Traveller. But time has not confirmed that judgment. Were it only that the field of contemplation in the Traveller is somewhat desultory, and that (as a later poet pointed out) its successor has an endearing locality, and introduces us to beings with whom the imagination is ready to contract a friendship, the higher place must be given to the Deserted Village. Goethe tells us the transport with which the circle he now lived in hailed it, when they found themselves once more as in another beloved Wakefield; and with what zeal he at once set to work to translate it into German. All the characteristics of the first poem seem to me developed in the second; with as chaste simplicity, with as choice selectness of natural expression, in verse of as musical cadence; but with yet greater earnestness of purpose, and a far more human interest. Nor is that purpose to be lightly dismissed because it more concerns the heart than the understanding, and is sentimental rather than philosophical. The accumulation of wealth has not brought about man's diminution, nor is trade's proud empire threatened with decay but too eager are the triumphs of both to be always conscious of evils attendant on even the benefits they bring, and of those it was the poet's purpose to remind us. The lesson can never be thrown away. No material prosperity can be so great, that underneath it, and indeed because of it, will not still be found much suffering and sadness; much to remember that is commonly forgotten, much to attend to that is almost always neglected. Trade would not thrive the less, though shortened somewhat of its

unfeeling train;' nor wealth enjoy fewer blessings, if its unwieldy pomp less often spurned the cottage from the green.' It is a melancholy thing to stand alone in one's country,' said the late benevolent Lord Leicester, when complimented on the completion of Holkham. 'I look 'round, and not a house is to be seen but mine. I am the 'Giant of Giant Castle, and have eat up all my neighbours.' There is no man who has risen upward in the world, even by ways the most honourable to himself and kindly to others, that may not be said to have a deserted village, sacred to the tenderest and fondest recollections, which it is well that his fancy should at times revisit.

From that

Goldsmith looked into his heart and wrote. great city in which his hard-spent life had been diversified with so much care and toil, he travelled back to the memory of lives more simply passed, of more cheerful labour, of less anxious care, of homely affections and of humble joys for which the world and all its successes offer nothing in exchange.

In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs. . and God has given my share..
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose.

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn’d skill ;
Around my fire an evening group to draw,

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ;

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return.. and die at home at last.

Sweet Auburn is no more.

That hope is idle for him. But though he finds the scene deserted, for us he re-peoples it anew, builds up again its ruined haunts, and revives its pure enjoyments; from the glare of crowded cities, their exciting struggles and palling pleasures, carries us back to the season of natural pastimes and unsophisticate desires ; adjures us all to remember, in our several smaller worlds, the vast world of humanity that breathes beyond; shews us that there is nothing too humble for the loftiest and most affecting associations; and that where human joys and interests have been, their memory is sacred for ever!

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the signpost caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door.

Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ;
Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

.. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

With darker shadows from the terrible and stony truths that are written in the streets of cities, the picture is afterwards completed; and here, too, the poet painted from his heart. His own experience, the suffering for which his heart had always bled, the misery his scanty purse was always ready to relieve, are in his contrast of the pleasures of the great, with innocence and health too often murdered to obtain them. Some of his distinguished friends' objected to these views, but he let them stand. They would have 'objected' to what was not uncommon with himself, abandoning his rest at night to give relief to the destitute. They would have thought the parish should have done what a yet more distinguished friend, Samuel Johnson, once did, and which will probably be remembered when all he wrote or said shall have passed away: his picking up a wretched ruined girl, who lay exhausted on the pavement; taking her upon his back, carrying her to his house, and placing her in his bed; not harshly upbraiding her; taking care of her, with all tenderness, for a long time; and endeavouring on her restoration to health to put her in a virtuous way of living.

Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;

Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train:
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!

Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour

When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.

Beautifully is it said by Mr. Campbell, that 'fiction in 'poetry is not the reverse of truth, but her soft and en'chanted resemblance; and this ideal beauty of nature. 'has seldom been united with so much sober fidelity, as

6

in the groups and scenery of the Deserted Village. It is to be added that everything in it is English, the feeling, incidents, descriptions, and allusions; and that this consideration may save us needless trouble in seeking to identify sweet Auburn with Lissoy. Scenes of the poet's youth had doubtless risen in his memory as he wrote, mingling with, and taking altered hue from, later experiences it is even possible he may have taken the first hint of his design from a local Westmeath poet and schoolmaster, who, in his youth, had given rhymed utterance to the old tenant grievances of the Irish rural population;