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before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room, and, without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bedside ; and, independently of all modes and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did, how he had rested in the night—what was his complaint-where was his painand what he could do to help him.
“You shall go home directly, Le Fevre,” said my uncle Toby,“ to my house, and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter; and we'll have an apothecary, and the corporal shall be your nurse, and I'll be your servant, Le Fevre.”
There was a frankness in my uncle Toby, not the effect of familiarity, but the cause of it, which let you at once into his soul, and showed you the goodness of his nature. To this, there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The blood and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back; the film forsook his eyes for a moment; he looked up wistfully in my uncle Toby's face, then cast a look upon his boy; and that ligament, fine as it was, was never broken.
Nature instantly ebbed again; the film returned to its place; the pulse fluttered — stopped-went onthrobbed-stopped again-moved-stopped! Shall I
I go on? No.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Born 1728; Died 1774.
with the view of entering the profession of medicine. In this
debt. The chief characteristic of his work, which has won for itself a
peculiar regard amongst all English readers, is its union of perfect refinement with just as perfect simplicity.
FROM “ THE TRAVELLER.”
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
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,
Such is the patriot's boast, wher'er we roam,
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails;
But let us try these truths with closer eyes,
yon neglected shrub at random cast,
Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky,
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; And e'en in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, When commerce proudly flourished through the state; At her command the palace learnt to rise, Again the long-fallen column sought the skies; The canvas glowed beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teemed with human form. Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; While nought remained of all that riches gave, But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave; And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ;