IRISH READINGS

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 40, 21 October 1925, Page 7

IRISH READINGS

The lectures on Irish subjects delivered by , our countryman, Henry Giles, in various parts oi' America, are much, and deservedly, admired in that country. They have been , collected and published in a volume which has obtained a large degree of popularity. , We have already quoted from them some passages descriptive of the oratory of O’Con- . nell : the following, from his lecture on Gold- - smith, is also justly conceived, and eloquently expressed : The character of Goldsmith .is one which does not tax analysis: it is felt by instinct; ) and that happy phrase, "good-natured,” defines it with a singular accuracy. Goldi smith’s good nature, though it exhausted his ? purse, did not exhaust itself. It was an unP failing well-spring; it was ever pure and fresh, bubbling from a copious fountain of P kindness, and refreshing life around him with streams of gaiety, of fondness, and of pity. There was a benignity in him which n gave, his heart an interest in the humblest creature. Early in life, in writing home, he o says, “If there be a favorite dog in the h family, let me be remembered to him.” His n attachment to children was as strong as it c was amiable. The younger Column speaks ’n d rapture of his acquaintance with Goldsmith, o when in infant insolence he used to tweak e the poet’s nose; and the poet, in return, s. played thimble-rig with the child. Nor was d this merely deference to the smi of a rrh t man and a critic. Goldsmith was an idol, aim, to the children of the poor; it was bis t common practice to-go among them with poci, kefs fi.il* of gingerbread, and to set dean o dancing to the sound of his flute. His, in

(Edited by A. M. Sullivan, M.P., and T. I). Sullivan, M.P.) (7) THE CHARACTER OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. (From a Lecture by Henry Giles.)

every scene, was a .simple nature, and he, around whom rustics pranced on the 'tanks of the Loire, was the same around whom ragged innocents gabbled and rejoiced in the garrets of Old Hailey. Goldsmith’s humanity to the poor, generally, was most courteous and most bountiful. His charity would often have been sublime if the improvidence of his temper did not drive him to contrivances to supply it, which gave it the air of the ludicrous. One morning, towards the close of his college course', a cousin and fellowstudent of his knocked at the door of his chamber. No reply. Tie knocked again. Still no reply. He then broke it open. Goldsmith was in bed, literally in it, for he was stuck bodily into the feathers. Some poor woman had told him a tragical story: he was out of money, so he brought her to the college and gave her his blankets. Let me take another instance from his later life —an instance which, as I- think, is most characteristic of the author and the man. Suppose ourselves gazing into an humble chamber, in the humblest part of London. A ragged lied is in one corner, a broken washstand is in another. A crazy table is placed near a small dusty window, and a man sits b ■ this table on the only chair which the room contains. Tin stature of the man is short, and his face is pale; his position has an air of thought, and his look the glow of fancy. This man, whose forehead bulges out with sentiments and ideas so as to defy all rules of sculpture, is ugly; but ho is ugly only, to those who cannot see the light of the spirit through the shrine of the connteati.ee. To those who know the touch of nature that

makes all men akin, he is inexpressibly dear: ;they love to gaze on his homely portrait, as 1 h were lovely as ever dawned upon a ■ sculptor's dream. The man r s Oliver Goldsmith, and, as wo now describe him, he is engaged in writing his Essay on the Stair of 1 olite Learning in Enro/ii. A knock at his lonely door arouses him, and a visitor enters. The visitor is Bishop Percy, the admirable collector of It cliques of Ancient English Poetry. Goldsmith courteously gives the prelate his only chair, and takes himself •i seat on the window-sill. They are engaged in an earnest conversation on helle-lettres and the fine arts, when a ragged but decent little girl comes into the room, and, with a respectful obeisance to Goldsmith, says, “Aly mamma sends her compliments, sir. and begs the favor of you to lend her a pot of coals." As Goldsmith’s fortunes increased, so did his gifts; and food was added to fuel. After he had entertained a large party at breakfast, he distributed the fragments among a few poor women whom he had kept waiting for the purpose. A vulgar guest remarked that he must he very rich to afford such bounty, “It is not wealth, my dear sir," said Goldsmith, “it is inclination; I have

only to suppose that a few more friends have been of the party, and then it amounts to the same thing.” He was. besides, always surrounded by a circle of needy writers, whom lie had not the firmness to refuse, nor the prudence to discharge. Ho was also beset by destitute countrymen, who found a ready way to his last shilling through his compassion and his patriotism. To such people, bounty was no virtue; but with Goldsmith, pity gave ere charity began, and charity had always the start of wisdom. Much as there was in such actions which implied want of purpose and want of thought, there was goodness, too, upon which undone of distress ever fell in vain. “He has been known,” says Prior, the most genial of his biographers, “to quit his bed at night, and even laboring under indisposition in order to relieve the miserable: ami when money was scarce, or to be procured with difficulty by borrowing, he has, nevertheless, shared it with such as presented any claims to charity.” '

