95-) English Literature
Oliver Goldsmith
Oliver Goldsmith summary
1730–1774
An essayist, novelist, poet, and playwright,
Goldsmith was born in Kilkenny West, County Westmeath, Ireland. He graduated
from Trinity College, Dublin, and studied medicine in Edinburgh but never
received a medical degree. He traveled to Europe in 1756 and eventually settled
in London. He worked as a writer and was friends with the artistic and literary
luminaries of the time, including Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Sir Joshua
Reynolds, and Edmund Burke.
Goldsmith is author of the essay collection The
Citizen of the World (1762), the novel The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), the plays
The Good Natur’d Man (1768) and She Stoops to Conquer (1773), and the poetry
collections Traveller, or, a Prospect of Society (1764), An Elegy on the Death
of a Mad Dog (1766), and The Deserted Village: A Poem (1770).
Oliver Goldsmith
Oliver
Goldsmith (born Nov. 10, 1730, Kilkenny West, County Westmeath, Ire.—died April
4, 1774, London) was a well-known Anglo-Irish novelist, essayist, playwright,
dramatist and poet and eccentric , made famous by such works as the series of
essays The Citizen of the World, or, Letters from a Chinese Philosopher (1762),
the pastoral poem The Deserted Village (1770). He is also noted for his novel The Vicar of
Wakefield (1766) , and his plays The Good-Natur'd Man (1768) and She Stoops to
Conquer (1771, first performed in 1773). He is thought by some to have written
the classic children's tale The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes (1765).He
was one of the most versatile English writers of the
eighteenth century. Goldsmith wrote poetry, plays, essays, fiction, journalism,
histories, biographies, and more.
Although
a good portion of Goldsmith's vast oeuvre is considered uneven by today's
standards, a sizeable handful of his works in various genres are considered
eighteenth-century classics, including his novel The Vicar of Wakefield, his
pastoral poem “The Deserted Village,” his collection of semi-fictional essays
Citizen of the World, and his popular comic play, She Stoops To Conquer. His
play and novel deal with typical eighteenth-century themes of social class and
position, and wealth and poverty. In his novel, the vicar's life seems
patterned on the Book of Job, as everything is taken away from him only to be
restored at the end. The eighteenth century was the century of sentimentalism,
which is based on a view of the innate goodness of people who find themselves
at odds with a sometimes "sinful" world.
Goldsmith
was a contemporary and confidant of Dr. Johnson (Samuel Johnson) and the two
writers often exchanged ideas, leading to perhaps one of the most fruitful
intellectual partnerships in eighteenth-century English letters. Goldsmith
became a member of "The Club," one of the most influential circles of
literary and intellectual figures in the eighteenth century, associating with
Sir Joshua Reynolds, Edmund Burke, and James Boswell. Although he is not as
popular as he once was, Goldsmith remains one of the major writers of
eighteenth-century England; he is still acclaimed by many critics for his effortlessly
masterful prose-style that makes even his slightest works eminently readable.
Greatly respected by the writers of his own time, Goldsmith is one of the
luminaries of his period.
Life
Goldsmith's
birth date and year are not known with certainty. According to the Library of
Congress authority file, he told a biographer that he was born on 10 November
1728. The location of his birthplace is also uncertain. He was born either in
the townland of Pallas, near Ballymahon, County Longford, Ireland, where his
father was the Anglican curate of the parish of Forgney, or at the residence of
his maternal grandparents, at the Smith Hill House near Elphin in County
Roscommon, where his grandfather Oliver Jones was a clergyman and master of the
Elphin diocesan school, and where Oliver studied. When Goldsmith was two years
old, his father was appointed the rector of the parish of "Kilkenny
West" in County Westmeath. At about the time of his birth,the family moved
into a substantial house, to the parsonage at Lissoy, between Athlone and
Ballymahon, where Oliver spent his childhood. ,and continued to live there
until his father's death in 1747. From Goldsmith's own
memoirs, it is apparent that his childhood under his minister-father was an unhappy
one, and the young boy spent most of his time alone, keeping to himself and
reading.
