Thus, from town to town, from village to village, Goldsmith wandered, until at the end of a year he found himself back among his countrymen, penniless and alone in London streets.

Here we have glimpses of him, a sorry figure in rusty black and tarnished gold, his pockets stuffed with papers, now assisting in a chemist’s shop, now practicing as a doctor among those as poor as himself, now struggling to get a footing in the realm of literature, now passing his days miserably as an usher in a school.  At length he gained more or less constant work in writing magazine articles, reviews, and children’s books.  By slow degrees his name became known.  He met Johnson and became a member of his famous club.  It is said that the first time those two great men met Johnson took special care in dressing himself.  He put on a new suit of clothes and a newly powdered wig.  When asked by a friend why he was so particular he replied, “Why, sir, I hear that Goldsmith is a very great sloven, and justifies his disregard for cleanliness and decency by quoting my example.  I wish this night to show him a better example.”  But although Goldsmith was now beginning to be well known, he still lived in poor lodgings.  He had only one chair, and when a visitor came he was given the chair while Oliver sat on the window ledge.  When he had money he led an idle, easy life until it was spent.  He was always generous.  His hand was always open to help others, but he often forgot to pay his just debts.  At length one day his landlady, finding he could not pay his rent, arrested him for debt.

In great distress Goldsmith wrote to Johnson begging him to come to his aid.  Johnson sent him a guinea, promising to come to him as soon as possible.  When Johnson arrived at Goldsmith’s lodging, “I perceived,” he says, “that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him.  I put the cork into the bottle, desired him to be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated.  He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me.  I looked into it, and saw its merits, told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to a bookseller sold it for sixty pounds.  I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in high tone for having used him so ill.”

The novel which thus set Goldsmith free for the moment was the famous Vicar of Wakefield.  “There are an hundred faults in this thing,” says Goldsmith himself, and if we agree with him there we also agree with him when he goes on to say, “and an hundred things might be said to prove them beauties.  But it is needless.  A book may be amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity.  The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest characters upon earth:  he is a priest, an husbandman, and the father of a family.  He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready to obey:  as simple in affluence, and majestic in adversity.”  When we have made the acquaintance of the Vicar we find ourselves the richer for a lifelong friend.  His gentle dignity, his simple faith, his sly and tender humor, all make us love him.