for the use of schools a History of Rome by which he made £300, a History of England by which he made £600, a History of Greece for which he received £250, a Natural History for which the booksellers covenanted to pay him 800 guineas. These works he produced without any elaborate research, by merely selecting, abridging, and translating into his own clear, pure, and flowing language what he found in books well known to the world, but too bulky or too dry for boys and girls.

Goldsmith might now be considered as a prosperous man. He had the means of living in comfort, and even in what to one who had so often slept in barns and on bulks must have been luxury. His fame was great, and was constantly rising. He lived in what was intellectually far the best society of the kingdom.

His associates seem to have regarded him with kindness, which, in spite of their admiration of his writings, was not unmixed with contempt. In truth, there was in his character much to love, but very little to respect. His heart was soft even to weakness: he was so generous that he quite forgot to be just he forgave injuries so readily that he might be said to invite them; and was so liberal to beggars that he had nothing left for his tailor and his butcher. He was vain, sensual, frivolous, profuse, improvident.

Goldsmith has sometimes been represented as a man of genius, cruelly treated by the world, and doomed to struggle with difficulties which at last broke his heart. But no representation can be more remote from the truth. He did, indeed, go through much sharp misery before he had done anything considerable in literature. But, after his name had appeared on

the title-page of the Traveller he had none but himself to blame for his distresses. His average income, during the last seven years of his life, certainly exceeded £400 a year; and £400 a year ranked, among the incomes of that day, at least as high as £800 a year would rank at present. He spent twice as much as he had. He wore fine clothes, and gave dinners of several courses. He had also, it should be remembered, to the honour of his heart, though not of his head, a guinea, or five, or ten, according to the state of his purse, ready for any tale of distress, true or false. He had also been from boyhood a gambler, and at once the most sanguine and the most unskilful of gamblers. For a time he put off the day of inevitable ruin by temporary expedients. He obtained advances from booksellers by promising to execute works which he never began. But at length this source of supply failed. He owed more than £2000, and he saw no hope of extrication from his embarrassments.

He was attacked

His spirits and health gave way. by a nervous fever, which he thought himself competent to treat. It would have been happy for him if his medical skill had been appreciated as justly by himself as by others. Notwithstanding the degree which he pretended to have received at Padua, he could procure no patients.

"I do not practise," he once said; "I make it a rule to prescribe only for my friends."

"Pray, dear doctor," said a friend, "alter your rule, and prescribe only for your enemies."

Goldsmith now, in spite of this excellent advice, prescribed for himself. The remedy aggravated the malady. The sick man was induced to call in real

physicians, and they at one time imagined that they had cured the disease. Still his weakness and restlessness continued. He could get no sleep. He could take no food. "You are worse," said one of his medical attendants, "than you should be from the degree of fever which you have. Is your mind at ease?" "No, it is not," were the last recorded words of Oliver Goldsmith. He died on the 3rd of April, 1774, in his forty-sixth year. He was laid in the churchyard of the Temple, but the spot was not marked by any inscription, and is now forgotten.

Legitimate. Lawful.

Classic. A writer who stands in
the first class.
Fable. Story, plot.
Catastrophe. The end of the story.
Benefit nights. Nights when the
author received the money paid
for admission.
Copyright.
publish.
Incongruous parts. Parts that do
not fit, suit, or match each other.
Bulk. The stall of a shop.

The sole right to

Not marked by any inscription. There is, however, in Westminster Abbey a monument with a fine Latin inscription by Johnson; and there is a tablet to Goldsmith's memory in the Temple Church.

COMPOSITION. -Write a brief account of the life of Goldsmith.

LESSON 15.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:

5 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,-
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene!

How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

10

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,

15

And all the village train, from labour free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed;

20

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;

The dancing pair that simply sought renown

25

By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove: 30
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:
These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.

35

40

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 45 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 50 Far, far away, thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay;
Princes and lords flourish or may

may

fade

A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 55 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, 60 Just gave what life required, but gave no more; His best companions innocence and health, And his best riches ignorance of wealth.

But times are altered: trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
65 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to luxury allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride,

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 70 Those calm desires that asked but little room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.