FullReads

I believe the bailiffs eventually captured the mahogany furniture, but Goldsmith held the quarters. They are today in good repair, and the people who occupy the house are very courteous, and obligingly show the rooms to the curious. No attempt at a museum is made, but there are to be seen various articles which belonged to Goldsmith and a collection of portraits that are interesting.

When “The Traveler” was published Goldsmith’s fame was made secure. As long as he wrote plays, reviews, history and criticism he was working for hire. People said it was “clever,” “brilliant,” and all that, but their hearts were not won until the poet had poured out his soul to his brother in that gentlest of all sweet rhymes. I pity the man who can read the opening lines of “The Traveler” without a misty something coming over his vision:

“Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untraveled fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.”

This is the earliest English poem which I can recall that makes use of our American Indian names:

“Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound.”

Indeed, we came near having Goldsmith for an adopted citizen. According to his own report he once secured passage to Boston, and after carrying his baggage aboard the ship he went back to town to say a last hurried word of farewell to a fair lady, and when he got back to the dock the ship had sailed away with his luggage.

His earnest wish was to spend his last days in Sweet Auburn.

“In all my wand’rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs–and God has given my share–
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst those humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life’s taper at its close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes–for pride attends us still–
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned 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.”

But he never saw Ireland after he left it in Seventeen Hundred Fifty-four. He died in London in Seventeen Hundred Seventy-four, aged forty-six. On the plain little monument in Temple Church where he was buried are only these words:

Here Lies Oliver Goldsmith.

Hawkins once called on the Earl of Northumberland and found Goldsmith waiting in an outer room, having come in response to an invitation from the nobleman. Hawkins, having finished his business, waited until Goldsmith came out, as he had a curiosity to know why the Earl had sent for him.

“Well,” said Hawkins, “what did he say to you?”

“His lordship told me that he had read ‘The Traveler,’ and that he was pleased with it, and that inasmuch as he was soon to be Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and knowing I was an Irishman, asked what he could do for me!”

“And what did you tell him?” inquired the eager Hawkins.

“Why, there was nothing for me to say, but that I was glad he liked my poem, and–that I had a brother in Ireland, a clergyman, who stood in need of help—-“

“Enough!” cried Hawkins, and left him.

To Hawkins himself are we indebted for the incident, and after relating it Hawkins adds:

“And thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world trifle with his fortunes!”

Let him who wishes preach a sermon on this story. But there you have it! “A brother in Ireland who needs help—-“

The brother in London, the brother in America, the brother in Ireland who needs help! All men were his brothers, and those who needed help were first in his mind.

Dear little Doctor Goldsmith, you were not a hustler, but when I get to the Spirit World, I’ll surely hunt you up!