In
1744 Goldsmith went up to Trinity College, Dublin. His tutor was Theaker
Wilder. Neglecting his studies in theology and law, he fell to the bottom of
his class. In 1747, along with four other undergraduates, he was expelled for a
riot in which they attempted to storm the Marshalsea Prison.[2] He was
graduated in 1749 as a Bachelor of Arts, but without the discipline or
distinction that might have gained him entry to a profession in the church or
the law. Goldsmith went to study in Dublin at Trinity College when he was just
16 but he was a poor student, getting himself expelled in 1747. His time at
Trinity seemed to have imbued him with a taste for fashionable clothes and the
hedonistic lifestyle. He tried various jobs when he left Dublin and even went
to Edinburgh for a while to train to be a surgeon at the university. He finally
left there, unqualified, to go on a walking trip around France and Italy .His
education seemed to have given him mainly a taste for fine clothes, playing
cards, singing Irish airs, and playing the flute. He lived for a short time
with his mother, tried various professions without success. Goldsmith earned
his Bachelor of Arts in 1749 at Trinity College, Dublin, studying theology and
law but never getting as far as ordination. Goldsmith recalled his years at
Trinity College as some of the gloomiest of his life. After three aimless years
in Ireland, Goldsmith crossed the channel to study medicine at the University
of Edinburgh. He studied medicine desultorily at the University of Edinburgh
from 1752 to 1755, and set out on a walking tour of Flanders, France,
Switzerland, and Northern Italy, living by his wits (busking with his flute).
After concluding his brief studies at Edinburgh, and
despite having almost no money, Goldsmith somehow undertook a long tour of the
European continent.
Much
has been recorded concerning his youth, his unhappy years as an undergraduate
at Trinity College, Dublin, where he received the B.A. degree in February 1749,
and his many misadventures before he left Ireland in the autumn of 1752 to
study in the medical school at Edinburgh. His father was now dead, but several
of his relations had undertaken to support him in his pursuit of a medical
degree. Later on, in London, he came to be known as Dr. Goldsmith—Doctor being
the courtesy title for one who held the Bachelor of Medicine—but he took no
degree while at Edinburgh nor, so far as anyone knows, during the two-year period
when, despite his meagre funds, which were eventually exhausted, he somehow
managed to make his way through Europe. The first period of his life ended with
his arrival in London, bedraggled and penniless, early in 1756.
Goldsmith’s
rise from total obscurity was a matter of only a few years. He worked as an
apothecary’s assistant, school usher, physician, and as a hack
writer—reviewing, translating, and compiling. Much of his work was for Ralph
Griffiths’s Monthly Review. It remains amazing that this young Irish vagabond,
unknown, uncouth, unlearned, and unreliable, was yet able within a few years to
climb from obscurity to mix with aristocrats and the intellectual elite of
London. Such a rise was possible because Goldsmith had one quality, soon noticed
by booksellers and the public, that his fellow literary hacks did not
possess—the gift of a graceful, lively, and readable style. His rise began with
the Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe (1759), a minor
work. Soon he emerged as an essayist, in The Bee and other periodicals, and
above all in his Chinese Letters. These essays were first published in the
journal The Public Ledger and were collected as The Citizen of the World in
1762. The same year brought his Life of Richard Nash, of Bath, Esq. Already
Goldsmith was acquiring those distinguished and often helpful friends whom he
alternately annoyed and amused, shocked and charmed—Samuel Johnson, Sir Joshua
Reynolds, Thomas Percy, David Garrick, Edmund Burke, and James Boswell. The obscure
drudge of 1759 became in 1764 one of the nine founder-members of the famous
Club, a select body, including Reynolds, Johnson, and Burke, which met weekly
for supper and talk. Goldsmith could now afford to live more comfortably, but
his extravagance continually ran him into debt, and he was forced to undertake
more hack work. He thus produced histories of England and of ancient Rome and
Greece, biographies, verse anthologies, translations, and works of popular
science. These were mainly compilations of works by other authors, which
Goldsmith then distilled and enlivened by his own gift for fine writing. Some
of these makeshift compilations went on being reprinted well into the 19th
century, however.
By
1762 Goldsmith had established himself as an essayist with his Citizen of the
World, in which he used the device of satirizing Western society through the
eyes of an Oriental visitor to London. By 1764 he had won a reputation as a
poet with The Traveller, the first work to which he put his name. It embodied
both his memories of tramping through Europe and his political ideas. In 1770
he confirmed that reputation with the more famous Deserted Village, which
contains charming vignettes of rural life while denouncing the evictions of the
country poor at the hands of wealthy landowners. In 1766 Goldsmith revealed
himself as a novelist with The Vicar of Wakefield (written in 1762), a portrait
of village life whose idealization of the countryside, sentimental moralizing,
and melodramatic incidents are underlain by a sharp but good-natured irony. In
1768 Goldsmith turned to the theatre with The Good Natur’d Man, which was
followed in 1773 by the much more effective She Stoops to Conquer, which was
immediately successful. This play has outlived almost all other English-language
comedies from the early 18th to the late 19th century by virtue of its broadly
farcical horseplay and vivid, humorous characterizations.
During
his last decade Goldsmith’s conversational encounters with Johnson and others,
his foolishness, and his wit were preserved in Boswell’s Life of Samuel
Johnson. Goldsmith eventually became deeply embroiled in mounting debts despite
his considerable earnings as an author, though, and after a short illness in
the spring of 1774 he died.
Religious beliefs
Goldsmith was an Anglican,[15] and famously said
"as I take my shoes from the shoemaker, and my coat from the taylor, so I
take my religion from the priest."[16]
Thomas
Hurst wrote that Goldsmith "recognised with joy the existence and
perfections of a Deity. For the Christian revelation also, he was always
understood to have a profound respect – knowing that it was the source of our
best hopes and noblest expectations".[17]
Career
By
1756, Goldsmith was in London, living on the edge of poverty and trying to make
a living by working as a school usher. He wrote prolifically at this time but
had little published though he did come to the attention of the likes of Samuel
Johnson and Walpole who nicknamed him the ‘inspired idiot’.
Addicted
to gambling, impetuous and highly disorganized, it seemed that Goldsmith’s life
was going nowhere. In 1760 he published a series of letters and essays under
the name Lien Chi which were gathered in a collection two years later and was a
commentary of British social life. This was followed by a romantic ballad
called The Hermit in 1765.
A
year after he wrote and published the novel The Vicar of Wakefield that
achieved some notoriety. It became one of the most popular works of fiction in
the Victorian era and was seen as a satire on the sentimentalist novel that
pervaded at the time. It is a novel that is often mentioned in other works
including Dicken’s A Tale of Two Cities and Shelley’s Frankenstein.
His
most famous poem is perhaps The Deserted Village, published in 1770. The work
was a social commentary and drew much critical praise and denigration both in
Britain and across the sea in the United States. At its heart was a
condemnation of rural depopulation and the general pursuit of huge wealth
without thought to happiness or the displacement of communities.
His
friendship with Samuel Johnson and the painter Joshua Reynolds, led to the
creation of The Club which later became The Literary Club and Goldsmith was at
its forefront, often putting on lavish entertainments that he could ill afford.
The group would meet at dining clubs in London and discuss the great works of
the day and it would last in one form or another well into the 20th Century.
With
growing debts in his later life, Goldsmith’s health began to suffer
considerably and he developed a number of nervous complaints. In 1774, he found
himself with a kidney infection and self-diagnosed his condition, opting to
take a fever powder that may well have made the condition worse.
In
April of that year he succumbed to the illness and died at the age of just 42.
He was buried at the Church of St Mary in London.
He
settled in London in 1756, where he briefly held various jobs, including an
apothecary's assistant and an usher of a school. Perennially in debt and
addicted to gambling, Goldsmith produced a massive output as a hack writer on
Grub Street for the publishers of London, but his few painstaking works earned
him the company of Samuel Johnson, with whom he was a founding member of
"The Club". There, through fellow Club member Edmund Burke, he made
the acquaintance of Sir George Savile, who would later arrange a job for him at
Thornhill Grammar School. The combination of his literary work and his
dissolute lifestyle led Horace Walpole to give him the epithet "inspired
idiot". During this period he used the pseudonym "James
Willington" (the name of a fellow student at Trinity) to publish his 1758
translation of the autobiography of the Huguenot Jean Marteilhe.
On
his return four years later, in 1756, he settled in London, working numerous
oddjobs . Perennially in debt and addicted to gambling, Goldsmith found his
financial niche when he took up a job as a hack writer—producing huge
quantities of (generally poor) translations and other articles. He was able to
produce a massive output of hack writing for the publishers of London, and he
began to attract fame with some of the more painstaking works he produced
during this period. His career among the intellectual elite is generally
regarded to begin with the 1759 publication of Enquiry into the Present State
of Polite Learning in Europe, which earned him the admiration of Samuel
Johnson, who, along with Goldsmith and others, was a founding member of
"The Club."
Among
members of the club, Goldsmith was notorious for his ugliness, his Irish brogue,
and his complete ineptitude in spoken conversation. Dr. Johnson famously
quipped that "No man was more foolish when he had not a pen in his hand,
or more wise when he had," and Goldsmith would become one of Johnson's
constant companions, featured prominently in Boswell's Life of Johnson as a
major character in his own right. The combination of Goldsmith's literary
genius with his ineptitude in spoken conversation led Horace Walpole to give
him the much quoted epithet of "The Inspired Idiot."
Although
Goldsmith has become something of a legend because of his epic incompetence
(this was a man who once failed to emigrate to America because he missed the
ferry), he is just as legendary for his prodigious output and his masterful
prose. After the publication of a few minor works, Goldsmith truly rose to fame
after publishing a series of Chinese Letters, essays written from the
perspective of a Chinese philosopher visiting England. The Chinese Letters were
collected and published in a single volume in 1762 entitled The Citizen of the
World, and they remain one of the most entertaining and insightful works of
non-fiction written in the eighteenth century.
