LETTER LXXXIV.

THE ANECDOTES OF SEVERAL POETS, WHO LIVED AND DIED IN CIRCUMSTANCES OF WRETCHEDNESS.

From Lien Chi Altangi, to Fum Hoam, &c.

I fancy the character of a poet is in every country the same fond of enjoying the present, careless of the future; his conversation that of a man of sense, his actions those of a fool; of fortitude able to stand unmoved at the bursting of an earthquake, yet of sensibility to be affected by the breaking of a tea-cup;-such is his character, which, considered in every light, is the very opposite of that which leads

to riches.(1)

The poets of the west are as remarkable for their indigence as their genius, and yet, among the numerous hospitals designed to relieve the poor, I have heard of but one erected for the benefit of decayed authors. This was founded by Pope Urban the Eighth, and called the retreat of the incurables, intimating, that it was equally impossible to reclaim the patients, who sued for reception, from poverty or from poetry. To be sincere, were I to send you an account of the lives of the western poets, either antient or modern, I fancy you would think me employed in collecting materials for a history of human wretchedness.

Homer is the first poet and beggar of note among the antients: he was blind, and sang his ballads about the streets; but it is observed, that his mouth was more frequently filled with verses than with bread. Plautus the comic poet was better off; he had two trades, he was a poet for his diversion, and helped to turn a mill in order to gain

(1) [A sketch drawn, no doubt, from Goldsmith's own character, and certainly with strong points of resemblance.]

a livelihood. Terence was a slave, (2) and Boethius died in gaol.(3)

Among the Italians, Paulo Borghese, almost as good a poet as Tasso, knew fourteen different trades, and yet died because he could get employment in none.(4) Tasso himself, who had the most amiable character of all poets, has often been obliged to borrow a crown from some friend, in order to pay for a month's subsistence; he has left us a pretty sonnet, addressed to his cat, in which he begs the light of her eyes to write by, being too poor to afford himself a candle.(5) But Bentivoglio, poor Bentivoglio! chiefly demands our pity. His comedies will last with the Italian language: he dissipated a noble fortune in acts of charity and benevolence; but, falling into misery in his old age, was refused to be admitted into a hospital which he himself had erected.

In Spain, it is said, the great Cervantes died of hunger;

(1) [According to Varro, he composed three of his plays during this drudgery.]

(2) [He was manumitted on account of his genius, and enjoyed the friendship of Scipio and Lælius.]

(3) [Boethius was born at Rome in 455, and beheaded in prison at Pavia, in 526, by order of Theodore, king of the Goths. His work, 'De Consolatione Philosophiæ,' written during his imprisonment, was translated into Anglo-Saxon by Alfred the Great. Dr. Johnson advised Miss Carter to undertake a version of it. How well he himself could have executed the task we may judge from the following specimen which he has given in the Rambler:

"O qui perpetuâ mundum ratione gubernas," &c.

"O THOU whose power o'er moving worlds presides,
Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides,
On darkling man in pure effulgence shine,

And cheer the clouded mind with light divine.

'Tis thine alone to calm the pious breast
With silent confidence and holy rest;

From thee, great God! we spring, to thee we tend,
Path, motive, guide, original, and end!"

See Boswell, vol. i. p. 154.]

(4) [He was born at Lucca, and died at Rome in 1626.]

(5) ["Non avendo candele per inscrivere i suoi versi."]

and it is certain, that the famous Camoëns ended his days in a hospital.(1)

If we turn to France, we shall there find even stronger instances of the ingratitude of the public. Vaugelas, one of the politest writers, and one of the honestest men of his time, was surnamed the Owl, from his being obliged to keep within all day, and venture out only by night, through fear of his creditors. His last will is very remarkable. After having bequeathed all his worldly substance to the discharging his debts, he goes on thus: "but as there still may remain some creditors unpaid, even after all that I have shall have been disposed of, in such a case, it is my last will, that my body should be sold to the surgeons to the best advantage, and that the purchase should go to the discharging those debts which I owe to society; so that if I could not, while living, at least when dead, I may be useful.(2)

