A new consultation was held among Goldsmith's friends as to his future course, and it was determined he should try the law. His uncle Contarine agreed to advance the necessary funds, and actually furnished him with fifty pounds, with which he set off for London, to enter on his studies at the Temple. Unfortunately, he fell in company at Dublin with a Roscommon acquaintance, one whose wits had been sharpened about town, who beguiled him into a gambling-house, and soon left him as penniless as when he bestrode the redoubtable Fiddle-back. He was so ashamed of this fresh instance of gross heedlessness and imprudence that he remained some time in Dublin without communicating to his friends his destitute condition. They heard of it, however, and he was invited back to the country, and indulgently forgiven by his generous uncle, but less readily by his mother, who was mortified and disheartened at seeing all her early hopes of him so repeatedly blighted. His brother Henry, too, began to lose patience at these successive failures, resulting from thoughtless indiscretion; and a quarrel took place, which for some time interrupted their usually affectionate intercourse. The only home where poor erring Goldsmith still received a welcome was the parsonage of his affectionate, forgiving uncle. Here he used to talk of literature with the good, simple-hearted man, and delight him and his daughter with his verses. Jane, his early playmate, was now the woman grown; their intercourse was of a more intellectual kind than formerly; they discoursed of poetry and music; she played on the harpsichord, and he accompanied her with his flute. The music may not have been very artistic, as he never performed but by ear; it had probably as much merit as the poetry, which, if we may judge by the following specimen, was as yet but juvenile: TO A YOUNG LADY ON VALENTINE'S DAY WITH THE DRAWING OF A HEART With submission at your shrine, Comes a heart your Valentine; From the side where once it grew, See it panting flies to you. Take it, fair one, to your breast, Soothe the fluttering thing to rest; Let the gentle, spotless toy, Be your sweetest, greatest joy; Every night when wrapp'd in sleep, Next your heart the conquest keep. Or if dreams your fancy move, Hear it whisper me and love; Then in pity to the swain, Who must heartless else remain, Soft as gentle dewy show'rs, Slow descend on April flow'rs; Soft as gentle riv'lets glide, Steal unnoticed to my side; If the gem you have to spare, Take your own and place it there.