The case of Goldsmith and others has been cited as instances of the harsh treatment of genius by the world, and in proof of the social disabilities of literary men and artists.  It has been held that society should be more indulgent to its men of genius, and that Government should do something more for them than it now does.  But nothing that society or Government could do for men of genius would be likely to prove of any service to them, unless they will do what other and less gifted men do,—­exhibit self-respect and practise ordinary economy.  We may pity poor Goldsmith, but we cannot fail to see that he was throughout his own enemy.  His gains were large, amounting to about L8,000 in fourteen years; representing a much larger sum of money at the present day.  For his “History of the Earth and Animated Nature” he received L850,—­and the book was, at best, but a clever compilation.  Johnson said of him that “if he can tell a horse from a cow, that is the extent of his knowledge of zoology.”  The representation of his “Good-natured Man” produced him L500.  And so on with his other works.  He was as successful as Johnson was; but then he had not Johnson’s sobriety, self-restraint, and self-respect.

Yet Goldsmith, in his thoughtful moments, knew the right path, though he had not the courage to pursue it.  In a letter to his brother Henry respecting the career of his son, Goldsmith wrote:  “Teach, my dear sir, to your son, thrift and economy.  Let his poor wandering uncle’s example be placed before his eyes.  I had learned from books to be disinterested and generous before I was taught from experience the necessity of being prudent.  I had contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, while I was exposing myself to the insidious approaches of cunning; and often by being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed myself in the very situation of the wretch who thanked me for my bounty.”

Byron had scarcely reached manhood when he became involved in debt.  Writing to Mr. Becher, in his twentieth year, he said, “Entre nous, I am cursedly dipped; my debts, everything inclusive, will be nine or ten thousand before I am twenty-one.”  On his coming of age, the festivities at Newstead were celebrated by means supplied by money-lenders at enormously usurious rates of interest.  His difficulties did not diminish, but only increased with time.  It is said that his mother’s death was occasioned by a fit of rage, brought on by reading the upholsterer’s bills.[1] When the first canto of “Childe Harold” was published, Byron presented the copyright to Mr. Dallas, declaring that he would never receive money for his writings,—­a resolution which he afterwards wisely abandoned.  But his earnings by literature at that time could not have lightened the heavy load of debt under which he staggered.  Newstead was sold, and still the load accumulated.  Then he married, probably in the expectation that his wife’s fortune would release him; but her money was locked up, and the step, instead of relieving him, brought only an accession of misery.  Every one knows the sad result of the union; which was aggravated by the increasing assaults of duns and sheriffs’ officers.