BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Biographies of Goldsmith have been written by Prior (1837), Forster (1849), Washington Irving (1849), William Black, English Men of Letters Series (1878), and Austin Dobson, Great Writers Series (1888). For essays on Goldsmith, see those by Macaulay, Miscellaneous Essays, or in the Encyclopædia Britannica, Thackeray in English Humorists, De Quincey in The Eighteenth Century Scholarship and Literature, and Leigh Hunt in his Classic Tales. For the general conditions and life of the period, consult Boswell's Life of Johnson, Dobson's Eighteenth Century Vignettes, Traill's Social England, Vol. V, Gibbins's Industry in England or Warner's Landmarks in English Industrial History, and Lecky's History of England in the Eighteenth Century. An account of the London of Goldsmith's day is given in Besant's London in the Eighteenth Century. Goldsmith is the hero of the novel, The Jessamy Bride, by F. Frankfort Moore. xxvi DEDICATION TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS DEAR SIR, — I can have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel; and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, therefore, aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire; but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether the country be depopulating or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician to tire the reader with a long preface when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and here I also expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, Dear Sir, your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH THE DESERTED VILLAGE Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain ; Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 5 IO When toil remitting lent its turn to play, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, 15 And all the village train, from labour free, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; 20 25 While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 30 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, 40 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 45 50 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 55 |