1749. He has escaped one scene of misery; another is awaiting Et. 21. him; and what possibilities of happiness lie in the interval, it is his nature to seize and make the most of. He assists his brother Henry in the school; runs household errands for his mother, as if he were still what the village gossips called him, "Master Noll;"* writes scraps of verse to please his uncle Contarine; and, to please himself, gets cousin Bryanton and Tony Lumpkins of the district, with wandering bear-leaders of genteeler sort, to meet at an old inn by his mother's house, and be a club for story-telling, for an occasional game of whist, and for the singing of songs. First in these accomplishments, great at Latin quotations, as admirer of happy human faces greatest of all, Oliver presides. Cousin Bryanton had seen his disgrace in college, and thinks this a triumph indeed. So seems it to the hero of the triumph, on whose taste and manners, still only forming as yet in these sudden and odd extremes, many an * I subjoin a curious passage from Mr. Shaw Mason's volume already quoted, in which what appears to be a misstatement of dates is either to be explained by supposing that the entries as to "Master Noll" refer to a period before the family had removed from Lissoy, or by the suggestion in the text that the young bachelor of arts still ran the errands of his boyhood, and retained its familiar name. "The "writer of this account purchased some old books a few years ago, at an auction in 66 Ballymahon; and among them an account-book, kept by a Mrs. Edwards, and a "Miss Sarah Shore, who lived in the next house to Mrs. Goldsmith. In this 'village record, were several shop accounts from the year 1740 to 1756. Some "of the entries in the earliest of these accounts ran thus ;-Tea by Master Noll— "Cash by ditto;'-from which it appears, that the young poet was then perhaps his "mother's only messenger. One of the accounts, in 1756, may be considered a "statistical curiosity, ascertaining the use and price of green tea in this part of "the country, sixty years ago." (Mr. Mason wrote in 1818.) amusing shade of contrast must have fallen in after-life, from 1749. the storms of Wilder's class-room and the sunshine of Et. 21. George Conway's inn. Thus the two years passed. In the day-time occupied, as I have said, in the village school; on the winter nights, at Conway's; and, in the evenings of summer, taking solitary walks among the rocks and wooded islands of the Inny, strolling up its banks to fish or play the flute, otter-hunting by the course of the Shannon, learning French from the Irish priests, or winning a prize for throwing the sledge-hammer at the fair of Ballymahon.* "A lady who died "lately in this neighbourhood, and who was well acquainted "with Mrs. Goldsmith, mentioned that it was one of Oliver's "habits to sit in a window of his mother's lodgings, and amuse "himself by playing the flute."t Two sunny years, with sorrowful affection long remembered; storing up his mind with many a thought and fancy turned to profitable use in after-life, but hardly better than his college course to help him through the world. So much even occurred to himself when eight years were gone, and, in the outset of his London distresses, he turned back with wistful looks to Ireland. "Unaccountable fondness for country, this Maladie du Pais, as the French call it!" he exclaimed, writing to his brother-in-law Hodson. Unaccountable that he should still have an affection for a place who never received when in it above common civility; "who never brought anything out of it except his brogue 66 66 66 * "A blacksmith, who boasted to the rev. Mr. Handcock of having taught him "the art, still survived about the year 1787." Prior, i. 116. + Shaw Mason, iii. 358. "Those who have walked in an evening by the sedgy sides of unfrequented "rivers, must remember a variety of notes from different water-fowl; the loud scream of the wild goose, the croaking of the mallard, the whining of the lapwing, "and the tremulous neighing of the jack snipe. But of all these sounds, there is 1749. Æt. 21. "and his blunders. Surely my affection is equally ridiculous "with the Scotchman's, who refused to be cured of the itch "because it made him unco' thoughtful of his wife and bonny Inverary. But to be serious, let me ask myself "what gives me a wish to see Ireland again? The country "is a fine one perhaps? No. There are good company in "Ireland? No. The conversation there is generally made "up of a smutty toast or a bawdy song; the vivacity "supported by some humble cousin, who has just folly 66 66 enough to earn his dinner. Then perhaps there's more wit "and learning among the Irish? Oh, lord! no! There "has been more money spent in the encouragement of the "Padareen mare there one season, than given in rewards "to learned men since the