He made the acquaintance of men of the highest rank in literary circles, notable among whom were Garrick, Burke, and Johnson. He now earned a fair income by literary work; but he always managed to spend more than he earned.

About the middle of 1761 he found himself considerably in arrears to his widowed landlady, who gave him the choice between three courses: to pay his bill, to go to prison, or to marry her. Goldsmith applied to Dr. Johnson to extricate him from this predicament, and put in his hand a bundle of manuscript. The Doctor took the manuscript, sold it to a bookseller, and handed the money to Goldsmith, thus saving him from going to prison or marrying the widow Fleming. That manuscript, which was not published until six years after, was "The Vicar of Wakefield." During the last dozen years of his life Goldsmith performed an immense amount of literary labor. Among these works-mainly compilations-are a "History of England," a "History of Greece," a "History of Rome," the History of Animated Nature," "Life of Beau Nash," a "Short English Grammar," and a "Survey of Experimental Philosophy." He also wrote several very clever comedies, among which is "She Stoops to Conquer." Goldsmith's fame, however, rests chiefly upon "The Vicar of Wakefield," and the two poems, "The Traveler" and "The Deserted Village." These are read wherever the English language is spoken, and will continue the cherished possession of generation after generation.

66

A

THE TRAVELER.

S SOME lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts it
o'er,

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still,
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,

Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup-
plies;

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the sum of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.
But where to find that happiest spot below
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease.
The naked negro, panting at the Line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine;
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam;
His first, best country, ever is at home.

And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by Art or Nature given
To different nations, makes their blessings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;
And though the rocky-crested summits frown,
Those rocks by custom turn to beds of down.
From Art more various are the blessings sent,
Wealth, Commerce, Honor, Liberty, Content;
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where Wealth and Freedom reign, Contentment
fails,

And Honor sinks where Commerce long pre-
vails.

Hence every State, to one loved blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the favorite happiness attends,

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends,
Till, carried to excess, in each domain,
This favorite good begets peculiar pain.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

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 learned to
glow,

And quite forget 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,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's
smile;

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are
spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

A CITY NIGHT-PIECE.

"LETTERS OF A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD."

watch-dog; all the bustle of human pride is forgotten. An hour like this may well display the emptiness of human vanity.

HE clock had just struck two; the expiring | heard but of the chiming clock or the distant taper rises and sinks in the socket; the watchman forgets the hour in slumber; the laborious and the happy are at rest; and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl; the robber walks his midnight round; and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person.

Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity, or the sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, everchanging, but a few hours past, walked before me -where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own importunities.

What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is

There will come a time when this temporary solitude may be made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away and leave a desert in its room.

What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, had their victories as great, joy as just and as unbounded, and with short-sighted presumption promised themselves immortality! Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some; the sorrowful traveler wanders over the awful ruins of others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom and feels the transience of every sublunary possession.