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found in the “ Vicar of Wakefield.” That he was duped by many, we love him better; that he deceived in nothing, we love him more. His friendships were lasting; his friends were the choicest spirits of the age; his enemies were many, but invariably the low spirited, the envious, and the mean. He loved the laugh of a child, he hated a cloudy childish brow; his love for children emptied many a toy stand, and wove them a simple darling tale; and when many a serious, sentimental piece of humbug, the Mrs. Ellis and Co.'s plan for putting old heads upon young shoulders shall have vanished from English nurseries, children will shout and laugh as children should shout and laugh over the “Goody Two Shoes” of Oliver Goldsmith.

As an historian, he pretends not to explain motives, but he investigates with the spirit of a poet, and recounts in the most beautiful narrative the impression he has received of facts. He scarcely belongs to the same class as Macaulay, but he has formed the opinions—perhaps frequently incorrect ones—of our greatest men, and by making his heroes actors he has (as in the instance of Fabricas) made other noble souls burn to be, like Fabricas, proud and poor. His histories will stand for ages, his comedies while the English people can love our fine old drama, his essays until true taste and simplicity give way to new fangled refinements and latter day sentimentalities; but his poems and his “Vicar of Wakefield" through, “ the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds," will live for ever.

His detractors say: Well, you must admit he was no critic. Admit it? Yes, with pleasure. Did you expect Goldsmith, with his straightforward ingenuous nature, a poet, an author of imagina tion, to make a critic? Never, till the end of days! You must get a man with a hooked nose, small grey eyes, a mouth twisted into one eternal sneer, a £ s. d. person, with a finger entering everybody's pie, an adroitness for extracting all the plums, and an impudence to say they have edged his teeth, and then you have a real, heaven-designed, critic. Goldsmith had none of these ; and his friends laugh at the detraction, plead for their favourite no claim to this envied distinction; they hesitate not to say :-true this Oliver of ours was not a critic.

But he was better than that; he was a theme for critics, and a theme which they never yet understood. His history, from their pens, is one of carelessness mistaken for folly, of humour misunderstood for puerile earnestness, of modesty termed affectation, of

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independence called vanity, of qualities the rarest and best, and truest and warmest, that ever entered into the combination of man, pronounced by the Boswells, Hawkinses, and Horace Walpoles of the day, the qualities of an inspired madman, or often still lower the characteristics of an ass. But unlike that romancing “Castle of Otranto" gentleman, he would have emptied his pockets to Chatterton, and dragged this youthful genius with boyish ardour up to fortune and fame. Unlike that club dinner “skulker,” he would have paid his share of every reckoning, for if he erred at all 'twas marked to fall on virtue's side. He could have jumped off London Bridge far easier than have stooped to the sycophancy of a Boswell. Perhaps, only by Johnson, Reynolds, and the Jessemy Bride, was he ever understood. They say he was improvident. Well, agreed. They then say he would have made a poor domestic character, and have left the Jessemy Bride to "shift" for herself. No, the inference is a false one.

His life stamps it as a critic's lie. He was improvident, but of what use was providence to a man wedded, irrevocably wedded, to his grey goose quill? Why should he accumulate coins whose children are a nation's property, whose brains have been tasked to produce a world of smiles, and who has nothing left on earth to call his own ? Nay, he might as well let it all go, render others happy who had more to provide for, and leave his genius to defray his debts. So, although that improvidence was a fault, it is no proof that he would have neglected the comforts or forgotten the wants of Mary Horneck.

If you would picture a knight-errant, sworn to defend beauty against all odds, courting the battle and braving death for an abstract idea, assuredly you must seek it elsewhere. You could not have drawn Oliver into a quarrel as to whether John Wesley or Ignatius Loyola was the truer prophet. Not a bit of it, for Oliver didn't care a fig. In the best or worst periods of human history, he would never have sought, perhaps never have dared the martyr's death, or spoken that sweet defiance, that meek disdain which gilds the name of our noble Alice Lisle. By Cromwell he would have been accounted a trifler; John Knox would have called him a son of Belial; but generations of Englishmen have called him friend.

His principles, though not stern, were fixed; and without being able to uphold the character of a controversialist for one hour, he had, what some may perhaps love more, the spirit that all unseen by

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human eye, could say "Lead us not into temptation" in simple ,

“ truth. Had he been born in affluence, birthday sonnets or lines to a pet rabbit might have formed the subject of his gilded pen; but torn in poverty, nursed in troubles, we have a "Deserted Village" and a tale of tales. The genius of poetry saved him from the curse of wealth. She became

“The source of all (his) bliss and all his woe,”

She “found him poor at first and kept him so.” He never pitied suffering, because Adam was our common father. Not he! but he threw his bed clothes out of the window because somebody needed them more than himself, and why they needed them he never asked. He had a brain not easily muddled in speculations; he always tried to steer out of them.

