One can imagine Goldsmith running the whole gamut of possible jokes on Breakneck Stairs, and Green Arbor Court, which, by the way, was never green and where there was no arbor.

“I’ve been admitted to Court, gentlemen!” said Goldsmith proudly, one day at The Mitre Tavern.

“Ah, yes, Doctor, we know—­Green Arbor Court! and any man who has climbed Breakneck Stairs has surely achieved,” said Tom Davies.

In Seventeen Hundred Sixty, Goldsmith moved to Number Six Wine-Office Court, where he wrote the “Vicar of Wakefield.”  Boswell reports Doctor Johnson’s account of visiting him there: 

“I received, one morning, a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible.  I sent him a guinea and promised to come to him directly.  I accordingly went to him as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion.  I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had half a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him.  I put the cork in the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated.  He then told me he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced for me.  I looked into it and saw its merits; told the landlady I would soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds.  I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged the rent, not without rating his landlady for having used him so ill.”

For the play of “The Good-Natured Man” Goldsmith received five hundred pounds.  And he immediately expended four hundred in mahogany furniture, easy chairs, lace curtains and Wilton carpets.  Then he called in his friends.  This was at Number Two Brick Court, Middle Temple.  Blackstone had chambers just below, and was working as hard over his Commentaries as many a lawyer’s clerk has done since.  He complained of the abominable noise and racket of “those fellows upstairs,” but was asked to come in and listen to wit while he had the chance.

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: