Oliver Goldsmith by Washington Irving

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Others of Goldsmith's friends entertained similar ideas with respect to his
fitness for the task, and they were apt now and then to banter him on the
subject, and to amuse themselves with his easy credulity. The custom among
the natives of Otaheite of eating dogs being once mentioned in company,
Goldsmith observed that a similar custom prevailed in China; that a
dog-butcher is as common there as any other butcher; and that when he walks
abroad all the dogs fall on him. Johnson.--"That is not owing to his
killing dogs; sir, I remember a butcher at Litchfield, whom a dog that was
in the house where I lived always attacked. It is the smell of carnage
which provokes this, let the animals he has killed be what they may."
Goldsmith.--"Yes, there is a general abhorrence in animals at the signs of
massacre. If you put a tub full of blood into a stable, the horses are
likely to go mad." Johnson.--"I doubt that." Goldsmith.--"Nay, sir, it is a
fact well authenticated." Thrale.--"You had better prove it before you put
it into your book on Natural History. You may do it in my stable if you
will." Johnson.--"Nay, sir, I would not have him prove it. If he is content
to take his information from others, he may get through his book with
little trouble, and without much endangering his reputation. But if he
makes experiments for so comprehensive a book as his, there would be no end
to them; his erroneous assertions would fall then upon himself; and he
might be blamed for not having made experiments as to every particular."

Johnson's original prediction, however, with respect to this work, that
Goldsmith would make it as entertaining as a Persian tale, was verified;
and though much of it was borrowed from Buffon, and but little of it
written from his own observation; though it was by no means profound, and
was chargeable with many errors, yet the charms of his style and the play
of his happy disposition throughout have continued to render it far more
popular and readable than many works on the subject of much greater scope
and science. Cumberland was mistaken, however, in his notion of Goldsmith's
ignorance and lack of observation as to the characteristics of animals. On
the contrary, he was a minute and shrewd observer of them; but he observed
them with the eye of a poet and moralist as well as a naturalist. We quote
two passages from his works illustrative of this fact, and we do so the
more readily because they are in a manner a part of his history, and give
us another peep into his private life in the Temple; of his mode of
occupying himself in his lonely and apparently idle moments, and of another
class of acquaintances which he made there.

Speaking in his Animated Nature of the habitudes of Rooks, "I have often
amused myself," says he, "with observing their plans of policy from my
window in the Temple, that looks upon a grove, where they have made a
colony in the midst of a city. At the commencement of spring the rookery,
which, during the continuance of winter, seemed to have been deserted, or
only guarded by about five or six, like old soldiers in a garrison, now
begins to be once more frequented; and in a short time, all the bustle and
hurry of business will be fairly commenced."

The other passage, which we take the liberty to quote at some length, is
from an admirable paper in the "Bee," and relates to the House Spider.

"Of all the solitary insects I have ever remarked, the spider is the most
sagacious, and its motions to me, who have attentively considered them,
seem almost to exceed belief.... I perceived, about four years ago, a large
spider in one corner of my room making its web; and, though the maid
frequently leveled her broom against the labors of the little animal, I had
the good fortune then to prevent its destruction, and I may say it more
than paid me by the entertainment it afforded.

"In three days the web was, with incredible diligence, completed; nor could
I avoid thinking that the insect seemed to exult in its new abode. It
frequently traversed it round, examined the strength of every part of it,
retired into its hole, and came out very frequently. The first enemy,
however, it had to encounter was another and a much larger spider, which,
having no web of its own, and having probably exhausted all its stock in
former labors of this kind, came to invade the property of its neighbor.
Soon, then, a terrible encounter ensued, in which the invader seemed to
have the victory, and the laborious spider was obliged to take refuge in
its hole. Upon this I perceived the victor using every art to draw the
enemy from its stronghold. He seemed to go off, but quickly returned; and
when he found all arts in vain, began to demolish the new web without
mercy. This brought on another battle, and, contrary to my expectations,
the laborious spider became conqueror, and fairly killed his antagonist.

