reader can scarcely fail to observe, that several of Johnson's robust lines have become household words, and are constantly quoted by persons ignorant of their origin.

Oliver Goldsmith, 1728-1774.

Oliver Goldsmith is much more distinctly and prominently a poet than the great man who wrote his epitaph. Though more than a century has gone by since he died, his name is dear to all Englishmen who love good literature. The romantic story of his life should be read in the biographics of Washington Irving and of Forster; his books, or rather all of them that were not hack-work, are such delightful reading that it would be idle to recommend them. Who has not read "The Citizen of the World," and the immortal" Vicar of Wakefield," that enchanted the youthful Goethe? Who has not indulged in happy, innocent laughter over "She Stoops to Conquer," and "The Good-natured Man"? And who does not hold in memory many of the delicious lines, warm from the poet's heart, and sweet as his lovable nature, that make "The Traveller" and "The Deserted Village" dear to us as the bequest of a friend. The charm of these poems is more easily felt than analyzed. There is in them the restful beauty of a serene day in summer, when the sky is cloudless; and the very sadness of the poems is like the pleasing sadness which steals over us as we watch that day's decline. The splendour of sunshine and brightness gives place to the grey light of twilight; but the day is not less lovely in

its evening calm than in its noonday brightness. The chief element of Goldsmith's verse is sweetness, and it is a sweetness that does not pall. The inimitable ease of the poet is in reality the perfection of art; but we almost feel, as the eye glides over his smooth lines, as if to write such verse were rather a scholarly accomplishment than a poetical inspiration. This is not wholly an error. Goldsmith's genius, unlike that of such poetical seers as Coleridge and Shelley, is entirely under his own control. His Pegasus, a well-bred, ambling nag, never so misconducts himself as to get the bit between his teeth and to run away with his master. How far Goldsmith is moved poetically, and how far he writes with the feeling and art of an accomplished verseman, it is not necessary to inquire. This, at least, will be clear to the student-and it is an almost infallible mark of genius-that he occupies a distinct place in our poetical literature, and one from which no literary revolution or lapse of time is likely to remove him. His work is never great, but it is genuine, and to readers of unsophisticated taste will always give pleasure.

[Dr. Johnson's "Satires," with notes, by J. P. Fleming, M.A., B.C.L., have been published in a tiny volume by Messrs. Longmans. Goldsmith's poems are to be met with everywhere, and in every variety of form; it is therefore, perhaps, needless to mention any special edition. But the cheap Aldine series of the British poets is the best published at the price, and this, of course, includes Goldsmith's poems in one volume. Each volume, or rather the works of each poet, can be purchased separately.]

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CHAPTER IX.

THE QUEEN ANNE AND GEORGIAN POETS

(Continued).

JAMES THOMSON.

THOMSON, the famous author of the "Seasons,"

James Thomson, 1700-1748.

gained his immense popularity in an age that is generally thought to have been insensible to natural beauty. The principal characteristic of the first poet of the time was wit; his finest writings were satires. Nature. never whispered in the ear of Pope, or if she did, he was insensible to her voice. And Pope's poetical contemporaries, with the signal exceptions of Thomson and John Dyer, were equally indifferent to the charms of the mighty mother. Swift cared nothing for her; Gay, although he wrote pastorals, was essentially a town-made poet; and so also, to his heart's core, was Matthew Prior. To Thomson, on the other hand, nature was all in all; and as the painter of what he saw, of beautiful or sublime, few poets have surpassed him.

The story of his life is soon told. He was born at Ednam, in Roxburghshire, of which parish his father was the minister, on the 11th of September, 1700, four months after the death of Dryden; and in the grammar school in Jedburgh he began an education which was more indebted to nature than to books. When the boy was fifteen years old he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, and with reference to this journey a characteristic anecdote is told. The future poet travelled behind his father's man on horseback, but was so reluctant to leave the country for a town life, that he is said to have speedily returned on foot to his home, saying he could study as well upon the braes. Of his college course nothing is told. He lost his father while at college, and his mother, a woman worthy of such a son, removed to Edinburgh. There she had to exercise the utmost thrift, for her family was large and her means small. It is satisfactory to know that, like the mother of Cowley, she reaped the reward of her care, and lived long enough to witness the reputation of her eldest son. He was intended for the Church, and no doubt it was the pious woman's most earnest wish that he should follow in his father's steps. The young man's mission, however, was otherwise ordered, and at an carly age, with a bundle of manuscript in his bag, he went, like so many of his countrymen, to seek his fortune in London. His first experience of the metropolis was not auspicious, for in walking through the streets he lost the letters of introduction

which he no doubt hoped would put him in the way of winning fame and fortune. A few months seem to have been spent in teaching a nobleman's child to read, which he called a low task, not suitable to his temper. The making of poems was a pursuit more congenial. The publication of his "Winter" was accompanied by a dedication addressed to the Speaker of the House of Commons, for which, after the fashion of those times, he received a present of twenty guineas. The poem soon made him famous, and there are no signs that he suffered from that "hope deferred" which has troubled so many men of genius. It is certain that before he had reached the age of thirty his poetical reputation, if not his fortune, was fixed on a sure basis. His poems, which followed one another in quick succession, gave him a national reputation, and when his first tragedy, "Sophonisba," was produced at Drury Lane, the house was so crowded that many gentlemen were forced to content themselves with seats in the upper gallery. An unlucky line nearly destroyed the fortune of the piece. One of the characters exclaims

"O Sophonisba, Sophonisba O!"

upon which a wag in the pit cried out

"O Jemmy Thomson, Jemmy Thomson O!"

He wrote five or six plays with a temporary measure of success; but he was not a dramatist, and at the present day these productions are neither acted nor read. The publication of the "Seasons"