He was dunned for
his milk-score, arrested for rent, threatened by lawyers, but never
learnt the wisdom of economy. In the same month in which the second
edition of his "Vicar of Wakefield" was published, his bill of fifteen
guineas, drawn on Newbery, was returned dishonoured. When he was
figuring at Boswell's dinner in Old Bond Street in the "ratteen suit
lined with satin, and bloom-coloured silk breeches," the clothes
belonged to his tailor, and remained unpaid till his death.
Prosperity increased his difficulties rather than diminished them; the
more money he had, the more thoughtless and lavish was his expenditure.
He could refuse no indulgence, either to himself or others. He would
borrow a guinea and give it to a beggar. He would give the clothes off
his back, and the blankets off his bed. He could refuse nobody. To meet
his thoughtless expenditure, he raised money by promising to write books
which he never began. He was perpetually discounting to-morrow, and
mortgaging an estate already overburthened. Thus he died, as he had
begun, poor, embarrassed, and in debt. At his death he owed over two
thousand pounds: "Was ever poet," says Johnson, "so trusted before?"
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.
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