'Head in Catherine Street, Strand.' Its success was instant and decisive. A second edition was called for on the seventh of June, a third on the fourteenth, a fourth (carefully revised) on the twenty-eighth, and on the sixteenth of August a fifth edition appeared. Even Goldsmith's enemies in the press were silent, and nothing interrupted the praise which greeted him on all sides. One tribute he did not hear, and was never conscious of; yet from truer heart or finer genius he had none, and none that should have given him greater pride. Gray was passing the summer at Malvern (the last summer of his life), with his friend Nicholls, when the poem came out; and he desired Nicholls to read it aloud to him. He listened to it with fixed attention from the beginning to the end, and then exclaimed That man is a poet.' The judgment has since been affirmed by hundreds of thousands of readers, and any adverse appeal is little likely now to be lodged against it. Within the circle of its claims and pretensions, a more entirely satisfactory and delightful poem than the Deserted Village was probably never written. It lingers in the memory where once it has entered and such is the softening influence (on the heart even more than the understanding) of the mild, tender, yet clear light which makes its images so distinct and lovely, that there are few who have not wished to rate it higher than poetry of yet higher genius. What true and 'pretty pastoral images,' exclaimed Burke, years after the poet's death, 'has Goldsmith in his Deserted Village! 'They beat all: Pope, and Phillips, and Spenser too, in 'my opinion.' But opinions that seem exaggerated may in truth be often reconciled to very sober sense; and where any extraordinary popularity has existed, good reason is generally to be shown for it. Of the many clever and indeed wonderful writings that from age to age are poured forth into the world, what is it that puts upon the few the stamp of immortality, and makes them seem indestructible as nature? What is it but their wise rejection of everything superfluous? Being grave histories, or natural stories, of everything that is not history or nature? being poems, of everything that is not poetry, however much it may resemble it; and especially of that prodigal accumulation of thoughts and images, which, till properly sifted and selected, is as the unhewn to the chiselled marble? What is it, in short, but that unity, completeness, polish, and perfectness in every part, which Goldsmith attained? Thus his pictures may be small; may be far from historical pieces, amazing or confounding us; may be even, if severest criticism will have it so, mere happy tableaux de genre hanging up against our walls but their colours are exquisite and unfading; they have that familiar sweetness of household expression which wins them welcome alike where the rich inhabit, and in huts where poor men lie; and there, improving and gladdening all, they are likely to hang for ever. Johnson, though he had taken equal interest in the progress of this second poem, contributing to the manuscript the four lines which stand last, yet thought it inferior to the Traveller. But time has not confirmed that judgment. Were it only that the field of contemplation in the Traveller is somewhat desultory, and that (as a later poet pointed out) its successor has an endearing locality, and introduces us to beings with whom the imagination is ready to contract a friendship, the higher place must be given to the Deserted Village. Goethe tells us the transport with which the circle he now lived in hailed it, when they found themselves once more as in another beloved Wakefield; and with what zeal he at once set to work to translate it into German. All the characteristics of the first poem seem to me developed in the second; with as chaste simplicity, with as choice selectness of natural expression, in verse of as musical cadence; but with yet greater earnestness of purpose, and a far more human interest. Nor is that purpose to be lightly dismissed because it more concerns the heart than the understanding, and is sentimental rather than philosophical. The accumulation of wealth has not brought about man's diminution, nor is trade's proud empire threatened with decay but too eager are the triumphs of both to be always conscious of evils attendant on even the benefits they bring, and of those it was the poet's purpose to remind us. The lesson can never be thrown away. No material prosperity can be so great, that underneath it, and indeed because of it, will not still be found much suffering and sadness; much to remember that is commonly forgotten, much to attend to that is almost always neglected. Trade would not thrive the less, though shortened somewhat of its 'unfeeling train;' nor wealth enjoy fewer blessings, if its unwieldy pomp less often 'spurned the cottage from the green.' 'It is a melancholy thing to stand alone in one's country,' said the late benevolent Lord Leicester, when complimented on the completion of Holkham. 'I look 'round, and not a house is to be seen but mine. I am the 'Giant of Giant Castle, and have eat up all my neighbours.' There is no man who has risen upward in the world, even by ways the most honourable to himself and kindly to others, that may not be said to have a deserted village, sacred to the tenderest and fondest recollections, which it is well that his fancy should at times revisit. From that Goldsmith looked into his heart and wrote. great city in which his hard-spent life had been diversified with so much care and toil, he travelled back to the memory of lives more simply passed, of more cheerful labour, of less anxious care, of homely affections and of humble joys for which the world and all its successes offer nothing in exchange. In all my wanderings round this world of care, 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, I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, That hope is idle for him. Sweet Auburn is no more. But though he finds the scene deserted, for us he re-peoples it anew, builds up again its ruined haunts, and revives its pure enjoyments; from the glare of crowded cities, their exciting struggles and palling pleasures, carries us back to the season of natural pastimes and unsophisticate desires; adjures us all to remember, in our several smaller worlds, the vast world of humanity that breathes beyond; shews us that there is nothing too humble for the loftiest and most affecting associations; and that where human joys and interests have been, their memory is sacred for ever! Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door. . . . Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? |