chambers a few friends, including some of the other sex. They had supper, and a dance followed. In the midst of the festivity Wilder burst in upon them. He assailed the master of the feast, first with coarse and violent vituperation, and then struck him. Such an insult, in the presence of his guests, was intolerable. Smarting under the degradation, the sensitive spirit of the trueborn gentleman could not endure to meet those in whose presence he was disgraced, He fled from college, and in a few days, when reduced to his last shilling, left the city for Cork, with the intention of going to America. We pass over the history of his sufferings. Starving and half naked, he at last made his way to his brother Henry, and finally was induced to return to college. The spring Commencements of 1749 terminated his college life, when he took his degree of B.A. on the 27th of February.* As he passed out for the last time through the wicket in that massive gate beside which he so often loitered, how little did he think that the time would come when he should stand there, in the mimic bronze, for ever-no loiterer now; friendless, nameless, neglected-but honoured and admired, one of the great names that fill all lands, and ennoble their own! There he awaits a day, not far distant, when on that vacant pedestal at the opposite side of the gate shall arise and rejoin him his great fellow-countryman, the friend of his later years, who had entered this very college the same year, and, like him, had found his fame in London, and became one of the lights of the world-Edmund Burke. But no such thought cheered the heart of the poor scholar as he made his way back to Ballymahon, to the humble lodgings of his straitened mother. He was now close to all afterwards fellow of the college. We need, therefore, scarcely doubt it." Prior, however, was unable to find any record of the fact, and there is little that has escaped his diligence. I have renewed the search with no better success, but with a stronger conviction that no such honour was obtained by Goldsmith. * Of this fact, inferentially proved by Prior, I have got direct evidence by the inspection of the Book of Registry of degrees, through the kindness of the Rev. Dr. Luby. The following is the entry :-"Die Februarii vicesimo septimo, 1749. Admissi ad gradum Baccalaureatus in Artibus." Then follow the names of the graduates, and amongst them that of "Oliverus Goldsmith." Wilder, his old enemy, was junior proctor, and so saw the first and last of him. "I perceive," writes Sir James Prior to me, "that you have been lately inaugurating his statue in Dublin. The fixing it there should have been done long before; but as it promises to be the precursor of other men of eminence, let us not quarrel now with the delay. A statue is, indeed, an admirable method of commemorating men of distinction. Seen daily or hourly in the streets, we cannot forget the personage. We do not shake hands with, but may gaze or glance at him; pause to recall some trait of character, or memorable incident of his life; and, perhaps, are tempted homeward to examine such of his pages (if an author) as throw new or additional interest over fame already well won.” I avail myself of this opportunity of giving to the public an inscription written by Sir James Prior for the pedestal of the statue of Goldsmith : "Where Genius dwelt and grew in Classic Halls, We proudly turn, as taste or learning calls; Pay to the gifted dead the honours due, And if we may, a kindred fame pursue. "Goldsmith! We greet thee here.-Away too long- the haunts of his early life, and gave way to his indolent and reckless habits. We find him wandering from the house of one friend to that of another— always careless, joyous, and convivial, and sharing in the athletic sports of the country; now lolling in the window of his mother's house, playing the flute, or composing verses; now at the club which he established at George Conway's inn, at Ballymahon, presiding amid uproarious mirth, and singing songs and playing cards; then he would stray by the river-side, to catch a trout or to hunt an otter; besides, he went, now and then, to help brother Henry, who had succeeded to his father's curacy, and earned his livelihood by the drudgery of a school, at the old house at Pallas. But all this time was not utterly wasted. Assuredly his mind was drawing in from the scenes around him, and from the incidents and associates of daily life, that which, "hived in his bosom like the bag o' the bee," he stored up to reproduce in later times in such exquisite sweetness. Two years thus spent, and Oliver is rising twentythree, with no occupation. His uncle Contarine proposes the family profession. He presents himself, after much persuasion, to the Bishop of Elphin for holy orders, and fails. Whether the defect was in the inner or outer man-ignorance of theology or a pair of scarlet breeches-posterity is never likely to know, nor will they ever regret the result. He next tries tutor-life in the family of a Mr. Flinn, of Roscommon. One can scarcely fancy an occupation more unsuitable and distasteful to him; and so, after a year of dependence, he suddenly terminated the connection (in consequence of a dispute at the card-table, says his sister Hodson), and in a few days after disappeared from his mother's house. Thirty pounds in his pocket and a good horse under him, he sallied forth, whither? Who knows? A strange account he gave of himself when, in six weeks after, he reappeared, penniless, bestriding a skeleton which he dubbed with the name of "Fiddleback." He went, he says, to Cork, sold his horse, took his passage to America in a ship which very improperly sailed while he was enjoying himself with his friends. When he had spent his time and all his money, except two guineas, he bought "Fiddleback," and turned his face towards home; divided his last crown with a poor woman; put up with a miserly old college friend for a day; changed his quarters to the house of a hospitable counsellor, with whose two sweet daughters, who played enchantingly on the harpsicord, he lingered day after day, till at last he reappeared at Ballymahon. The story, whether true or false, is told with much humour and sang-froid, and is certainly not inconsistent with Goldsmith's nature. Perhaps it was his first essay in novel