away certain dishes
at a dinner given to him by Goldsmith, as a hint that these
entertainments were too luxurious for one in Goldsmith's position. It
was probably owing to some temporary feeling of this sort--perhaps to
some expression of it on Goldsmith's part--that Johnson spoke of
Goldsmith's "malice" towards him. Mrs. Thrale had suggested that
Goldsmith would be the best person to write Johnson's biography. "The
dog would write it best, to be sure," said Johnson, "but his
particular malice towards me, and general disregard of truth, would
make the book useless to all and injurious to my character." Of course
it is always impossible to say what measure of jocular exaggeration
there may not be in a chance phrase such as this: of the fact that
there was no serious or permanent quarrel between the two friends we
have abundant proof in Boswell's faithful pages.
To return to the various endeavours made by Goldsmith and his friends
to meet the difficulties now closing in around him, we find, first of
all, the familiar hack-work. For two volumes of a _History of Greece_
he had received from Griffin £250. Then his friends tried to get him a
pension from the Government; but this was definitely refused. An
expedient of his own seemed to promise well at first. He thought of
bringing out a _Popular Dictionary of Arts and Sciences_, a series of
contributions mostly by his friends, with himself as editor; and among
those who offered to assist him were Johnson, Reynolds, Burke, and Dr.
Burney. But the booksellers were afraid. The project would involve a
large expense; and they had no high opinion of Goldsmith's business
habits. Then he offered to alter _The Good-natured Man_ for Garrick;
but Garrick preferred to treat with him for a new comedy, and
generously allowed him to draw on him for the money in advance. This
last help enabled him to go to Barton for a brief holiday; but the
relief was only temporary. On his return to London even his nearest
friends began to observe the change in his manner. In the old days
Goldsmith had faced pecuniary difficulties with a light heart; but
now, his health broken, and every avenue of escape apparently closed,
he was giving way to despair. His friend Cradock, coming up to town,
found Goldsmith in a most despondent condition; and also hints that
the unhappy author was trying to conceal the true state of affairs. "I
believe," says Cradock, "he died miserable, and that his friends were
not entirely aware of his distress."
And yet it was during this closing period of anxiety, despondency, and
gloomy foreboding, that the brilliant and humorous lines of
_Retaliation_ were written--that last scintillation of the bright and
happy genius that was soon to be extinguished for ever. The most
varied accounts have been given of the origin of this _jeu d'esprit_;
and even Garrick's, which was meant to supersede and correct all
others, is self-contradictory. For according to this version of the
story, which was found among the Garrick papers, and which is printed
in Mr. Cunningham's edition of Goldsmith's works, the whole thing
arose out of Goldsmith and Garrick resolving one evening at the St.
James's Coffee House to write each other's epitaph. Garrick's
well-known couplet was instantly produced:
"Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll,
Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll."
Goldsmith, according to Garrick, either would not or could not retort
at the moment; "but went to work, and some weeks after produced the
following printed poem, called _Retaliation_." But Garrick himself
goes on to say, "The following poems in manuscript were written by
several of the gentlemen on purpose to provoke the Doctor to an
answer, which came forth at last with great credit to him in
_Retaliation_." The most probable version of the story, which may be
pieced together from various sources, is that at the coffee-house
named this business of writing comic epitaphs was started some evening
or other by the whole company; that Goldsmith and Garrick pitted
themselves against each other; that thereafter Goldsmith began as
occasion served to write similar squibs about his friends, which were
shown about as they were written; that thereupon those gentlemen, not
to be behindhand, composed more elaborate pieces in proof of their
wit; and that, finally, Goldsmith resolved to bind these fugitive
lines of his together in a poem, which he left unfinished, and which,
under the name of _Retaliation_, was published after his death. This
hypothetical account receives some confirmation from the fact that the
scheme of the poem and its component parts do not fit together well;
the introduction looks like an after-thought; and has not the freedom
and pungency of a piece of improvisation. An imaginary dinner is
described, the guests being Garrick, Reynolds, Burke, Cumberland, and
the rest of them, Goldsmith last of all. More wine is called for,
until the whole of his companions have fallen beneath the table:
"Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the _dead_."
This is a somewhat clumsy excuse for introducing a series of epitaphs;
but the epitaphs amply atone for it. That on Garrick is especially
remarkable as a bit of character-sketching; its shrewd hints--all in
perfect courtesy and good humour--going a little nearer to the truth
than is common in epitaphs of any sort:--
"Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can;
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine:
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick;
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came;
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who peppered the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind:
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised.
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above."
The truth is that Goldsmith, though he was ready to bless his "honest
little man" when he received from him sixty pounds in advance for a
comedy not begun, never took quite so kindly to Garrick as to some of
his other friends. There is no pretence of discrimination at all, for
example, in the lines devoted in this poem to Reynolds. All the
generous enthusiasm of Goldsmith's Irish nature appears here; he will
admit of no possible rival to this especial friend of his:--
"Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind."
There is a tradition that the epitaph on Reynolds, ending with the
unfinished line
"By flattery unspoiled ..."
was Goldsmith's last piece of writing. One would like to believe that,
in any case.