“When folks talk'd about dogmas and such silly stuff,

He walked to the window and only took snuff.” For one rich man who can admire him, we could bring ten poor ones; for one pedant a score of clowns. Would you ask for more in your bosom friend?

Now the rest of the acts of Oliver, and all that he did-the blunders he made, the jokes he spun, the generosity he practised, the books he built, and the books he made, of his colloquial battles with Johnson, of his wondrous instinct which seemed independent of and superior to reason, of his manly avowal that old friends are better than new ones, when the new one he was addressing was a peer of England and Lord Lieutenant of Goldsmith's native Isle, how gallantly and unscrupulously he defended the name of Voltaire against even the pencil of his friend Sir J. Reynolds, who had represented an Oxford Doctor, whose name Goldsmith declared would not live ten years as triumphing over the great wit, are they not written in the books of the chronicles of our best and wisest men. Then Oliver slept with his fathers and they buried him in the Temple Church Yard, and he left not a nobler or truer heart among men.

I have somewhere seen it observed, that we should make the same use of a book that the bee does of a flower. She steals sweets from it, but does not injure it.—Colton. Whenever

you have nothing else to do in other words, whenever you have no particular object in view, of pleasure or profit, of immediate or remote good-set yourself to do good in some shape or other : to men, to sensitive beings, rational or irrational—to one or to many; to some individual or to the whole race.-BENTHAM.

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THE WOODMAN. - PART 1.

By J. H. POWELL.

A lowly cottage, with a single room,
Straw-thatched and moss-crown'd, in its primal pride,
Shelter'd by trees and brown'd by brush of time,
A league from Tintern's roofless cloisters rose.
The playful, winding Wye flowed at its feet,
And naiad Poets melodised the scene.
In this lone cot the woodman Felix dwelt,
With Deborah his loved and loving wife,–
A woman school'd in simple homely arts,
Whose hours came laden with the toils and joys,
Which breed domestic love and
The Woodman gloried in his stalwart craft,
Felling the knotted trees with Titan arm,
And bluffy singing to his axe's stroke :-

peace.

Come to the woods-heigho-
When trees bear fallen snow,
And the nipping, crisping Cold,
Is King of the whiten'd wold.

Come to the woods—heigho.
Come to the woods-heigho-
Where wild flowers freely grow,
And the worried agile hare,
Darts forth from its ferny lair.

Come to the woods--heigho.
Come to the woods-heigho-
When summer glories glow,
And the loving, glistening sun,
Smiles down on the shadows dun.

Come to the woods—heigho.
Come to the woods--heigho--
Free from the haunts of woe;
Where the cheering thrilling song,
Of the throstle tells no wrong.

Come to the woods-heigho.
Come to the woods—heigho-
Here Freedom fears no foe,
And merrily merrily sing,
While zephyrs thro' branches ring,

Come to the woods-heigho.

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Come to the woods-heigho-
With health

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cheek shall glow ;
Come from the sorrowful town
And Luxury's beds of down.

Come to the woods--heigho.

T'was cheering to behold him at his toil,
Making the echoes ring to far-off glens.

No thought had Felix of the care and strife,
Which frown upon the city's sickly race;
His high ambition was to please his wife,
And gaze admiring in her charming face.
He never stray'd in darkness from his cot,
Or sorrow'd in the graceless name of sot.

THE DYING CANDLE.

Flickering through the Valley of the Shadow of Death my last

poor companionable candle approaches the bourne from whence all such travellers return with a new destiny to commence and close. It is Saturday evening-solemn Saturday evening, in the very closest embrace of wild December, whose bleak blustering winds dance their mad quadrilles round my lonely cottage wall. Not a human soul is present, save my own; and it, wrapped in sad reverie by the mournful spectacle just recorded, is reviewing its eventful history since the day, when like the light of this poor candle, it gave life, and usefulness, and sublimest grandeur to a piece of dull sluggish matter, lifted for noble purposes from beneath the very pavement of the universe of God. The “light from heaven” it is, and towards heaven with the tendency of all human souls it evermore inclines; nor "sorely let and hindered” though it be, can it yield, even until the last flicker of its existence, the high prerogative of a right royal birth, the instinctive claim to “an inheritance that fadeth not away." For it is an unfading thing and hence can only be satisfied with eternal duration, when finally freed from the terrestrial body which it hath lighted through long years of joy and grief-of good and ill.

15 set, my ff kering, trembling, Candle-soul :-look, ere, having worn a way its frail tenement, it escaped into ethereal regions, to fulfil other purposes of the Great First Cause ! liow loeth it seems to leave its humble transitory home. Is it fearful that for the purposes of its existence an account must be readered and itself received, on the strength of these, into the glorious sun-light of the green fields of Heaven, or banished

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