This generosity of temper, united with keen observation, enabled Goldsmith to pierce readily through the disguises of selfishness: so that with his comic sagacity, and his genial perception of the ludicrous, no writer can give more amusing pictures than he does of sordid follies, Even in his very youth, we have the narrative of an adventure which promises all the thoughtful drollery that he afterwards exhibited. Tie had gone in a freak to Cork, mounted on a noble horse, and with thirty pounds in his pockets. It was not long ere be was returning, with merely five shillings, and mounted on an animal which lie called Fiddle-hack. He was. however, blithe and careless, for near to the. city there was a college friend who had often pressed him to a visit. “We shall, enjoy,” he would say,- “both the city and the country; and. you shall command my stable and my purse.”

Going towards his friend’s house, he divided his five shillings with a destitute woman,

mid on is arrival lie found his friend an invalid; but so cordial was his reception, that remorse struck him for not having given tin' whole live shillings to his needy sister. He stated his case, and opened his heart to his friend. His friend walked to -and fro, nibbed his hands, and Goldsmith attributed this to the force of his compassion. which required motion, and to the delicacy of his sentiments, which

commanded silence. The hour was growing late, and Goldsmith’s appetite had been long at craving point. "At length an old woman came into the room with two plates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth, which she laid on •bo tabic. This appearance,” says Goldsmith, “without increasing my spirits, did not diminish my appetite. My protectress soon returned with one how] of sago, a small porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, and the heel of an old cheese. My friend," continues the poet, “apologised, that his illness obliged him to live on slops, and that better fare was not in the house; observing, at the same time, that a milk diet was certainly the most healthful. At eight o clock ho again recommended' a reguhu life, i eel a ring that, for his part, he would lie down with the lamb, and rise with the lark. My hunger was at this time so exceedingly sharp that I wished for another slice of the loaf, hut was obliged to go to bed without that refreshment.”

Next morning Goldsmith spoke of his departure. "To he sure,” said this munificent tneiul. "the longer you stay away from your mother, the more you will grieve her, and your other relatives; and possibly they are already afflicted at hearing of this foolish expedition yon have made.” Goldsmith, (hen, reminding him of former good turns’ tried to borrow a guinea from him. “Why, look you. Mr. Goldsmith,” said Solomon the younger. "I have paid yon all you ever lent mo. and this sickness of mine has left me hare of cash. Hut I have bethought myself of a conveyance for you. Sell your horse, and I will furnish you with a much better Olio lo ride on." “I readily,” said Goldsmith, “grasped at tin’s proposal, and begged to see the nag; on which he led me to his bedchamber, and from under the bed pulled out a stout oak stick. ‘ Here,’ said he. “take this in your hand, and it will carry yon lo your mother's with more safety than such a horse as you ride.’ ” Goldsmith was about to lay it on bis hack, but a casual visitor coming in, his generous friend introduced him with enloginm and with enthusiasm. Roth ol them had an invitation to dinner for which Goldsmith was quite prepared ; and it seemed not less acceptable to the amiable invalid. At the closed the evening, the entertainer offered Goldsmith a lied, who then told Ids former host ,to go home and take care of his excellent horse, hut that he would never enter his house again.

I have confined my remarks chiefly to si distinctive quality in the character- of' Goldsmith. universally conceded; but his whole worth was by no means confined to this. No gross vices are recorded against him; his general habits appear to have been'comparatively' unstained; bis general tastes werfe

simple; he was temperate almost to abstinence; and excess be regarded with abhorrence. To speak thus is to speak negatively ; but these, negatives, connected with Goldsmith's position and his times, have a value that is positive. But one virtue eminently positive belongs to Goldsmith, and that is his exceeding literary purity; the sacred independence with which he used his talents, ml the sacred purposes to which he applied them. Follies wore his. which gathered afflictions about his lot, which not all his innocent hilarity could throw off. Carelessness brought misfortunes upon him, which broke at last his elastic capacity of endurance; but no destitution was ever a temptation to his literary conscience, and no pressure ever bent its rectitude. From the beginning. Goldsmith eschewed patrons; he acted, from the first, on the manly resolution of seeking support in the honest exertion of his own powers. The Karl of Northumberland. going .as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, offered him assistance; Goldsmith declined for himself, but requested protection lor his brother, a. worthy pastor and a. worthy man. Sir John Hawkins calls him a fool; but his own words show he. was as wise as he was conscientious; “I have,” said he, “no dependence on the-promises of great men. f look to the booksellers for support; they are my host friends.”