Always
struggling to make ends meet despite his success, Goldsmith also undertook
during this time an enormous quantity of hack work, producing a number of
histories, travelogues and biographies—one of which, the Life of Richard Nash,
of Bath, Esq. is considered to be one of the best-written biographies of the
period. He also produced, in 1764, one of his most famous poems, “The
Traveller,” written from the perspective of an idealistic Englishman traversing
the European countryside.
In
1766 Goldsmith wrote what is almost certainly his most remembered work, his
only novel, The Vicar of Wakefield. An unusual novel which begins as a light
romance and then descends into near-Greek tragedy, written in the form of a
fictitious memoir, The Vicar of Wakefield was immensely popular in its time,
and it is still read widely today by students and scholars as an example of the
sentimental style of novels popular in eighteenth-century England.
In
1768 Goldsmith, who had already had success as a poet, historian, biographer,
essayist and fiction-writer, turned to yet another genre: playwriting. His
first play, The Good Natur'd Man, debuted in London to modest success. It was
not until 1773, however, with the production of his comedy She Stoops To
Conquer that Goldsmith would truly cement his reputation as a capable
playwright. She Stoops to Conquer was one of the most popular comedies of the
eighteenth century, continuing to be produced today.
Around
this time Goldsmith also published “The Deserted Village,” his most enduringly
popular work of poetry. “The Deserted Village,” remarkable for its melancholy
and emotional depth at a time when most English poetry tended towards irony,
has become one of the enduring classics of eighteenth-century literature.
Although too lengthy to quote in full, an excerpt from the poem's memorable
beginning—in which Goldsmith paints a sad portrait of a once-lively country
village that has been all but worn away and abandoned—provides a glimpse of
Goldsmith's considerable talent for rhyme and imagery:
Sweet
Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,
Where
health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,
Where
smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And
parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
Dear
lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats
of my youth, when every sport could please,
How
often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where
humble happiness endeared each scene;
How
often have I paused on every charm,
The
sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The
never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The
decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,
The
hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For
talking age and whispering lovers made.…
Goldsmith,
always in debt, began to work even harder in the early 1770s. The work,
however, took its toll on his health, and in 1774 he died after a brief
illness. A monument to him was erected in Westminster Abbey with an epitaph written
by Samuel Johnson.
Portrayal
In
his Life, Washington Irving states that Goldsmith was between 5.4" and 5.6"
in height, not heavily built but quite muscular and with rather plain features.
In character he had a lively sense of fun, was totally guileless, and never
happier than when in the light-hearted company of children. The money that he
sporadically earned was often frittered away or happily given away to the next
good cause that presented itself so that any financial security tended to be
fleeting and short-lived. Goldsmith's talents were unreservedly recognised by
Samuel Johnson, whose patronage – somewhat resented by Boswell – aided his
eventual recognition in the literary world and the world of drama.
Goldsmith
was described by contemporaries as prone to envy, a congenial but impetuous and
disorganised personality who once planned to emigrate to America but failed
because he missed his ship. At some point around this time he worked at
Thornhill Grammar School, later basing Squire Thornhill (in The Vicar of
Wakefield) on his benefactor Sir George Savile and certainly spending time with
eminent scientist Rev. John Mitchell, whom he probably knew from London.
Mitchell sorely missed good company, which Goldsmith naturally provided in
spades. Thomas De Quincey wrote of him "All the motion of Goldsmith's
nature moved in the direction of the true, the natural, the sweet, the
gentle".
Death
His
premature death in 1774 may have been partly due to his own misdiagnosis of a
kidney infection. Goldsmith was buried in Temple Church in London. The
inscription reads; "HERE LIES/OLIVER GOLDSMITH". A monument was
originally raised to him at the site of his burial, but this was destroyed in
an air raid in 1941. A monument to him survives in the centre of Ballymahon,
also in Westminster Abbey with an epitaph written by Samuel Johnson.
"Oliver
Goldsmith: A Poet, Naturalist, and Historian, who left scarcely any style of
writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn. Of all the
passions, whether smiles were to move or tears, a powerful yet gentle master.
In genius, vivid, versatile, sublime. In style, clear, elevated, elegant."
Epitaph written by Dr. Johnson, translated from the original Latin.
Legacy of Oliver Goldsmith
When
Oliver Goldsmith died he had achieved eminence among the writers of his time as
an essayist, a poet, and a dramatist. He was one “who left scarcely any kind of
writing untouched and who touched nothing that he did not adorn”—such was the
judgment expressed by his friend Dr. Johnson. His contemporaries were as one in
their high regard for Goldsmith the writer, but they were of different minds
concerning the man himself. He was, they all agreed, one of the oddest
personalities of his time. Of established Anglo-Irish stock, he kept his brogue
and his provincial manners in the midst of the sophisticated Londoners among
whom he moved. His bearing was undistinguished, and he was unattractive
physically—ugly, some called him—with ill-proportioned features and a
pock-marked face. He was a poor manager of his own affairs and an inveterate
gambler, wildly extravagant when in funds, generous sometimes beyond his means
to people in distress. The graceful fluency with words that he commanded as a
writer deserted him totally when he was in society—his conversational mishaps
were memorable things. Instances were also cited of his incredible vanity, of
his constant desire to be conspicuous in company, and of his envy of others’
achievements. In the end what most impressed Goldsmith’s contemporaries was the
paradox he presented to the world: on the one hand the assured and polished
literary artist, on the other the person notorious for his ineptitudes in and
out of society. Again it was Johnson who summed up the common sentiment. “No
man,” he declared, “was more foolish when he had not a pen in his hand, or more
wise when he had.”
Goldsmith’s
success as a writer lay partly in the charm of personality emanated by his
style—his affection for his characters, his mischievous irony, and his
spontaneous interchange of gaiety and sadness. He was, as a writer, “natural,
simple, affecting.” It is by their human personalities that his novel and his
plays succeed, not by any brilliance of plot, ideas, or language. In the poems
again it is the characters that are remembered rather than the landscapes—the
village parson, the village schoolmaster, the sharp, yet not unkindly portraits
of Garrick and Burke. Goldsmith’s poetry lives by its own special softening and
mellowing of the traditional heroic couplet into simple melodies that are quite
different in character from the solemn and sweeping lines of 18th-century blank
verse. In his novel and plays Goldsmith helped to humanize his era’s literary
imagination, without growing sickly or mawkish. Goldsmith saw people, human situations,
and indeed the human predicament from the comic point of view; he was a
realist, something of a satirist, but in his final judgments unfailingly
charitable.
Among
his papers was found the prospectus of an encyclopedia, to be called the
Universal dictionary of the arts and sciences. He wished this to be the British
equivalent of the Encyclopédie and it was to include comprehensive articles by
Samuel Johnson, Edmund Burke, Adam Smith, Edward Gibbon, Sir Joshua Reynolds,
Sir William Jones, Fox and Dr. Burney. The project, however, was not realised
due to Goldsmith's death.
Works
See
also: The Vicar of Wakefield, The Good-Natur'd Man, The Traveller (poem), and
She Stoops to Conquer
The
Citizen of the World
In
1760 Goldsmith began to publish a series of letters in the Public Ledger under
the title The Citizen of the World. Purportedly written by a Chinese traveller
in England by the name of Lien Chi, they used this fictional outsider's
perspective to comment ironically and at times moralistically on British
society and manners. It was inspired by the earlier essay series Persian
Letters by Montesquieu.
The
Hermit
Goldsmith wrote this 160-line romantic ballad in
1765. The hero and heroine are Edwin, a youth without wealth or power, and
Angelina, the daughter of a lord "beside the Tyne". Angelina spurns
many wooers, but refuses to make plain her love for young Edwin. "Quite
dejected with my scorn", Edwin disappears and becomes a hermit. One day,
Angelina turns up at his cell in boy's clothes and, not recognising him, tells
him her story. Edwin then reveals his true identity, and the lovers never part
again. The poem is notable for its interesting portrayal of a hermit, who is
fond of the natural world and his wilderness solitude but maintains a gentle,
sympathetic demeanor toward other people. In keeping with eremitical tradition,
however, Edwin the Hermit claims to "spurn the [opposite] sex". This
poem appears under the title of "A Ballad" sung by the character of
Mr. Burchell in Chapter 8 of Goldsmith's novel, The Vicar of Wakefield.[10]
She Stoops to
Conquer
play by Goldsmith
She Stoops to Conquer, comedy in five acts by Oliver
Goldsmith, produced and published in 1773. This comic masterpiece mocked the
simple morality of sentimental comedies. Subtitled The Mistakes of a Night, the
play is a lighthearted farce that derives its charm from the misunderstandings
which entangle the well-drawn characters.