"Now, then, in peaceable possession of what was justly its own, it waited
three days with the utmost patience, repairing the breaches of its web, and
taking no sustenance that I could perceive. At last, however, a large blue
fly fell into the snare, and struggled hard to get loose. The spider gave
it leave to entangle itself as much as possible, but it seemed to be too
strong for the cobweb. I must own I was greatly surprised when I saw the
spider immediately sally out, and in less than a minute weave a new net
round its captive, by which the motion of its wings was stopped; and when
it was fairly hampered in this manner it was seized and dragged into the
hole.

"In this manner it lived, in a precarious state; and nature seemed to have
fitted it for such a life, for upon a single fly it subsisted for more than
a week. I once put a wasp into the net; but when the spider came out in
order to seize it, as usual, upon perceiving what kind of an enemy it had
to deal with, it instantly broke all the bands that held it fast, and
contributed all that lay in its power to disengage so formidable an
antagonist. When the wasp was set at liberty, I expected the spider would
have set about repairing the breaches that were made in its net; but those,
it seems, were irreparable; wherefore the cobweb was now entirely forsaken,
and a new one begun, which was completed in the usual time.

"I had now a mind to try how many cobwebs a single spider could furnish;
wherefore I destroyed this, and the insect set about another. When I
destroyed the other also, its whole stock seemed entirely exhausted, and it
could spin no more. The arts it made use of to support itself, now deprived
of its great means of subsistence, were indeed surprising. I have seen it
roll up its legs like a ball, and lie motionless for hours together, but
cautiously watching all the time; when a fly happened to approach
sufficiently near, it would dart out all at once, and often seize its prey.

"Of this life, however, it soon began to grow weary, and resolved to invade
the possession of some other spider, since it could not make a web of its
own. It formed an attack upon a neighboring fortification with great vigor,
and at first was as vigorously repulsed. Not daunted, however, with one
defeat, in this manner it continued to lay siege to another's web for three
days, and at length, having killed the defendant, actually took possession.
When smaller flies happen to fall into the snare, the spider does not sally
out at once, but very patiently waits till it is sure of them; for, upon
his immediately approaching the terror of his appearance might give the
captive strength sufficient to get loose; the manner, then, is to wait
patiently, till, by ineffectual and impotent struggles, the captive has
wasted all its strength, and then he becomes a certain and easy conquest.

"The insect I am now describing lived three years; every year it changed
its skin and got a new set of legs. I have sometimes plucked off a leg,
which grew again in two or three days. At first it dreaded my approach to
its web, but at last it became so familiar as to take a fly out of my hand;
and, upon my touching any part of the web, would immediately leave its
hole, prepared either for a defense or an attack."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HONORS AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY--LETTER TO HIS BROTHER MAURICE--FAMILY
FORTUNES--JANE CONTARINE AND THE MINIATURE--PORTRAITS AND
ENGRAVINGS--SCHOOL ASSOCIATIONS--JOHNSON AND GOLDSMITH IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

The latter part of the year 1768 had been made memorable in the world of
taste by the institution of the Royal Academy of Arts, under the patronage
of the king, and the direction of forty of the most distinguished artist.
Reynolds, who had been mainly instrumental in founding it, had been
unanimously elected president, and had thereupon received the honor of
knighthood. [Footnote: We must apologize for the anachronism we have
permitted ourselves, in the course of this memoir, in speaking of Reynolds
as _Sir Joshua_, when treating of circumstances which occurred prior
to his being dubbed; but it is so customary to speak of him by that title
that we found it difficult to dispense with it.] Johnson was so delighted
with his friend's elevation that he broke through a rule of total
abstinence with respect to wine, which he had maintained for several years,
and drank bumpers on the occasion. Sir Joshua eagerly sought to associate
his old and valued friends with him in his new honors, and it is supposed
to be through his suggestions that, on the first establishment of
professorships, which took place in December, 1769, Johnson was nominated
to that of Ancient Literature, and Goldsmith to that of History. They were
mere honorary titles, without emolument, but gave distinction, from the
noble institution to which they appertained. They also gave the possessors
honorable places at the annual banquet, at which were assembled many of the
most distinguished persons of rank and talent, all proud to be classed
among the patrons of the arts.

