entered into engagements for writing his histories of Rome, Greece, and England.

Two years after, he appeared the second time as a dramatic author, and with very great success. Dr. Johnson said of "She Stoops to Conquer," that he knew of no comedy for many years that had so much exhilarated an audience, and had answered the great end of comedy-making an audience merry. One of his last publications was a " History of the Earth, and Animated Nature," which appeared in 1774, and for which he received the sum of eight hundred and fifty pounds; but such was his improvidence that his money was gone almost as soon as received. A tale of distress would take from him his last penny. His affairs, in consequence, became very much deranged; and his circumstances, preying upon his mind, are supposed to have accelerated his death, which occurred on the 4th of April, 1774.

"Thus terminated the life of an admirable writer and estimable man at the early age of forty-five, when his powers were in full vigor, and much was to be expected from their exertion. The shock to his friends appears to have been great from the unexpected loss of one whose substantial virtues, with all his foibles and singularities, they had learned to value. Burke, on hearing it, burst into tears; Sir Joshua Reynolds relinquished painting for the day,-a very unusual forbearance; and Dr. Johnson, though little prone to exhibit strong emotions of grief, felt most sincerely on this occasion." Three months afterward he thus wrote to Boswell: "Of poor dear Dr. Goldsmith there is little to be told more than the papers have made public. He died of a fever, I am afraid more violent from uneasiness of mind. He had raised money and squandered it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But let not his frailties be remembered: he was a very great man."2

To the merits of Goldsmith, as a writer, the testimony of critics almost innumerable might be adduced. But the following few lines from an admirable article by Sir Walter Scott, will suffice: "The wreath of Goldsmith is unsullied; he wrote to exalt virtue and expose vice; and he accomplished his task in a manner which raises him to the highest rank among British authors. We close his volume with a sigh, that such an author should have written so little from the stores of his own genius, and that he should have so prematurely been removed from the sphere of literature which he so highly adorned."3

1 Prior, vol. ll. p. 519.

2 "Here Fancy's favorite, Goldsmith, sleeps;
The Dunces smile, but Johnson weeps."

St. James's Chronicle, April 7, 1774.

3 Read-the article on Goldsmith in the 3d vol. of Scott's Prose Works: also, another in the 57th vol. of Quarterly Review: also life, in Mrs. Barbauld's "Lives of the British Novelists:" also, Life and Works by Prior, 6 vols., one of the most valuable contributions to English literature of the present century. In Boswell's Johnson, Goldsmith is frequently mentioned, but not in such a manner as to do any justice to his character. How could it be expected from such a man? When the work was first published, Burke, much displeased that Goldsmith should be so undervalued in it, remarked to a lady: "What rational opinion, my dear madam, could you expect a lawyer to give of a poet?' Wilkes improved upon this, and remarked at a dinner, "A Scotch lawyer and an Irish poet I hold to be about as opposite as the antipodes." Sir Joshua Reynolds also expressed his decided dissent from Boswell's opinions; and George Stevens, in his usual sarcastic spirit, remarked, "Why, sir, it is not unusual for a man who has much genius to be censured by one who has none." And Sir Walter Scott remarked, "I wonder why Boswell so often displays a malevolent feeling towards Goldsmith. Rivalry for Johnson's good graces, perhaps." That Johnson's opinion was most favorable to Goldsmith, Boswell's own book testifies. Hear him: "Goldsmith was a man who, whatever ae wrote, did it better than any other man could do. He deserved a place in Westminster Abbey; and every

ITALY.

Far to the right where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends;

Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;

While oft some temple's mouldering tops between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast,

The sons of Italy were surely blest.

Whatever fruits in different climes were found,
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign;
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
And e'en in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,

That opulence departed leaves behind;

For wealth was theirs, nor far removed the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state;
At her command the palace learn'd to rise,
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies;
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form:
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail;
While naught remain'd of all that riches gave,
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave;
And late the nation found with fruitless skill
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;
Processions form'd for piety and love,

A mistress or a saint in every grove.

By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,
The sports of children satisfy the child;'

year he lived he would have deserved it more." Again: "Whether, indeed, we take him as a poet,

as a comic writer, or as an historian, he stands in the first class."

1 Either Sir Joshua Reynolds, or some other friend who communicated the story to him, calling one

Each nobler aim, represt by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind:

As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway,
Defaced by time and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

The Traveller.

FRANCE.

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy sportive choir,

With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire!
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flow;
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.'

Alike all ages.
Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:

Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honor forms the social temper here:
Honor, that praise which real merit gains

Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,

Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:

day at Goldsmith's lodgings, opened the door without ceremony, and discovered him, not in meditation, or in the throes of poetic birth, but in the boyish office of teaching a favorite dog to sit upright upon its launches, or, as it is commonly said, to beg. Occasionally he glanced his eyes over his desk, and occasionally shook his finger at the unwilling pupil, in order to make him retain his position; while on the page before him was written that couplet, with the ink of the second line still wet, from the description of Italy:

"By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,

The sports of children satisfy the child."

The sentiment seemed so appropriate to the employment, that the visitor could not refrain from giving vent to his surprise in a strain of banter, which was received with characteristic good humor, and the admission at once made, that the amusement in which he had been engaged had given birth to the idea.

1 "I had some knowledge of music," says George Primrose, in the Vicar of Wakefield,' " with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to be very merry; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes; and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day."

From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;

They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.1
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise;

For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year;
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.

The Traveller.

BRITAIN.

My genius spreads her wing,

And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide;
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on every spray;
Creation's mildest charms are there combined,
Extremes are only in the master's mind!
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by;
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,

By forms unfashion'd fresh from Nature's hand;
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,

True to imagined right above control,

While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here,
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;
'Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy,
But foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy;
That independence Britons prize too high,

Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,

All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown;
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd.

1 There is, perhaps, no couplet in English rhyme more perspicuously condensed than those two Unes of The Traveller,' in which the author describes the at once flattering, vain, and happy cha racter of the French "-Campbell.

2" We talked of Goldsmith's Traveller,' of which Dr. Johnson spoke highly; and, while I was helping him on with his greatcoat, he repeatedly quoted from it the character of the British nation which he did with suc nergy that the tear started in his eye."--Boswell's Johnson.

Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round her shore,
Till over-wrought, the general system feels
Its motions stop, or phirensy fire the wheels.

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms,
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die.

The Traveller.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd:
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won

Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd