XII. DR JOHNSON AND HIS TIMES. II. Parentage-Early struggles in London-Employed by Richardson, the novelist-printer - The Bee-Letters of a Chinese philosopher The Citizen of the World - First meeting between Goldsmith and Dr. Johnson - Goldsmith in society — The "Literary Club" and its famous members - "Goldy" at work on The Traveler-His foolish manners Johnson rescues him from his landlady- The Vicar of Wakefield — The Jessamy Bride —A tailor's bill one hundred years ago First performance of She Stoops to Conquer —Goldsmith's histories - Anecdote of Gibbon - Goldsmith's death and funeral. Ο NE of the guests at the dinner-party of Sir Joshua, sketched in the last chapter, was OLIVER GOLDSMITH; poet, novelist and dramatist; one of Dr. Johnson's dearest friends, one whom he loved even when he reproved, and who looked to him with reverence and the honest affection of an Irish heart. In the London of Johnson's day, in those busy thoroughfares about Fleet street and the Temple, and the poorer lanes and courts branching off therefrom, in and out of the "Mitre" tavern, patiently toiling up steep flights of steps to his garret lodgings, Goldsmith's awkward figure and honest, kindly face were often seen: he had a word for every poor creature he passed, if not a penny which he could ill afford; a laugh, a jest, a simple foolish word for the great men, who richer, stronger, wiser than he, yet loved him with something tender and pitying in their love. It is a sad enough story; I pause before it with a sense of the patience, the sweetness, the sadness of that poor figure among those wise and witty gentlemen of one hundred years ago: but when we think of what Goldsmith wrote, his pure verse, his wonderful novel, The Vicar of Wakefield, we forget all else in the praise and admiration that is due to him. Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallas, in the County of Longford, Ireland, in 1728. He was the son of an Irish Protestant Clergyman, of good family but poor. I cannot follow with you all Oliver's boyhood; you would find the story, however, full of interest; but we must look at him as a man and an author in the London of Dr. Johnson's day. It was in February, 1756, that Goldsmith after a vagabond journey found himself in London; he had tried various professions without success; but having received a doctor's degree, made up his mind to begin. his English career as a physician. He sought employment at various chemists; but they laughed at his shambling figure and awkward speech, his threadbare coat and pitiful face; but one chemist at last sent him a patient, and soon after an old schoolfellow met him in a London street dressed in quite a gay green-and-gold coat, declaring he was on the high road to success. But his efforts were in vain; he was so ill fed and poverty-stricken that his poorest patients found him out: one of these was a printer by trade, and while Dr. Goldsmith was attending him he ventured to say that his "master was very kind to clever gentlemen." "And who is your master?" cried poor Goldsmith. "He is Mr. Richardson," the man answered, "who has a printing-house in Salisbury Court, and writes novels." Goldsmith sought the kind-hearted printer who offered him employment as his reader: more than that he was admitted to Richardson's parlor behind the shop, where he began to meet the literary men of the day. Richardson never aimed at being a gentleman, although he wrote Sir Charles Madison, a novel which has a very fine gentleman for its hero. He must have been a curious man, egotistical, but very good-hearted. While he was writing Pamela, he used to read it aloud in MS. to an admiring circle of lady friends; he sitting in the centre dressed in an absurd morning gown, slippers and embroidered cap. As soon as Pamela appeared it became "the rage"; ladies of fashion would carry volumes of it to Ranelagh or Vauxhall Gardens, and there triumphantly display their possessions to less fortunate friends. There is too much of the coarseness of Richardson's day in his novels and those of Fielding and Smollett, who followed him, to make them agreeable reading to-day; but Richardson is called the "Father of the English novel." Goldsmith seems not to have remained long with Richardson, but he turned his attention to literature as a means of subsistence. All sorts of stories are told of him at this time. We see him writing to order for a narrow-minded bookseller who watched every word and every penny: next in Green Arbour Court, a wretched alley in which he occupied a bare garret, grown familiar to all the ragged children and poor women of the neighborhood. He was SO threadbare in dress that he dared not venture out by daylight, but when dusk came Oliver would make his way into the courtyard to gratify the children with a few sweetmeats and the parents with a gay Irish tune on his flute, though he knew not where he was to get his supper. In this cheerless, vagabond sort of way his life went on for a time, but we soon hear of him as engaged on a periodical called The Bee which was somewhat better than the dozens of second-rate papers then floating about London. In this he chanced to write something pleasant of Peregrine Pickle, one of Smollett's novels. Smollet was about starting a new magazine, to be published by his friend Newberry, and desired Goldsmith's assistance. He found Green Arbour Court, made his way amid the wrangling of washerwomen, the cries of babies and fights of small boys, up the stone steps to Oliver's garret, a bare, shabby room with no touch of home or life in it save the one figure of the author, who stood up, pen in hand, to receive Smollett and his proposition. The result of the interview was that Goldsmith wrote not only for this magazine, but contributed to a daily paper called the Public Ledger a series of charming letters. These were supposed to be written by a Chinese philosopher visiting London; they were afterwards republished with others, |