The following letter of Goldsmith to his brother alludes to the foregoing
appointment, and to a small legacy bequeathed to him by his uncle
Contarine.

"_To Mr. Maurice Goldsmith, at James Lawders, Esq., at Kilmore, near
Carrick-on-Shannon._

"January, 1770.

"DEAR BROTHER--I should have answered your letter sooner, but, in truth, I
am not fond of thinking of the necessities of those I love, when it is so
very little in my power to help them. I am sorry to find you are every way
unprovided for; and what adds to my uneasiness is, that I have received a
letter from my sister Johnson, by which I learn that she is pretty much in
the same circumstances. As to myself, I believe I think I could get both
you and my poor brother-in-law something like that which you desire, but I
am determined never to ask for little things, nor exhaust any little
interest I may have, until I can serve you, him, and myself more
effectually. As yet, no opportunity has offered; but I believe you are
pretty well convinced that I will not be remiss when it arrives.

"The king has lately been pleased to make me Professor of Ancient History
in the Royal Academy of Painting which he has just established, but there
is no salary annexed; and I took it rather as a compliment to the
institution than any benefit to myself. Honors to one in my situation are
something like ruffles to one that wants a shirt.

"You tell me that there are fourteen or fifteen pounds left me in the hands
of my cousin Lawder, and you ask me what I would have done with them. My
dear brother, I would by no means give any directions to my dear worthy
relations at Kilmore how to dispose of money which is, properly speaking,
more theirs than mine. All that I can say is, that I entirely, and this
letter will serve to witness, give up any right and title to it; and I am
sure they will dispose of it to the best advantage. To them I entirely
leave it; whether they or you may think the whole necessary to fit you out,
or whether our poor sister Johnson may not want the half, I leave entirely
to their and your discretion. The kindness of that good couple to our
shattered family demands our sincerest gratitude; and though they have
almost forgotten me, yet, if good things at last arrive, I hope one day to
return and increase their good-humor, by adding to my own.

"I have sent my cousin Jenny a miniature picture of myself, as I believe it
is the most acceptable present I can offer. I have ordered it to be left
for her at George Faulkner's, folded in a letter. The face, you well know,
is ugly enough, but it is finely painted. I will shortly also send my
friends over the Shannon some mezzotinto prints of myself, and some more of
my friends here, such as Burke, Johnson, Reynolds, and Colman. I believe I
have written a hundred letters to different friends in your country, and
never received an answer to any of them. I do not know how to account for
this, or why they are unwilling to keep up for me those regards which I
must ever retain for them.

"If, then, you have a mind to oblige me, you will write often, whether I
answer you or not. Let me particularly have the news of our family and old
acquaintances. For instance, you may begin by telling me about the family
where you reside, how they spend their time, and whether they ever make
mention of me. Tell me about my mother, my brother Hodson, and his son, my
brother Harry's son and daughter, my sister Johnson, the family of
Ballyoughter, what is become of them, where they live, and how they do. You
talked of being my only brother: I don't understand you. Where is Charles?
A sheet of paper occasionally filled with the news of this kind would make
me very happy, and would keep you nearer my mind. As it is, my dear
brother, believe me to be

"Yours, most affectionately,

"OLIVER GOLDSMITH."

By this letter we find the Goldsmiths the same shifting, shiftless race as
formerly; a "shattered family," scrambling on each other's back as soon as
any rise above the surface. Maurice is "every way unprovided for"; living
upon Cousin Jane and her husband, and, perhaps, amusing himself by hunting
otter in the river Inny. Sister Johnson and her husband are as poorly off
as Maurice, with, perhaps, no one at hand to quarter themselves upon; as to
the rest, "what is become of them; where do they live; how do they do; what
is become of Charles?" What forlorn, haphazard life is implied by these
questions! Can we wonder that, with all the love for his native place,
which is shown throughout Goldsmith's writings, he had not the heart to
return there? Yet his affections are still there. He wishes to know whether
the Lawders (which means his cousin Jane, his early Valentine) ever make
mention of him; he sends Jane his miniature; he believes "it is the most
acceptable present he can offer"; he evidently, therefore, does not believe
she has almost forgotten him, although he intimates that he does: in his
memory she is still Jane Contarine, as he last saw her, when he accompanied
her harpsichord with his flute. Absence, like death, sets a seal on the
image of those we have loved; we cannot realize the intervening changes
which time may have effected.