times of Usher. All their "productions in learning amount to perhaps a translation, or a few tracts in divinity; and all their productions in "wit, to just nothing at all. Why the plague then so "fond of Ireland! Then all at once, because you, my dear "friend, and a few more, who are exceptions to the general "picture, have a residence there. This it is that gives me "all the pangs I feel in separation. I confess I carry this spirit sometimes to the souring the pleasures I at present possess." And perhaps still more of the secret escaped without his knowledge, when, in that same year, he was writing to a more intimate friend. "I have disappointed your "neglect," he said to Bryanton, "by frequently thinking 66 none so dismally hollow as the booming of the bittern . . . I remember in the place "where I was a boy, with what terror this bird's note affected the whole village." Animated Nature (Ed. 1816), iv. 316-18. "Among thy glades, a solitary guest, "The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest." Deserted Village. Percy Memoir, 42, 43. The rest of the letter is printed post, Book II. Chap. ii. "of you. Every day do I remember the calm anecdotes 1750. “of your life, from the fireside to the easy chair: recal Et. 22. "the various adventures that first cemented our friend 66 ship the school, the college, or the tavern: preside "in fancy over your cards: and am displeased at your bad "play when the rubber goes against you, though not with "all that agony of soul as when I once was your partner." Let the truth then be confessed: and that it was the careless idleness of fire-side and easy chair, that it was the tavern excitement of the game at cards, to which Goldsmith so wistfully looked back from those first hard London struggles. It is not an example I would wish to inculcate; nor is this narrative written with that purpose. To try any such process for the chance of another Goldsmith would be a somewhat dangerous attempt. The truth is important to be kept in view that genius, representing as it does the perfect health and victory of the mind, is in no respect allied to these weaknesses, but, when unhappily connected with them, is in itself a means to avert their most evil consequence. Of the associates of Goldsmith in these happy, careless years, perhaps not one emerged to better fortune, and many sank to infinitely worse. "Pray give my love to Bob Bryanton, and entreat him from me, not to drink," is a passage from one of his later letters to his brother Henry. The habit of drinking he never suffered to overmaster himself; if the love of gaming to some trifling extent continued, it was at least the origin of many thoughts that may have saved others from like temptation;-and if these irregular early years unsettled him for the pursuits his friends would have had him follow, and sent him wandering, with no pursuit, to mix among the poor and happy of other lands, it is very certain + See post, Book II. Chap. v. 66 See post, Book II. Chap. iii. 1750. that he brought back some secrets both of poverty and Et. 22. happiness which were worth the finding, and, having paid for his errors by infinite personal privation, turned all the rest to the comfort and instruction of the world. There is a providence that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will; and to charming issues did the providence of Goldsmith's genius shape these rough-hewn times. What it received in mortification or grief, it gave back in cheerful humour or whimsical warning. It was not alone that it made him wise enough to know what infirmities he had, but it gave him the rarer wisdom of turning them to entertainment and to profit. Through the pains and obstructions of his childhood, through the uneasy failures of his youth, through the desperate struggles of his manhood, it lighted him to those last uses of experience and suffering which have given him an immortal name. And let it be observed, that this Ballymahon idleness could lay claim to a certain activity in one respect. It was always cheerful; and this is no unimportant part of education, if heart and head are to go together. It will be well, indeed, when habits of cheerfulness are as much a part of formal instruction as habits of study; and when the foolish argument will be heard no longer, that these things are in nature's charge, and may be left exclusively to her. Nature asks help and culture in all things; and will even yield to their solicitation, what would otherwise lie utterly unknown. It was an acute remark of Goldsmith's, in respect to literary efforts, that the habit of writing will give a man justness of thinking; and that he may get from it a mastery of manner, which holiday writers, though with ten times his genius, will find it difficult to equal.* It is the same in temper as in * See post, Book II. Chap. iv. |