THE kind of book which is most written and read nowadays is called a novel.  But we have not yet spoken much about this kind of book for until now there were no novels in our meaning of the word.  There were romances such as Havelok the Dane and Morte d’Arthur, later still tales such as those of Defoe, and the modern novel is the outcome of such tales and romances.  But it is usually supposed to be more like real life than a romance.  In a romance we may have giants and fairies, things beyond nature and above nature.  A novel is supposed to tell only of what could happen, without the help of anything outside everyday life.  This is a kind of writing in which the English have become very clever, and now, as I said, more novels than any other kinds of book are written.  But only a few of these are good enough to take a place in our literature, and very many are not worth reading or remembering at all.

The first real novel in the modern sense was written by Samuel Richardson, and published in 1740.  Quickly after that there arose several other novel writers whose books became famous.  These still stand high in the literature of our land, but as nothing in them would be interesting to you for many years to come we need not trouble about them now.  There is, however, one novel of this early time which I feel sure you would like, and of it and its author I shall tell you something.  The book I mean is called The Vicar of Wakefield, and it was written by Oliver Goldsmith.

Oliver Goldsmith was born in 1728 in Pallas, a little out-of-the-way Irish village.  His father was a clergyman and farmer, with a large family and very little money.  He was a dear, simple, kindly man.

    “A man he was to all the country dear,
    And passing rich with forty pounds a year.”

Two years after Oliver was born his father moved to Lissoy, another and better parish.  Little Oliver began to learn very early, but his first teacher thought him stupid:  “Never was there such a dull boy,” she said.  She managed, however, to teach him the alphabet, and at six he went to the village school of Lissoy.  Paddy Byrne, the master there, was an old soldier.  He had fought under Marlborough, he had wandered the world seeking and finding adventures.  His head was full of tales of wild exploits, of battles, of ghosts and fairies too, for he was an Irishman and knew and loved the Celtic lore.  Besides all this he wrote poetry.

To his schoolmaster’s stories little Oliver listened eagerly.  He listened, too, to the ballads sung by Peggy, the dairymaid, and to the wild music of the blind harper, Turlogh O’Carolan, the last Irish minstrel.  All these things sank into the heart of the shy, little, ugly boy who seemed so stupid to his schoolfellows.  He learned to read, and devoured all the romances and tales of adventure upon which he could lay hands, and in imitation of his schoolmaster he began to write poetry.