As to the rest of Goldsmith's relatives, he abandons his legacy of fifteen
pounds, to be shared among them. It is all he has to give. His heedless
improvidence is eating up the pay of the booksellers in advance. With all
his literary success, he has neither money nor influence; but he has empty
fame, and he is ready to participate with them; he is honorary professor,
without pay; his portrait is to be engraved in mezzotint, in company with
those of his friends, Burke, Reynolds, Johnson, Colman, and others, and he
will send prints of them to his friends over the Shannon, though they may
not have a house to hang them up in. What a motley letter! How indicative
of the motley character of the writer! By the bye, the publication of a
splendid mezzotinto engraving of his likeness by Reynolds, was a great
matter of glorification to Goldsmith, especially as it appeared in such
illustrious company. As he was one day walking the streets in a state of
high elation, from having just seen it figuring in the print-shop windows,
he met a young gentleman with a newly married wife hanging on his arm, whom
he immediately recognized for Master Bishop, one of the boys he had petted
and treated with sweetmeats when a humble usher at Milner's school. The
kindly feelings of old times revived, and he accosted him with cordial
familiarity, though the youth may have found some difficulty in recognizing
in the personage, arrayed, perhaps, in garments of Tyrian dye, the dingy
pedagogue of the Milners. "Come, my boy," cried Goldsmith, as if still
speaking to a schoolboy, "Come, Sam, I am delighted to see you. I must
treat you to something--what shall it be? Will you have some apples?"
glancing at an old woman's stall; then, recollecting the print-shop window:
"Sam," said he, "have you seen my picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds? Have you
seen it, Sam? Have you got an engraving?" Bishop was caught; he
equivocated; he had not yet bought it; but he was furnishing his house, and
had fixed upon the place where it was to be hung. "Ah, Sam!" rejoined
Goldsmith reproachfully, "if your picture had been published, I should not
have waited an hour without having it."

After all, it was honest pride, not vanity, in Goldsmith, that was
gratified at seeing his portrait deemed worthy of being perpetuated by the
classic pencil of Reynolds, and "hung up in history," beside that of his
revered friend, Johnson. Even the great moralist himself was not insensible
to a feeling of this kind. Walking one day with Goldsmith, in Westminster
Abbey, among the tombs of monarchs, warriors, and statesmen, they came to
the sculptured mementos of literary worthies in Poets' Corner. Casting his
eye round upon these memorials of genius, Johnson muttered in a low tone to
his companion,

"Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis."

Goldsmith treasured up the intimated hope, and shortly afterward, as they
were passing by Temple bar, where the heads of Jacobite rebels, executed
for treason, were mouldering aloft on spikes, pointed up to the grizzly
mementos, and echoed the intimation,

"Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur _istis_."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PUBLICATION OF THE DESERTED VILLAGE--NOTICES AND ILLUSTRATIONS OF IT

Several years had now elapsed since the publication of The Traveler, and
much wonder was expressed that the great success of that poem had not
excited the author to further poetic attempts. On being questioned at the
annual dinner of the Royal Academy by the Earl of Lisburn, why he neglected
the muses to compile histories and write novels, "My Lord," replied he, "by
courting the muses I shall starve, but by my other labors I eat, drink,
have good clothes, and can enjoy the luxuries of life." So, also, on being
asked by a poor writer what was the most profitable mode of exercising the
pen, "My dear fellow," replied he, good-humoredly, "pay no regard to the
draggle-tailed muses; for my part I have found productions in prose much
more sought after and better paid for."

Still, however, as we have heretofore shown, he found sweet moments of
dalliance to steal away from his prosaic toils, and court the muse among
the green lanes and hedgerows in the rural environs of London, and on the
26th of May, 1770, he was enabled to bring his Deserted Village before the
public.

