A young fellow sitting near me offered a little Goldsmith information, then a woman on the other side did the same, and the old man who had recited suggested that we go over and see the alehouse “where the justly celebhrated Docther Goldsmith so often played his harp so feelin’ly.”  So we adjourned to The Three Jolly Pigeons—­a dozen of us, including the lovers, whom I personally invited.

“And did Oliver Goldsmith really play his harp in this very room?” I asked.

“Aye, indade he did, yer honor, an’ ef ye don’t belave it, ye kin sit in the same chair that was his.”

So they led me to the big chair that stood on a little raised platform, and I sat in the great oaken seat which was surely made before Goldsmith was born.  Then we all took ale (at my expense).  The lovers sat in one corner, drinking from one glass, and very particular to drink from the same side, and giggling to themselves.

The old man wanted to again recite “The Deserted Village,” but was forcibly restrained.  And instead, by invitation of himself, the landlord sang a song composed by Goldsmith, but which I have failed to find in Goldsmith’s works, entitled, “When Ireland Is Free.”  There were thirteen stanzas in this song, and a chorus and refrain in which the words of the title are repeated.  After each stanza we all came in strong on the chorus, keeping time by tapping our glasses on the tables.

Then we all drank perdition to English landlords, had our glasses refilled, and I was called on for a speech.  I responded in a few words that were loudly cheered, and the very good health of “the ’Merican Nobleman” was drunk with much fervor.

The Three Jolly Pigeons is arranged exactly to the letter: 

    “The whitewashed walls, the nicely sanded floor,
    The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
    The chest contrived a doubly debt to pay,
    A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
    The pictures placed for ornament and use,
    The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.”

And behold, there on the wall behind the big oak chair are “the twelve good rules.”

The next morning I saw the modest mansion of the village preacher “whose house was known to all the vagrant train,” then the little stone church, and beyond I came to the blossoming furze, unprofitably gay, where the village master taught his little school.  A bright young woman teaches there now, and it is certain that she can write and cipher too, for I saw “sums” on the blackboard, and I also saw where she had written some very pretty mottoes on the wall with colored chalk, a thing I am sure that Paddy Byrne never thought to do.

Below the schoolhouse is a pretty little stream that dances over pebbles and untiringly turns the wheel in the old mill; and not far away I saw the round top of Knockrue hill, where Goldsmith said he would rather sit with a book in hand than mingle with the throng at the court of royalty.