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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.

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Born 1728; Died 1774.
He was born in Ireland, and attended Trinity College, Dublin,

with the view of entering the profession of medicine. In this
career, however, he had no success; and after a roving life for
some time on the Continent, he settled in London, living at one
time as usher in a school, at another on literary hack-work.
With his poem, the Traveller, in 1764, his name became famous :
and the Vicar of Wakefield, the Deserted Village, and his
comedies, with other works, followed. He died in distress and

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.


As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies :
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,

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,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease :
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.

Such is the patriot's boast, wher'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ;
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations makes their blessings even.

Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ;
And though the rocky-crested summits frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings sent;
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content.

Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.

Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails;
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the favourite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that ains at other ends;
Till carried to excess in each domain,
This favourite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies :
Here for a while, my proper cares resigned,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;

yon neglected shrub at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends;
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in different climes were found,
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whoso bright succession decks the varied year;

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky,
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These, here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves

and fields

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 ;

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