Goldsmith had returned to his Edgware lodgings, and had, indeed,
formed some notion of selling his chambers in the Temple, and living
in the country for at least ten months in the year, when a sudden
attack of his old disorder drove him into town again for medical
advice. He would appear to have received some relief; but a nervous
fever followed; and on the night of the 25th March, 1774, when he was
but forty-six years of age, he took to his bed for the last time. At
first he refused to regard his illness as serious; and insisted on
dosing himself with certain fever-powders from which he had received
benefit on previous occasions; but by and by as his strength gave way,
he submitted to the advice of the physicians who were in attendance on
him. Day after day passed; his weakness visibly increasing, though,
curiously enough, the symptoms of fever were gradually abating. At
length one of the doctors, remarking to him that his pulse was in
greater disorder than it should be from the degree of fever, asked him
if his mind was at ease. "No, it is not," answered Goldsmith; and
these were his last words. Early in the morning of Monday, April 4,
convulsions set in; these continued for rather more than an hour; then
the troubled brain and the sick heart found rest for ever.
When the news was carried to his friends, Burke, it is said, burst
into tears, and Reynolds put aside his work for the day. But it does
not appear that they had visited him during his illness; and neither
Johnson, nor Reynolds, nor Burke, nor Garrick followed his body to the
grave. It is true, a public funeral was talked of; and, among others,
Reynolds, Burke, and Garrick were to have carried the pall; but this
was abandoned; and Goldsmith was privately buried in the ground of the
Temple Church on the 9th of April, 1774. Strangely enough, too,
Johnson seems to have omitted all mention of Goldsmith from his
letters to Boswell. It was not until Boswell had written to him, on
June 24th, "You have said nothing to me about poor Goldsmith," that
Johnson, writing on July 4, answered as follows:--"Of poor dear Dr.
Goldsmith there is little to be told, more than the papers have made
public. He died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by
uneasiness of mind. His debts began to be heavy, and all his resources
were exhausted. Sir Joshua is of opinion that he owed not less than
two thousand pounds. Was ever poet so trusted before?"
But if the greatest grief at the sudden and premature death of
Goldsmith would seem to have been shown at the moment by certain
wretched creatures who were found weeping on the stairs leading to his
chambers, it must not be supposed that his fine friends either forgot
him, or ceased to regard his memory with a great gentleness and
kindness. Some two years after, when a monument was about to be
erected to Goldsmith in Westminster Abbey, Johnson consented to write
"the poor dear Doctor's epitaph;" and so anxious were the members of
that famous circle in which Goldsmith had figured, that a just tribute
should be paid to his genius, that they even ventured to send a round
robin to the great Cham desiring him to amend his first draft. Now,
perhaps, we have less interest in Johnson's estimate of Goldsmith's
genius--though it contains the famous _Nullum quod tetigit non
ornavit_--than in the phrases which tell of the honour paid to the
memory of the dead poet by the love of his companions and the
faithfulness of his friends. It may here be added that the precise
spot where Goldsmith was buried in the Temple churchyard is unknown.
So lived and so died Oliver Goldsmith.
* * * * *
In the foregoing pages the writings of Goldsmith have been given so
prominent a place in the history of his life that it is unnecessary to
take them here collectively and endeavour to sum up their distinctive
qualities. As much as could be said within the limited space has, it
is hoped, been said about their genuine and tender pathos, that never
at any time verges on the affected or theatrical; about their quaint
delicate, delightful humour; about that broader humour that is not
afraid to provoke the wholesome laughter of mankind by dealing with
common and familiar ways, and manners, and men; about that choiceness
of diction, that lightness and grace of touch, that lend a charm even
to Goldsmith's ordinary hack-work.
Still less necessary, perhaps, is it to review the facts and
circumstances of Goldsmith's life; and to make of them an example, a
warning, or an accusation. That has too often been done. His name has
been used to glorify a sham Bohemianism--a Bohemianism that finds it
easy to live in taverns, but does not find it easy, so far as one
sees, to write poems like the _Deserted Village_. His experiences as
an author have been brought forward to swell the cry about neglected
genius--that is, by writers who assume their genius in order to prove
the neglect. The misery that occasionally befell him during his
wayward career has been made the basis of an accusation against
society, the English constitution, Christianity--Heaven knows what. It
is time to have done with all this nonsense. Goldsmith resorted to the
hack-work of literature when everything else had failed him; and he
was fairly paid for it. When he did better work, when he "struck for
honest fame," the nation gave him all the honour that he could have
desired. With an assured reputation, and with ample means of
subsistence, he obtained entrance into the most distinguished society
then in England--he was made the friend of England's greatest in the
arts and literature--and could have confined himself to that society
exclusively if he had chosen. His temperament, no doubt, exposed him
to suffering; and the exquisite sensitiveness of a man of genius may
demand our sympathy; but in far greater measure is our sympathy
demanded for the thousands upon thousands of people who, from illness
or nervous excitability, suffer from quite as keen a sensitiveness
without the consolation of the fame that genius brings.
In plain truth, Goldsmith himself would have been the last to put
forward pleas humiliating alike to himself and to his calling. Instead
of beseeching the State to look after authors; instead of imploring
society to grant them "recognition;" instead of saying of himself "he
wrote, and paid the penalty;" he would frankly have admitted that he
chose to live his life his own way, and therefore paid the penalty.
This is not written with any desire of upbraiding Goldsmith. He did
choose to live his own life his own way, and we now have the splendid
and beautiful results of his work; and the world--looking at these
with a constant admiration, and with a great and lenient love for
their author--is not anxious to know what he did with his guineas, or
whether the milkman was ever paid. "He had raised money and squandered
it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. BUT LET NOT
HIS FRAILTIES BE REMEMBERED: HE WAS A VERY GREAT MAN." This is
Johnson's wise summing up; and with it we may here take leave of
gentle Goldsmith.
THE END.
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