writing-a reality or two for a foundation, and a picturesque superstruction of fiction. Uncle Contarine came to his aid, and, with inexhaustible liberality, supplied him with fifty pounds to go to London and study the law. Alas! Dublin lay in the route to London, as Cork did to America. Each was fatal to Oliver's destination. At Dublin he fell in with old acquaintances and old vices, and lost all his money at the gambling-table. There he remained, starving, mortified, and contrite, till at last he is invited back to the country. His mother, poor soul, was very angry, and would not for a time forgive him, and so he had to take refuge with his brother Henry. But what use was there in being angry with such a wayward being, who had absolutely no strength to resist temptation. Uncle Contarine was more practical: he forgave, and again was active in his service. A family council is called; what is to be done for him in the way of a profession? It is Hobson's choice; physic alone is left. And so they make a stock purse, uncle Contarine, as usual, contributing; and in 1752 he is sent to Edinburgh to commence his studies. What he gained by his medical studies there we know not; probably not much, if we are to judge from his professional attainments in after life. He attended lectures, and seems to have been fond of chemistry and natural history; he contracted some friendships, too, that stood to him in after life; but he was still the same hilarious, reckless, convivial fellow that sang songs and wrote them, too, and spent his money freely and foolishly, and dressed gaudily (as his tailor's bills discovered by Mr. Forster testify), just as at Dublin and Ballymahon. But he neither liked the country, the people, nor their habits, though he was sometimes in very good society. So after eighteen months' residence in Edinburgh, he embarked for Bordeaux, not without drawing on the inexhaustible Uncle Contarine. Here came new adventures. The vessel put in at Newcastle from stress of weather. Oliver goes on shore with some pleasant companions, "to refresh" themselves, as he mildly phrases it. In the midst of their tavern merriment one evening, they are arrested on suspicion of being French recruits, and are thrown into prison, whence he is liberated after a fortnight's durance. Happy arrest! the vessel had sailed on her voyage, but was wrecked, and all on board were drowned. He found a ship bound for Rotterdam, in which he safely arrived there, and thence made his way to Leyden. Here he remained a year: he says he studied; perhaps he did-not much of physic, but a good deal of men and manners. He got a little money by teaching English, but, improvident as ever, he was sometimes without the price of his dinner; and once, at all events, with his pockets filled by Fortune at the gambling-table, to be as speedily emptied by the fickle goddess the next evening. Restless as ever, the love of a vagrant life now came strong upon him. He would travel and see the world, and fill his mind with better knowledge than that of medicine. True, he had no money, but what of that? Others in like case had traversed Europe. Holberg had done so when younger than he, with nothing but his flute and his voice to help him along. Ah! this is the very thing for him. He can play touchingly on that old Ballymahon flute, and sing sweetly, as all his boon companions confess: he has a strong frame and a vigorous constitution, a light heart and an irrepressible spirit. What more is wanting? So away he trudges, in February, 1755, having first, with a generosity ludicrous, yet touching from its gratitude, spent nearly his last coin in a purchase of tulip roots for Uncle Contarine. We must ever regret that Goldsmith kept no record of his wanderings or his impressions. One has to track him in letters, which are scanty, and in characters and sentiments in his works, which are of no certain application. We get a view of him at Louvain, where it is said, on slight authority, that he got the degree of M.B.; then we get glimpses of him at Antwerp, and Brussels, and Maestricht, and so into France, now housed in some hospitable convent, now sheltered in a barn. Foot-sore, and weary, and hungry, it might be, the shades of evening often fell around him as he approached some peasant's humble homestead; then, he says, speaking in the character of George Primrose, but, doubtless, of himself, "I played one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day." Hard schooling that, but not without its pleasure and its profit--a deeper teaching into the inner nature, an experimental knowledge of the social relations of classes of humanity, as well as a closer intimacy with the physical charms of Nature. He learned to know that if the taste of the peasant was less refined than that of the peer, his heart was more tender, his hand more open to the unaccredited stranger; he found the strange, wise words of his great Master, that his good father had doubtless so often read for him when a boy, now verified-"Blessed are the poor." Yes, the poor were cheerful. "I ever found them," he says, "sprightly in proportion to their wants. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion, but they always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle." We find him next in the French capital, studying chemistry ostensibly, but studying life much more deeply in theatres and saloons, for somehow he appears to have made his way into society. From Paris to Switzerland, taking the route of Strasburgh and crossing the Rhine, he reaches Geneva, and there it was, doubtless, that he made the acquaintance of Voltaire, of whom he has given a clever and vivid sketch in a fragmentary memoir that records an evening spent at Les Delices. There is reason to believe that it was at Geneva that he joined, in the capacity of companion, a young wealthy and penurious Englishman, the very reverse of Goldsmith in everything. Such an ill-assorted union could not last long, so after crossing the Alps and entering Italy, they parted at Leghorn, the miser returning to England by long sea for cheapness, and Oliver, with the few pounds of his hard-earned salary, to push his way through Italy. Here, we suspect, his flute was of little use. "My skill in music," says the philosophic vagabond, "could avail me nothing in Italy, where |