Goldsmith wandering among the streets
of the great, cold, wicked city.
But these years of adversity had also taught him lessons whose memory remained with him to the last day of his life—lessons which he was among the first to teach to the unthinking world around him. Poverty and pain had spoilt him to some extent for society—had brought upon him a melancholy which he would strive vainly to banish with fits of strained and forced hilarity—had rendered him abrupt in speech and uncouth in gesture—but never hardened his heart. He had been poor himself—miserably poor—and his sympathies were with the poor, and his voice was honestly uplifted in their behalf. Long before Sir Samuel Romilly had arisen to denounce the harshness and cruelty of our penal code—long before the eagle glance of Howard had pierced into the gloom of the debtor's fetid prison, Goldsmith pointed out the effects of harsh legislation, and the evils and contamination of our gaols.He would leave his home at night to wander among the streets of the great, cold, wicked city, taking note of the misery and destitution he found there, and sympathising with the distress of the wretched outcasts whom none else would succour or befriend. And manfully was his voice raised against those who, having caused much of that wretchedness, were suffered, by a false and heartless system of mock morality, to escape the penalty of infamy they had justly incurred.
In a publication called the "Bee," which he edited, there is a paper of matchless pathos, entitled a "City Nightpiece," in which he indignantly draws attention to poor houseless girls, who have been flattered and cozened into sin, and then left desolate in their misery. He concludes with the following withering denunciation of the authors of all this misery:—
"But let me turn from a scene of such distress to the sanctified hypocrite, who has been 'talking of virtue till the time of bed',[1] and now steals out, to give a loose to his vices under the protection of midnight—vices more atrocious because he attempts to conceal them. See how he pants down the dark alley; and, with hastening steps, fears an acquaintance in every face. He has passed the whole day in company he hates, and now goes to prolong the night among company that as heartily hate him. May his vices be detected! may the morning rise upon his shame! Yet I wish to no purpose: villany, when detected, never gives up, but boldly adds impudence to imposture."
Goldsmith's Essays, afterwards collected by himself into a volume, were chiefly written between 1758 and 1762. In this kind of writing he peculiarly excelled; and his friend Dr. Johnson allowed him to be unrivalled in it. As a specimen of his humourous style, the following extract from the "History of a Strolling Player" may be taken as displaying the quaint drollery and quiet fun he could infuse in this style of composition. Goldsmith has picked up in one of the parks a jocose, talkative, hungry man, who proposes that the two should dine at the expense of his new acquaintance, promising that he himself will return the favour at some future time not accurately defined. Stimulated by a good dinner, and by a tankard which he takes care shall be frequently replenished, the talkative man tells his history, of which the following is a part. He has been a soldier, and finds the profession not at all to his liking. He says:
"The life of a soldier soon, therefore, gave me the spleen. I asked leave to quit the service; but, as I was tall and strong, my captain thanked me for my kind intention, and said, because he had a regard for me, we should not part. I wrote to my father a very dismal penitent letter, and desired that he would raise money to pay for my discharge; but, as the good old man was as fond of drinking as I was, (sir, my service to you), and those who are fond of drinking never pay for other people's discharges; in short, he never answered my letter. What could be done? If I have not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge, I must find an equivalent some other way; and that must be by running away. I deserted; and that answered my purpose every bit as well as if I had bought my discharge.
1. Parnell.
"Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment. I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, in order not to be overtaken, took the most unfrequented roads possible. One evening, as I was entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I afterwards found to be the curate of the parish, thrown from his horse in a miry road, and almost smothered in the mud. He desired my assistance: I gave it, and drew him out with some difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble, and was going off; but I followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own door. The curate asked a hundred questions; as whose son I was, from whence I came, and whether I would be faithful. I answered him greatly to his satisfaction, and gave myself one of the best characters in the world for sobriety (sir, I have the honour of drinking your health), discretion, and fidelity. To make a long story short, he wanted a servant, and hired me. With him I lived but two months: we did not much like each other. I was fond of eating, and he gave me but little to eat: I loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-servant, was ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to starve me between them, I made a pious resolution to prevent their committing murder: I stole the eggs as soon as they were laid: I emptied every unfinished bottle that I could lay my hands on: whatever eatable came in my way was sure to disappear. In short, they found I would not do; so I was discharged one morning, and paid three shillings and sixpence for two months' wages.
The Strolling Player.
"While my money was getting ready, I employed myself in making preparations for my departure. Two hens were hatching in an outhouse—I went and took the eggs from habit; and not to separate the parents from the children, I lodged hens and all in my knapsack. After this piece of frugality, I returned to receive my money, and with my knapsack on my back, and a staff in my hand, I bade adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far from the house when I heard behind me a cry of 'stop thief!' but this only increased my dispatch: it would have been foolish to stop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me—but hold, I think I passed those two months at the curate's without drinking. Come, the times are dry, and may this be my poison, it ever I spent two more pious, stupid months in all my life.
"Well, after travelling some days, whom should I light upon but a company of strolling players. The moment I saw them at a distance, my heart warmed to them; I had a sort of natural love for everything of the vagabond order. They were employed in settling their baggage, which had been overturned in a narrow way: I offered my assistance, which they accepted; and we soon became so well acquainted, that they took me as a servant. This was a paradise to me; they sang, danced, drank, ate, and travelled, all at the same time. By the blood of all the Mirabels! I thought I had never lived till then; I grew as merry as a grig, and laughed at every word that was spoken. They liked me as much as I liked them: I was a very good figure, as you may see; and though I was poor, I was not modest.
"I love a straggling life above all things in the world; sometimes good, sometimes bad; to be warm to-day, and cold to-morrow; to eat when one can get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it stands before me. We arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took a large room at the 'Greyhound,' where we resolved to exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, the grave, and the garden scene. Romeo was to be performed by a gentleman from the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane; Juliet, by a lady who had never appeared on any stage before; and I was to snuff the candles: all excellent in our way. We had figures enough, but the difficulty was to dress them."
Equally humourous is the account of Mr. Jack Spindle, the "good-natured man," who has been pestered during his prosperity with offers of service, which he finds suddenly and unaccountably withdrawn when the sun no longer shines upon him. His friends have, one and all, been importunate with him, that he should use their name and credit if ever the time should come when he needed them; and now that this time had most certainly arrived, Jack proceeded with the most perfect good faith to put some of these assertions to the proof. To quote our author:—
"Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without any ceremony; and, as a man confident of not