For two years he lived in the great city poor and unknown.  He was in turn apothecary’s assistant, poor physician, proof-reader, usher in a “classical school,” and hack writer.  At last, almost discouraged, he decided to obtain if possible the position of factory surgeon on the Coromandel coast, in India.  He failed to get the place, and was also unsuccessful in his efforts to pass the examination at Surgeon’s Hall for the humble post of hospital mate.

At this point there was a turn in the tide of his fortunes.  While seeking employment as a physician, he had been engaged upon a work called Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe, and with its publication in 1759 his career as an author began.  His essays, which appeared in numerous magazines, brought him into further notice, especially a series collected later under the title, The Citizen of the World.  In 1764 he became a member of Dr. Johnson’s famous “Literary Club” that met at the “Turk’s Head.”  It was to Johnson that he once said, alluding to his heavy style,—­“If you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales.”  But there was no malice in this remark, for the doctor was one of his stanch friends.  Among the other nine original members of the club were Sir Joshua Reynolds, the artist, and Edmund Burke, the noted statesman.  Before long The Traveller and The Deserted Village gave Goldsmith a foremost place among the poets of the time, and The Vicar of Wakefield, published in 1776, brought him fame as a novelist.  This book remains to-day, after the lapse of nearly a century and a half, one of the most widely read of English novels.  Two comedies, The Good-natured Man and She Stoops to Conquer, complete the list of his well-known works, while he wrote many others that were enjoyed by his contemporaries.  He died of a fever at the age of forty-six, and was buried in the burial ground of the Temple Church.  Two years later a monument was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

This short sketch of Goldsmith’s life makes it clear that he lacked strength of character and was wanting also in practical wisdom.  Even after he became a successful author his extravagance kept him poor, and he died largely in debt.  Many stories are told illustrating his innocent vanity and the love of gay clothing which made him conspicuous even in an age of ruffled shirts and silver knee-buckles.  One of his biographers describes him as arriving at a friend’s house where he was to dine, “with his new wig, with his coat of Tyrian bloom and blue silk breeches, with a smart sword at his side, his gold-headed cane in his hand, and his hat under his elbow.”  But while he had more than his share of weaknesses, it must be granted that “e’en his failings leaned to Virtue’s side.”  He was sensitive, open-hearted, generous, and kindly—­always ready to help those less fortunate than himself.