Mr. Hardcastle plans to marry his forthright daughter
Kate to the bashful son of his friend Sir Charles Marlow. Mrs. Hardcastle wants
her recalcitrant son Tony Lumpkin to marry her ward Constance Neville, who is
in love with Marlow’s friend Hastings. Humorous mishaps occur when Tony dupes
Marlow and Hastings into believing that Mr. Hardcastle’s home is an inn. By
posing as a servant, Kate wins the heart of Marlow, who is uncomfortable in the
company of wellborn women but is flirtatious with barmaids. Through various
deceptions, Tony releases himself from his mother’s clutches and unites
Constance with Hastings.
The Deserted Village
poem by Goldsmith
The
Deserted Village
Born
around 1728 in County Longford in Ireland, Oliver Goldsmith was a poet and
novelist who is perhaps best known for his poem The Deserted Village that rails
against the collection of wealth for wealth’s sake and the move of people away
from rural areas into the cities.
In
the 1760s Goldsmith witnessed the demolition of an ancient village and
destruction of its farms to clear land to become a wealthy man's garden. His
poem The Deserted Village, published in 1770, expresses a fear that the
destruction of villages and the conversion of land from productive agriculture
to ornamental landscape gardens would ruin the peasantry.[11]
The Deserted Village, pastoral elegy by Oliver
Goldsmith, published in 1770. Considered to be one of his major poems, it
idealizes a rural way of life that was being destroyed by the displacement of
agrarian villagers, the greed of landlords, and economic and political change.
In response to the poem’s perceived sentimentality, George Crabbe created a
bleak view of the country poor in his poem The Village (1783).
The central image of this 430-line poem is the
titular village of Auburn, the declining boyhood home of the narrator. As a
result of laws encouraging enclosure, aristocrats sought to extend their large
estates by purchasing land previously run by small private farmers. Unwilling
to work for the landowners, the residents leave the village for miserable urban
life in England or America.
The Vicar of Wakefield
novel by Goldsmith
The Vicar of Wakefield was written in 1761 and 1762,
and published in 1766.
The
Vicar of Wakefield, novel by Oliver Goldsmith, published in two volumes in
1766. The story, a portrait of village life, is narrated by Dr. Primrose, the
title character, whose family endures many trials—including the loss of most of
their money, the seduction of one daughter, the destruction of their home by
fire, and the vicar’s incarceration—before all is put right in the end. The
novel’s idealization of rural life, sentimental moralizing, and melodramatic
incidents are countered by a sharp but good-natured irony.
The
Vicar of Wakefield is briefly mentioned in Jane Austen's Emma, Charles Dickens'
A Tale of Two Cities, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Charlotte Brontë's The
Professor, Louisa May Alcott's Little Women and in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's
The Sorrows of Young Werther as well as his Dichtung und Wahrheit.
Content
Dr.
Primrose, his wife Deborah and their six children live an idyllic life in a
country parish. On the evening of his son George's wedding to Arabella Wilmot,
the vicar loses all his money through the bankruptcy of a merchant.
The
wedding is called off, George is sent away to town and the rest of the family
move to a new and more humble parish on the land of Squire Thornhill. On the
way, they hear about the dubious reputation of their new landlord. Also,
references are made to the squire's uncle Sir William Thornhill, who is known
throughout the country for his worthiness.
A
poor and eccentric friend, Mr. Burchell, whom they meet at an inn, rescues
Sophia from drowning. She is instantly attracted to him, but her ambitious
mother does not encourage her feelings.
Then
follows a period of happy family life, only interrupted by regular visits of the
dashing Squire Thornhill and Mr. Burchell. Olivia is captivated by Thornhill's
hollow charm, but he also encourages the social ambitions of Mrs. Primrose and
her daughters to a ludicrous degree.
Finally,
Olivia is reported to have fled. First Burchell is suspected, but after a long
pursuit Dr. Primrose finds his daughter, who was in reality deceived by Squire
Thornhill. He planned to marry her in a mock ceremony and leave her then
shortly after, as he had done with several women before.
When
Olivia and her father return home, they find their house in flames. Although
the family has lost almost all their belongings, the evil Squire Thornhill
insists on the payment of the rent. As the vicar cannot pay, he is brought to
gaol.
What
follows now is a chain of dreadful occurrences. The vicar's daughter Olivia is
reported dead, Sophia abducted and George is also brought to gaol in chains and
covered with blood, as he had challenged Thornhill to a duel, when he had heard
about his wickedness.
But
then Mr. Burchell arrives and solves all problems. He rescues Sophia, Olivia is
not dead and it emerges that Burchell in reality the worthy Sir William
Thornhill, who travels through the country in disguise. In the end there is a
double wedding: George marries Arabella, as he originally intended, and Sir
William Thornhill marries Sophia. Finally even the wealth of the vicar is
restored, as the bankrupt merchant is reported to be found.