The popularity of The Traveler had prepared the way for this poem, and its
sale was instantaneous and immense. The first edition was immediately
exhausted; in a few days a second was issued; in a few days more a third,
and by the 16th of August the fifth edition was hurried through the press.
As is the case with popular writers, he had become his own rival, and
critics were inclined to give the preference to his first poem; but with
the public at large we believe the Deserted Village has ever been the
greatest favorite. Previous to its publication the bookseller gave him in
advance a note for the price agreed upon, one hundred guineas. As the
latter was returning home he met a friend to whom he mentioned the
circumstance, and who, apparently judging of poetry by quantity rather than
quality, observed that it was a great sum for so small a poem. "In truth,"
said Goldsmith, "I think so too; it is much more than the honest man can
afford or the piece is worth. I have not been easy since I received it." In
fact, he actually returned the note to the bookseller, and left it to him
to graduate the payment according to the success of the work. The
bookseller, as may well be supposed, soon repaid him in full with many
acknowledgments of his disinterestedness. This anecdote has been called in
question, we know not on what grounds; we see nothing in it incompatible
with the character of Goldsmith, who was very impulsive, and prone to acts
of inconsiderate generosity.

As we do not pretend in this summary memoir to go into a criticism or
analysis of any of Goldsmith's writings, we shall not dwell upon the
peculiar merits of this poem; we cannot help noticing, however, how truly
it is a mirror of the author's heart, and of all the fond pictures of early
friends and early life forever present there. It seems to us as if the very
last accounts received from home, of his "shattered family," and the
desolation that seemed to have settled upon the haunts of his childhood,
had cut to the roots one feebly cherished hope, and produced the following
exquisitely tender and mournful lines:

"In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs--and God has giv'n my share--
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amid these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose;
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amid the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,
Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw,
And tell of all I felt and all I saw;
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew;
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return--_and die at home at last_."

How touchingly expressive are the succeeding lines, wrung from a heart
which all the trials and temptations and buffetings of the world could not
render worldly; which, amid a thousand follies and errors of the head,
still retained its childlike innocence; and which, doomed to struggle on to
the last amid the din and turmoil of the metropolis, had ever been cheating
itself with a dream of rural quiet and seclusion:

"Oh, bless'd retirement! friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, _that never must be mine_,
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labor with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands, in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past."

* * * * *

NOTE

The following article, which appeared in a London periodical, shows the
effect of Goldsmith's poem in renovating the fortunes of Lissoy.

"About three miles from Ballymahon, a very central town in the sister
kingdom, is the mansion and village of Auburn, so called by their present
possessor, Captain Hogan. Through the taste and improvement of this
gentleman, it is now a beautiful spot, although fifteen years since it
presented a very bare and unpoetical aspect. This, however, was owing to a
cause which serves strongly to corroborate the assertion that Goldsmith had
this scene in view when he wrote his poem of The Deserted Village. The then
possessor, General Napier, turned all his tenants out of their farms that
he might inclose them in his own private domain. Littleton, the mansion of
the general, stands not far off, a complete emblem of the desolating spirit
lamented by the poet, dilapidated and converted into a barrack.

"The chief object of attraction is Lissoy, once the parsonage house of
Henry Goldsmith, that brother to whom the poet dedicated his Traveler, and
who is represented as the village pastor,

"'Passing rich with forty pounds a year.'

"When I was in the country, the lower chambers were inhabited by pigs and
sheep, and the drawing-rooms by oats. Captain Hogan, however, has, I
believe, got it since into his possession, and has, of course, improved its
condition.

"Though at first strongly inclined to dispute the identity of Auburn,
Lissoy House overcame my scruples. As I clambered over the rotten gate, and
crossed the grass-grown lawn or court, the tide of association became too
strong for casuistry; here the poet dwelt and wrote, and here his thoughts
fondly recurred when composing his Traveler in a foreign land. Yonder was
the decent church, that literally 'topped the neighboring hill.' Before me
lay the little hill of Knockrue, on which he declares, in one of his
letters, he had rather sit with a book in hand than mingle in the proudest
assemblies. And, above all, startlingly true, beneath my feet was

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