It is true that Goldsmith could not always have an end equal to his genius; but he never perjured liis convictions, nor bartered his soul. It is true that his main object was often merely to do a certain quantity of work, and receive a certain sum of wages, and of this lie sometimes complains with a sort of melancholy pleasantry. He says, in reference to his History of England: “I have been a. good deal abused lately in the newspapers for betraying the liberty of the people. God knows, 1 had no thought for or against liberty in my head; my whole aim being to make a book of a decent size, that, as Squire Richard says, would do no harm to nobody/ But, though Goldsmith had often to think more of sustenance than fame, he merely wrote rapidly, he did not write falsely. Living in an ago when a name sold a book, and when patrons made a name, ami when dedications earned patrons, Goldsmith passed over titles and gartified bis affections. Jhe first of his poems he inscribed to an indigent brother, and the others he inscribed to bis immediate friends.

He was ever perplexed with debts and surrounded with difficulties. His heart always craving for money to give, and his supply always far behind his craving, yet he could reject propositions which men who have secured a reputation for more austere virtue than. Goldsmith would have found elegant excuses for accepting. The British Cabinet, by a confidential agent, intimated a munificent remuneration for his pen. The poet occupied sordid chambers, and labored like a. slave; but bore was his answer: “I can earn as much as will supply my wants without writing for any party; the assistance, therefore, which yon' offer is unnecessary to me.” ■

Can you think of xi much stronger temptation among earthly struggles, than the offer

of a rich Government to a poor writer? Judge Goldsmith, then, by the severity of trial, and give him the credit of his victory. But he was honest with the public as he was with patrons. Needy though he was, he sought the suffrage of men only by means which tended to make them wiser, and to make them better; and of those compositions which multitudes seek as much as they should shun them, and which it is as . easy as it is dishonorable to produce, not one can be laid to the charge of Goldsmith. The spirit of his works is as chaste as their style is classical; and to him belongs the glory of having purified expression, when the phraseology even of women was coarse; and of having consecrated the novel to virtue, when the pen of fiction was dipped in the offscourings of passion. Goldsmith is one of those whom wo cannot help liking, and whom we cannot criticise; yet he is one that should be praised with caution, if in our age there was much danger of his being imitated. We are too busy for meditative vagrancy; wo are too practical for the delusions of scholarship; even with the felicitous genius of Oliver Goldsmith, the literary profession would now be an insecure basis for subsistence, and none at all for prodigality. Extent of competition, the rigor of criticism, the difficulty of acting on an immensely reading public, repress the efforts of vanity; yet, except in. a few instances, they do not compensate the efforts of power the vain are driven to obscurity, but the powerful have little more than their fame. And though we possessed the abilities of Goldsmith, and wore tempted to his fol- • lies, his life is before ns for a memento, and his experience is sufficient for a warning. Yet it is agreeable to lay aside our prudence for a little, and enjoy with him, in fancy at least, the advantage of the hour; to participate in his thoughtless good nature, and to enter into his careless gaiety: to sit with him in some lonely Swiss glen ; or to listen to his flute among the peasantry of France; or to hear him debate logical puzzles in monastic Latin; to share the pride of his now purple coat, which Johnson would not praise, and which Boswell could not admire. More grateful still is the relief which we derive from the perusal of his works; for in these we have the beauty of his mind, and no shade upon its wisdom; the sweetness of humanity, and its dignity also. We need the mental refreshment which writers like Goldsmith afford. Our active and our thoughtful powers are all on the stretch; and such, unless it has appropriate . relaxations, is not a state of nature or a state of health. From the troubles of business, which absorb the attention or exhaust it; from the acclivities of society, which exemplify, in the same degree, the force of mechanism and the force of will; from the clamor of politics, from the asperity of religious discussions, we turn to philosophy and literature for less fatiguing or less disquieting interests. But our philosophy, when •'not dealing with matter, is one which, in f seeking the limits of reason, carries it ever into the infinite and obscure : our literature is one which, in its genuine forms, has equal intensity of passion and intensity of expres-

sion which, m its spurious forms, mistakes extravagance for the one, and bombast for the other. Our genome literature is the production of natural causes, and has its peculiar excellence. But from the excitement ot our present literature, whether genuine or spurious, it is a pleasant change to take up the tranquil pages of Goldsmith; to feel

• the sunny glow of his thoughts upon our hearts, and on our fancies the gentle music of bis words. In laying down his writing we are tempted to exclaim, ••Oh that the author of - The Deserted Village had written more poetry! Oh that the author of The Vicar of ’airfield had written more novels!”