Structure
and narrative technique
The
book consists of 32 chapters which fall into three parts:
Chapters
1 - 3: beginning
Chapters
4 - 29: main part
Chapters
30 - 32: denouement
Chapter
17, when Olivia is reported to be fled, can be regarded as the climax as well
as an essential turning point of the novel. From chapter 17 onwards it changes
from a comical account of eighteenth-century country life into a pathetic
melodrama with didactic traits.
There
are quite a few interpolations of different literary genres, such as poems,
histories or sermons, which widen the restricted view of the first person
narrator and serve as didactic fables.
The
novel can be regarded as a fictitious memoir, as it is told by the vicar
himself by retrospection. Comic situations come from the fact that the reader
is often leading in knowledge, because sometimes hints are given which point to
the happy ending of the novel.
Reception
In
literary history books The Vicar of Wakefield is often described as a
sentimental novel, which displays the belief in the innate goodness of human
beings. But it can also be read as a satire on the sentimental novel and its
values, as the vicar's values are apparently not compatible with the real
"sinful" world. It is only with Sir William Thornhill's help that he
can get out of his calamities.
Moreover,
an analogy can be drawn between Mr. Primrose's suffering and the Book of Job.
This is particularly relevant to the question of theodicy.
Other
works
Account
of the Augustan Age in England (1759)
The
Life of Richard Nash (Beau Nash) (1762)
The
History of England, from the Earliest Times to the Death of George II in 4
volumes (1771)
Dr.
Goldsmith's Roman History Abridged by Himself for the Use of Schools (1772)[12]
An
History of the Earth and Animated Nature (1774)
The
Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Goldsmith (1887), edited by Austin Dobson
The
Poems and Plays of Oliver Goldsmith (Frederick Warne and Co., 1889)
The
Grumbler: An Adaptation (1931), edited by Alice I. Perry Wood[13]
Goldsmith
has sometimes been credited with writing the classic children's tale The
History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, though this cannot be proved.[14]
Memorials
concerning Oliver Goldsmith
Goldsmith
lived in Kingsbury, now in north-west London, between 1771 and 1774: Oliver
Goldsmith Primary School, Goldsmith Lane, and Goldsmith Avenue there are named
after him.
Goldsmith
Road, the Oliver Goldsmith Estate and Oliver Goldsmith Primary School, all in
Peckham, are named after him.[18]
The
Oliver Goldsmith Summer School is held every June Bank Holiday at Ballymahon
with poetry and creative readings being held at Goldsmith's birthplace in
nearby Pallas, Forgney.
A
statue of him by J. H. Foley stands at the Front Arch of Trinity College,
Dublin (see image).
A
statue of him stands in a limestone cell at the ruin of his birthplace in
Pallas, Forgney, Ballymahon, County Longford. The statue is a copy of the Foley
statue that stands outside Trinity college, Dublin and is the focus point of
the annual Oliver Goldsmith Summer School.
His
name has been given to a new lecture theatre and student accommodation on the
Trinity College campus: Goldsmith Hall.
Auburn,
Alabama, and Auburn University were named for the first line in Goldsmith's
poem: "Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain." Auburn is still
referred to as the 'loveliest village on the plain.'
Auburn
in Sydney was also named for "Sweet Auburn".
There
is a statue in Ballymahon County Longford outside the town library by Irish
Sculptor Éamonn O' Doherty (1939–2011) which was unveiled in 1999.
London
Underground locomotive number 16 (used on the Metropolitan line of the London
Underground until 1962) was named Oliver Goldsmith.
Longford
based band Goldsmith are named after the famous writer.
Athlone
Institute of Technology library is named the Goldsmith Library
In
1870, Goldsmith Street in Phibsborough was renamed after Oliver Goldsmith.
Goldsmith
Street in the 'Poets' Corner' area of Elwood, Melbourne is named after Oliver
Goldsmith.
Auburn
Hill in Stoneybatter, Dublin is named after the fictional town of Auburn from
his poem The Deserted Village.
In
popular culture
Two
characters in the 1951 comedy The Lavender Hill Mob quote the same line from
Goldsmith's poem "The Traveller" – a subtle joke, because the film's
plot involves the recasting of stolen gold.
During
the opening credits of the SKY One adaptation of Sir Terry Pratchett's
Christmas-like story "The Hogfather", a portrait of Goldsmith is
shown as part of a hall of memorials to those "inhumed" by the
"Ankh-Morpork Assassins' Guild".
In
the 1925 novel The Painted Veil by W. Somerset Maugham, the last words of the
poem An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, "The dog it was that died",
are the dying words of bacteriologist Walter Fane, one of the primary
characters in the novel. And using the title "Elegy for a Mad Dog" is
an episode of Marcus Welby, M.D. (1971, Season 2, Episode 21).