Cassandre was one of the greatest geniuses of his time, yet all his merit could not procure him a bare subsistence. Being by degrees driven into a hatred of all mankind, from the little pity he found amongst them, he even ventured at last ungratefully to impute his calamities to Providence. In his last agonies, when the priest entreated him to rely on the justice of heaven, and ask mercy from him that made him— "If God," replies he, "has shewn me no justice here, what reason have I to expect any from him hereafter ?" But being answered, that a suspension of justice was no argument that should induce us to doubt of its reality; "let me intreat

(1) [“ Camoëns, whose best years had been devoted to the service of his country, and who had taught her literary fame to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, was compelled to wander through the streets, a wretched dependent on casual contribution, and died in an alms-house in 1579.”— Strangford.]

(2) [Vaugelas was born at Chambéry in 1585, and died at Paris in 1650, aged sixty-five years; thirty of which he devoted to his translation of Quintus Curtius. Biog. Univ.]

you," continued his confessor, "by all that is dear, to be reconciled to God, your father, your maker, and friend." "No," replied the exasperated wretch, "you know the manner in which he left me to live; and," pointing to the straw on which he was stretched, "you see the manner in which he leaves me to die! (1)

But the sufferings of the poet in other countries is nothing when compared to his distresses here; the names of Spencer and Otway, Butler and Dryden, are every day mentioned as a national reproach: some of them lived in a state of precarious indigence, and others literally died of hunger.

At present, the few poets of England no longer depend on the great for subsistence; they have now no other patrons but the public, and the public, collectively considered, is a good and a generous master. It is, indeed, too frequently mistaken as to the merits of every candidate for favour; but, to make amends, it is never mistaken long. A performance indeed may be forced for a time into reputation, but, destitute of real merit, it soon sinks; time, the touchstone of what is truly valuable, will soon discover the fraud, and an author should never arrogate to himself share of success, any till his works have been read at least ten years with satisfaction.

A man of letters at present, whose works are valuable, is perfectly sensible of their value. Every polite member of the community, by buying what he writes, contributes to reward him. The ridicule, therefore, of living in a garret, might have been wit in the last age, but continues such no longer, because no longer true. A writer of real merit now may easily be rich, if his heart be set only on fortune: and for those who have no merit, it is but fit that such should

(1) [François Cassandre, who translated Aristotle's Rhetoric into French, and died in 1695, was a man of very violent temper, and of imprudent conduct. He is thus described by Boileau:

"Je suis rustique et fier, et j'ai l'âme grossière."]

remain in merited obscurity. He may now refuse an invitation to dinner, without fearing to incur his patron's displeasure, or to starve by remaining at home. He may now venture to appear in company with just such clothes as other men generally wear, and talk even to princes with all the conscious superiority of wisdom. Though he cannot boast of fortune here, yet he can bravely assert the dignity of independence. Adieu.

LETTER LXXXV.

THE TRIFLING SQUABBLES OF STAGE-PLAYERS RIDICULED.

From the Same.

I have interested myself so long in all the concerns of this people, that I am almost become an Englishman. I now begin to read with pleasure of their taking towns or gaining battles, and secretly wish disappointment to all the enemies of Britain. Yet still my regard to mankind fills me with concern for their contentions. I could wish to see the disturbances of Europe once more amicably adjusted: I am an enemy to nothing in this good world but war; I hate fighting between rival states; I hate it between man and man; I hate fighting even between women.

I already informed you, that while Europe was at variance, we were also threatened from the stage with an irreconcileable opposition, and that our singing women were resolved to sing at each other to the end of the season. O my friend, those fears were just! They are not only determined to sing at each other to the end of the season, but what is worse, to sing the same song; and what is still more insupportable, to make us pay for hearing.

If they be for war, for my part, I should advise them to