Uncle Contarine. The old flute playing was resumed, and there are traditions that he occupied his leisure in the confection of more or less amatory lyrics for his "Cousin Con's " edification. But the time was fast approaching when he was to quit his Irish home for

ever.

One of his relatives, a certain Dean Goldsmith of Cloyne, whose remarks were regarded in the family as oracular, occasionally visited Mr. Contarine, and this gentleman, struck by something that dropped from his young kinsman, was pleased to declare that he "would make an excellent medical man." This deliverance being considered decisive, another purse was contributed by Oliver's uncle, brother, and sister, and in the autumn of 1752 he set out once more to seek his elusive fortune. Upon this occasion he reached his destination, which was Edinburgh. His arrival there was nevertheless distinguished by a characteristic adventure. Having engaged a lodging, he set out at once to view the city, but having omitted to make any inquiries as to the name and locality of his new home, he was unable to find it again, and, but for an accidental meeting with the porter who had carried his baggage, must have begun his stay in Scotland with a fresh misfortune.

On January 13, 1753, he became a member of the Medical Society of Edinburgh, a voluntary association of the students, and he seems to have attended the lectures of Alexander Monro, the Professor of Anatomy, and of others. But the record of his social qualities, his tale-telling and his singing, is richer than the record of his studies. His first known piece of verse, exclusive of

the Æsop couplet, is an epigram called "The Clown's Reply," dated "Edinburgh, 1753"; and one or two of his letters to his friends have survived. He was not a willing letter-writer. "An hereditary indolence (I have it from the mother's side) has hitherto prevented my writing to you," he says to Bob Bryanton, "and still prevents my writing at least twenty-five letters more, due to my friends in Ireland. No turnspit-dog gets up into his wheel with more reluctance than I sit down to write; yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns better than I do him I now address." But already he exhibits that delightful narrative ease which distinguishes "The Citizen of the World," from which the following, with its glimpse of the fair and hapless Duchess of Hamilton, once Miss Elizabeth Gunning, might be an extract :—

"We have no such character here as a coquet, but alas! how many envious prudes! Some days ago, I walked into my Lord Kilcoubry's [Kirkcudbright's] (don't be surprised, my lord is but a glover 1) when the Duchess of Hamilton (that fair who sacrificed her beauty to her ambition, and her inward peace to a title and gilt equipage) passed by in her chariot; her battered husband, or more properly, the guardian of her charms, sat by her side. Straight envy began, in the shape of no less than three ladies who sat with me, to find faults in her faultless form. For my part,' says the first, 'I think, what I always thought, that the duchess has too.

"William Maclellan," says Prior, "who claimed the title, and whose son succeeded in establishing the claim in 1773.”

much of the red in her complexion.' 'Madam, I am of your opinion,' says the second; 'I think her face has a palish cast, too much on the delicate order.' 'And let me tell you,' added the third lady, whose mouth was puckered up to the size of an issue, 'that the Duchess has fine lips, but she wants a mouth.' At this every lady drew up her mouth as if going to pronounce the letter P."

One wonders whether Dickens recalled this passage, when he drew that delightful mistress of the proprieties, who expatiated upon the inestimable advantages to the feminine lips of habitually pronouncing such words as "prunes" and "prism." In two more letters Goldsmith writes affectionately to his Uncle Contarine of his professors and occupations, of a month's tour in the Highlands on a horse "of about the size of a ram," and so forth. But he is already restlessly meditating another move, he proposes to go to Leyden to attend the lectures of Albinus. From the latter of these two epistles, his uncle's consent has been obtained, and he is preparing to start, not for Leyden but for Paris, "where the great Mr. Farhein, Petit, and Du Hamel du Monceau instruct their pupils in all the branches of medicine." "They speak French" [i.e., in contradistinction to the Latin of other continental professors], he goes on, "and consequently I shall have much the advantage of most of my countrymen, as I am perfectly acquainted with that language, and few who leave Ireland are so." From another passage in this letter," he would seem to have been for some time an inmate

of, or rather visitor at, the Duke of Hamilton's house, but the allusion is obscure.

With these letters, and what of instruction may be extracted from a set of tailor's bills recovered by Forster, which show that "Mr. Oliver Goldsmith, Student," was helping to confirm the Elphin story of the red breeches by indulging in such "peacock's feathers" as "silver Hatt-Lace," "rich Sky-Blew sattin," "Genoa velvett" and "best sfine high Clarett-colour'd Cloth" at 19s. a yard, the record of his stay in the Scottish capital, as far as it can be chronicled in these pages, comes to an end. But he was not to quit the country, nor indeed to leave Edinburgh, without further adventures. His departure, according to the Percy Memoir, was all but prevented by his arrest for a debt contracted as surety for a friend. From this bondage, however, he was released by two college associates, Mr. Lauchlan Macleane and Dr. Sleigh. His subsequent experiences must be related in his own words to his Uncle Contarine, written from "Madame Diallion's, at Leyden," a few weeks later. "Sometime after the receipt of your last," he says, "I embarked for Bourdeaux, on board a Scotch ship called the St. Andrews, Capt. John Wall, master. The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as another inducement, I was let to know that six agreeable passengers were to be in my company. Well, we were but two days at sea when a storm drove us into a city of England called Newcastle-upon-Tyne. We all went a-shore to refresh us after the fatigue of our voyage. Seven men and I were one day on shore, and on the following evening as we were all very merry, the room

door bursts open: enters a serjeant and twelve grenadiers with their bayonets screwed: and puts us all under the King's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the French service, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for the French army. I endeavoured all I could to prove my innocence; however, I remained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got off even then. Dear Sir, keep all this a secret, or at least say it was for debt; for if it were once known at the university, I should hardly get a degree. hear how Providence interposed in my favour the ship was gone on to Bourdeaux before I got from prison, and was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew was drowned. It happened the last great storm. There was a ship at that time ready for Holland: I embarked, and in nine days, thank my God, I arrived safe at Rotterdam; whence I travelled by land to Leyden; and whence I now write."

:

But

As usual, a certain allowance must be made in this account for picturesque decoration. In the remainder of the letter he touches humourously on the contrast between the Dutch about him and the Scotch he has just left; describes the phlegmatic pleasures of the country, the ice-boats, and the delights of canal travelling. "They sail in covered boats drawn by horses," he says; "and in these you are sure to meet people of all nations. Here the Dutch slumber, the French chatter, and the English play at cards. Any man who likes company may have them to his taste. For my part, I generally detached myself from all society, and was wholly taken up in observing the face of the country. Nothing can