In
the Nabokov novel Pale Fire, a central character's house is situated between
"Goldsworth" (the name of an estate) and "Wordsmith
University." Crossing these two names yields the names of the poets
Wordsworth and Goldsmith; one of the narrators refers to this as the
"witty exchange of syllables invoking the two masters of the heroic
couplet."
In
the play Marx in Soho by Howard Zinn, Marx makes a reference to Goldsmith's
poem The Deserted Village.
In
The Waste Land, T. S. Eliot parodies Goldsmith's song When lovely woman stoops
to folly.
The
characters of 'Edwin' and 'Angelina' in Gilbert and Sullivan's Trial by Jury
were a reference to Goldsmith's poem The Hermit.
Oliver Goldsmith’s famous works
The
Deserted Village , She Stoops to Conquer , The Vicar of Wakefield , The Citizen
of the World (1762) , The Traveller (1764) , A New Simile , Memorials
Concerning Oliver Goldsmith , When lovely woman stoops to folly? , Edwin And
Angelina A Ballad , Memory , The Hermit
Oliver
Goldsmith Poems
An
Elegy On The Death Of A Mad DogAn Elegy On The Glory Of Her Sex, Mrs Mary
BlaizeMemoryRetaliation: A PoemThe Deserted VillageThe Deserted Village, A
PoemThe Traveller; or, A Prospect of Society (excerpt)When Lovely Woman Stoops
To Folly
The
Traveller; or, A Prospect of Society (excerpt)
THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY (EXCERPT)
But where to
find that happiest spot below
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam,
His first, best country ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Tho' patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by Art or Nature given,
To different nations makes their blessings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call:
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;
And though the rocky-crested summits frown,
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down.
From Art more various are the blessings sent,--
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content.
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails,
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the favourite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends:
Till carried to excess in each domain,
This favourite good begets peculiar pain.
But let us try these truths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies:
Here for a while my proper cares resign'd;
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.
Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends:
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
That proudly rise or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession descks the varied year;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragance round the smiling land.
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear;
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign:
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
And e'en in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs; not far removed the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state;
At her command the palace learnt to rise,
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies,
The canvas glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form;
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail;
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave,
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave:
And late the nation found with fruitless skill
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
For these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade,
Processions form'd for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd;
The sports of children satisfy the child.
Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind:
As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway,
Defac'd by time and tott'ring in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile....
Retaliation: A Poem
Oliver Goldsmith
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was
united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best
dish:
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain:
Our Garrick's a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is an anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool:
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last:
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
'Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean, re-united with earth,
Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the Universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up, what was meant for mankind.
Tho' fraught with all learning, yet straining his
throat,
To persuade Tommy Townsend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on
refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of
dining;
Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge, disobedient,
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place,
sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was
in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits, alas! he had none,
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his
own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at,
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his, what wit and what whim,
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,
Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all?
In short so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick.
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants were all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud
And coxcombs alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits are pleas'd with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say was it that vainly directing his view,
To find out men's virtues and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant
reclines,
When Satire and Censure encircl'd his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confest without rival to shine,
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line,
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art;
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaister'd, with rouge, his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting,
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting:
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a-day;
Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick;
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them
back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
'Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you
gave?
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you
rais'd,
While he was beroscius'd, and you were beprais'd?
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix it with skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will.
Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with
love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant
creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature:
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper:
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser;
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat;
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest; ah no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye,
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless and grand,
His manners were gentle, complying and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of
hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and
stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
The Deserted Village, A Poem
Oliver Goldsmith
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down:
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like
these
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall;
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,
And every want to opulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful
scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green,--
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
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,
Amidst 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,
Amidst the swains to show my booklearn'd skill,
Around my fire an evening 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.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine!
How happy he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labour 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 dang'rous deep;
No 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;
Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
His heav'n commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There, as I past with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,--
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled!
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring:
She, wretched matron, forc'd in age for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his
place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wand'rings but reliev'd their pain;
The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to
glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest:
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are
spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declar'd how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too:
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill,
For, ev'n though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
Amazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts
inspir'd,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The Twelve Good Rules, the Royal Game of Goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their firstborn sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd--
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their
growth:
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green:
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies;
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd:
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd,
But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band,
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms--a garden and a grave.
Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped--what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train:
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts.?--Ah, turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn:
Now lost to all--her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the
shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,--
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Ev'n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore:
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murd'rous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their
last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main,
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep!
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go
To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose,
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear,
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own.
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Ev'n now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Ev'n now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety, with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
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