In the succeeding six years he sent to the press some things which have survived and many which have perished.He produced articles for reviews, magazines, and newspapers; children's books which, bound in gilt paper and adorned with hideous woodcuts, appeared in the window of the once far-famed shop at the corner of Saint Paul's Churchyard; "An Inquiry into the State of Polite Learning in Europe," which, though of little or no value, is still reprinted among his works; a "Life of Beau Nash," which is not reprinted, though it well deserves to be so (Mr Black has pointed out that this is inaccurate: the life of Nash has been twice reprinted; once in Mr Prior's edition (vol.iii.p.249), and once in Mr Cunningham's edition (vol.iv.p.35).); a superficial and incorrect, but very readable, "History of England," in a series of letters purporting to be addressed by a nobleman to his son; and some very lively and amusing "Sketches of London Society," in a series of letters purporting to be addressed by a Chinese traveller to his friends.All these works were anonymous; but some of them were well-known to be Goldsmith's; and he gradually rose in the estimation of the booksellers for whom he drudged.He was, indeed, emphatically a popular writer.For accurate research or grave disquisition he was not well qualified by nature or by education.He knew nothing accurately: his reading had been desultory; nor had he meditated deeply on what he had read.He had seen much of the world; but he had noticed and retained little more of what he had seen than some grotesque incidents and characters which had happened to strike his fancy.But, though his mind was very scantily stored with materials, he used what materials he had in such a way as to produce a wonderful effect.There have been many greater writers; but perhaps no writer was ever more uniformly agreeable.His style was always pure and easy, and, on proper occasions, pointed and energetic.His narratives were always amusing, his descriptions always picturesque, his humour rich and joyous, yet not without an occasional tinge of amiable sadness.About everything that he wrote, serious or sportive, there was a certain natural grace and decorum, hardly to be expected from a man a great part of whose life had been passed among thieves and beggars, street-walkers and merry andrews, in those squalid dens which are the reproach of great capitals.
As his name gradually became known, the circle of his acquaintance widened.He was introduced to Johnson, who was then considered as the first of living English writers; to Reynolds, the first of English painters; and to Burke, who had not yet entered parliament, but had distinguished himself greatly by his writings and by the eloquence of his conversation.With these eminent men Goldsmith became intimate.In 1763 he was one of the nine original members of that celebrated fraternity which has sometimes been called the Literary Club, but which has always disclaimed that epithet, and still glories in the simple name of The Club.
By this time Goldsmith had quitted his miserable dwelling at the top of Breakneck Steps, and had taken chambers in the more civilised region of the Inns of Court.But he was still often reduced to pitiable shifts.Towards the close of 1764 his rent was so long in arrear that his landlady one morning called in the help of a sheriff's officer.The debtor, in great perplexity, despatched a messenger to Johnson; and Johnson, always friendly, though often surly, sent back the messenger with a guinea, and promised to follow speedily.He came, and found that Goldsmith had changed the guinea, and was railing at the landlady over a bottle of Madeira.Johnson put the cork into the bottle, and entreated his friend to consider calmly how money was to be procured.Goldsmith said that he had a novel ready for the press.Johnson glanced at the manuscript, saw that there were good things in it, took it to a bookseller, sold it for 60pounds, and soon returned with the money.The rent was paid; and the sheriff's officer withdrew.According to one story, Goldsmith gave his landlady a sharp reprimand for her treatment of him; according to another, he insisted on her joining him in a bowl of punch.Both stories are probably true.The novel which was thus ushered into the world was the "Vicar of Wakefield."But, before the "Vicar of Wakefield" appeared in print, came the great crisis of Goldsmith's literary life.In Christmas week, 1764, he published a poem, entitled the "Traveller." It was the first work to which he had put his name; and it at once raised him to the rank of a legitimate English classic.The opinion of the most skilful critics was, that nothing finer had appeared in verse since the fourth book of the "Dunciad." In one respect the "Traveller" differs from all Goldsmith's other writings.In general his designs were bad, and his execution good.In the "Traveller," the execution, though deserving of much praise, is far inferior to the design.No philosophical poem, ancient or modern, has a plan so noble, and at the same time so simple.An English wanderer, seated on a crag among the Alps, near the point where three great countries meet, looks down on the boundless prospect, reviews his long pilgrimage, recalls the varieties of scenery, of climate, of government, of religion, of national character, which he has observed, and comes to the conclusion just or unjust, that our happiness depends little on political institutions, and much on the temper and regulation of our own minds.
