In the 19th century, a popular book for girls was The Vicar of Wakefield. Alcott mentions it several times being a favorite of Jo's in Little Women. One wonders how a teenager would find it today. This tale, one of the frequent "snapshots" of noted people that appeared in the magazine, involves the author of that novel.Among the horses which one would like to own, I fancy that the steed which Oliver Goldsmith once refused to accept would be considered a treasure. The story that is connected with it is a true one, and for that reason is as worthy of being repeated as any tale of knighthood.
Poor "Goldy," as he was fondly nicknamed later in life, did not look much like a knight. Short of stature, with a homely face deeply scarred by the smallpox, awkward in his manners and movements, he would have made but a sorry figure in the lordly tournament or at a royal banquet. And yet he had within him not a little of the knightly spirit. Generous to a fault, daring even to foolhardiness, tenderhearted, impulsive—he was just the kind of man to ride through the world, seeking adventures, and risking his life in defense of the helpless and innocent. Had he lived in the days of chivalry, he would doubtless have been, in spite of his ugliness and ungainliness, a famous knight errant.
It is possible that when he rode into the Irish seaport of Cork, one fine morning nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, he had some very knightly thoughts in his mind. He was mounted on a handsome steed; he was clad, if not in armor, in the gayest suit of clothes that his tailor could be persuaded to make for him; he had thirty pounds of his own earnings in his pocket; and he was bound for America, a country in which there was still plenty of room for knightly prowess. His mother and his friends, whom he had left behind in the poor little village of Lissoy, knew nothing of his whereabouts. He was not at all disturbed by the fact that he had sadly disappointed all their hopes; for would they not hear of his success in the New World, and be proud of him?
Oliver had but lately completed a rather wild and irregular course of study in college, and his kinsfolk had insisted that he should become a country parson, as his poor father had been before him. He felt his unfitness for such a calling, but he cared less for that than for some of the irksome restraints that it would impose. For instance, he could not bear the thought of being obliged to wear a long wig when he preferred a short one, or of being always dressed in a black coat when one of bright colors suited his fancy so much better. He had frankly told his relatives that he preferred pretty clothes to the hard lot of a poor parson; and yet, as neither he nor they could think of any other business for which he was better fitted, he at last consented to apply for holy orders. But when the time came for him to go to the Bishop of Elphin to be ordained, he could not resist the temptation to wear a pair of beautiful scarlet breeches with long hose and the brightest buckles. For would he not become a parson to-morrow, and be forever afterward condemned to sober black? The good bishop was horrified at such levity, and refused to ordain him. Perhaps upon examination he found that the young man was entirely ignorant of the catechism. This failure of Oliver's had been much less of a disappointment to him than to his friends. But as he was now twenty-three years old, and his mother was very poor, it was highly necessary that he should find something to do. And so he had found employment as a private tutor in a wealthy family near Lissoy. From his pupils' point of view, he was, no doubt, an accomplished and successful teacher. He was only a great boy himself, and life would have been one long holiday to everybody if he could have had his own way. But his way did not please his employer, and finally, after a quarrel for which Oliver was doubtless to blame, he was dismissed. The money which he had earned at tutoring, however, was sufficient to equip him as a knight errant, for it enabled him to buy the horse and the splendid new suit of clothes with which, as I have said, he rode one fine morning into the city of Cork.
To his great satisfaction he found a ship already in port waiting only for favorable winds to sail for America. He lost no time, therefore, in selling his horse and in making a bargain with the captain for his passage to the New World. Then he sallied out to see the town. He had no difficulty in making friends; for he had money in his pocket, and he proceeded to share it with all the beggars and street loafers that he met. He was ready to relieve every case of distress that came to his notice, and many were the boon fellows whom he helped to entertain at the tavern. Several days were passed in this way, and the thirty pounds in his pocket had dwindled to but little more than thirty shillings; and still the ship, upon one pretext or another, delayed its sailing. One fine night, however, while Oliver was in the country enjoying himself with some newly made acquaintances, a favorable wind sprang up, and the captain, entirely neglectful of his passenger, ordered the vessel to be cast loose from her moorings and the sails to be set for the voyage. And in the morning, when Oliver sauntered leisurely down to the wharf, he found that he had been left behind.
It was lucky for the world that it happened so. For had Oliver been carried to America, our literature might never have known that most charming of stories, The Vicar of Wakefield, nor those rare, delightful poems, "The Traveller" and "The Deserted Village"—works which will keep green the name and fame of Oliver Goldsmith as long as the English language endures.
Oliver was one of those happy beings to whom all disappointments are light, and he did not greatly mind being left behind. Finding himself at last with but two guineas in his pocket, he began to bethink him of how he was to return to his good mother at Lissoy. To make so long a journey on foot was out of the question, and so after some bargaining he bought a wretched little pony—ill fed and very lean—whom he named "Fiddleback"; finding thereafter that he had just five shillings left. This, as he afterward told his mother, was but a scanty allowance for man and steed for a journey of above a hundred miles; but he counted on finding plenty of friends along the road. As he ambled out of Cork, mounted on poor Fiddleback, his fine suit of clothes a good deal the worse for the three weeks of careless living which they had seen, he would hardly have been recognized as the gay young fellow who had entered the city so proudly only a short time before. But he was none the less happy; for the sun shone as brightly as ever, and Fiddleback was really a much better nag than one might have supposed.
When but a few miles out from the city, Oliver was hailed by a poor woman at the roadside, who besought him for the love of God to give her alms. She said that her husband had been imprisoned for debt, and that her eight children were starving, and that the landlord was even then on his way to turn them out of doors. The young man could never listen to a tale of distress without being touched with pity, and he hastily drew his money from his pocket, and emptied the half of it into the woman's hand. He had hardly gone a hundred yards, however, when he began to feel sorry that he had not given her all of it; for he remembered that the home of one of his college friends was only five or six miles away and he felt sure that when he arrived there, all his wants would be supplied and his purse replenished.
But—alas for those who put their trust in human kindness!—Oliver's quondam friend gave him but a sorry welcome. Scarcely a mouthful of food did he offer him, and when Oliver told him of the straits into which he was fallen, he gave him but little sympathy.
"Let me see," said he. "You are now, as you say, nearly a hundred miles from home, and you have only half a crown in your pocket. That sorry nag which you have ridden from Cork can barely make the journey in five days, even if his bones should hold together so long; and in the mean while you must have food and lodging, which cannot be obtained for less than double your money. Let me tell you what to do. Sell this Fiddleback, as you call him,—I have a friend who will pay a guinea for him,— then accept from me the present of a fine steed that will carry you home, not only in safety, but with really no expense."
Oliver asked to see the steed that was thus offered. His friend led him into his bed-room, and pulled out from beneath the bed a stout oak walking-stick, gnarled and knotty, which looked as if it had seen some little service.
"Here is the horse for you," said he. "Take him, and he will bear you to your mother's house without costing you a penny."
It was not often that Oliver allowed himself to become angry; but as he took the stick into his hands he was strongly tempted to try its strength on its owner's head. He forbore> however, and at last handed back the proffered gift, telling his friend that he would not deprive him of so fine a steed, nor indeed remain in his house another hour.
A week later Oliver's mother was astonished to see him ride into her yard at Lissoy, astride of Fiddleback. Both man and steed were forlorn, bedraggled, half starved; but Oliver was happier even than he had been at the beginning of his knight-errantry.
What finally became of Fiddleback, or of that other horse so ungenerously offered and so promptly refused, nobody knows. But of all the horses that I should like to own there is none that would please me more than the stout oak stick, the memory of which has been preserved by this adventure of the author of The Vicar of Wakefield.
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