Goldsmith, William Black [fiction book recommendations txt] 📗

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 _tete-a-tete_ 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 L200 a year. No man can affirm that L200 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