GOLDSMITH.

It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur to those characters in literary history who are emphatically favorites, and to glance at the cause of their popularity. Such speculations frequently afford more important results than the mere gratification of curiosity. They often lead to a clearer perception of the true tests of genius, and indicate the principle and methods by which the common mind may be most successfully addressed. The advantage of such retrospective inquiries is still greater at a period like the present, when there is such an obvious tendency to innovate upon some of the best-established theories of taste; when the passion for novelty seeks for such unli. censed indulgence, and invention seems to exhaust itself rather upon forms than ideas. In literature, especially, we appear to be daily losing one of the most valuable elements-simplicity. The prevalent taste is no longer gratified with the natural. There is a growing appetite for what is startling and peculiar, seldom accompanied by any discriminating demand for the true and original; and

yet, experience has fully proved that these last are the only permanent elements of literature; and no healthy mind, cognizant of its own history, is unaware that the only intellectual aliment which never palls upon the taste, is that which is least indebted to extraneous accompani ments for its relish.

It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles. The study of the old masters may sometimes make the modern artist despair of his own efforts; but if he have the genius to discover, and follow out the great principle upon which they wrought, he will not have contemplated their works in vain. He will have learned that devotion to nature is the grand secret of progress in art, and that the success of her votaries depends upon the singleness, constancy, and intelligence of their worship. If there is not enthu-, siasm enough to kindle this flame in its purity, nor energy sufficient to fulfil the sacrifice required at that high altar, let not the young aspirant enter the priesthood of art. When the immortal painter of the Transfiguration was asked to embody his ideal of perfect female loveliness, he replied there would still be an infinite distance between. his work and the existent original. In this profound and vivid perception of the beautiful in nature, we perceive the origin of those lovely creations, which, for more than three hundred years, have delighted mankind. And it is equally true of the pen as the pencil, that what is drawn from life and the heart, alone bears the impress of immortality. Yet the practical faith of our day is diametrically opposed to this truth. The writers of our times are constantly making use of artificial enginery. They have, for

the most part, abandoned the integrity of purpose and earnest directness of earlier epochs. There is less faith, as we before said, in the natural; and when we turn from the midst of the forced and hot-bed products of the modern school, and ramble in the garden of old English literature, a cool and calm refreshment invigorates the spirit, like the first breath of mountain air to the weary wayfarer.

There are few writers of the period more generally beloved than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries, Burke excelled him in splendor of diction, and Johnson in depth of thought. The former continues to enjoy a larger share of admiration, and the latter of respect, but the labors of their less pretending companion have secured him a far richer heritage of love. Of all posthumous tributes to genius, this seems the most truly desirable. It recognizes the man as well as the author. It is called forth by more interesting characteristics than talent. It bespeaks a greater than ordinary association of the individual with his works, and looking beyond the mere embodiment of his intellect, it gives assurance of an attractiveness in his character which has made itself felt even through the artificial medium of writing. The authors are comparatively few, who have awakened this feel. ing of personal interest and affection. It is common, in. deed, for any writer of genius to inspire emotions of gratitude in the breasts of those susceptible to the charm, but the instances are rare in which this sentiment is vivified and elevated into positive affection. And few, I apprehend, among the wits and poets of old England, have

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more widely awakened it than Oliver Goldsmith. I have said this kind of literary fame was eminently desirable. There is, indeed, something inexpressibly touching in the thought of one of the gifted of our race, attaching to himself countless hearts by the force of a charm woven in bygone years, when environed by neglect and discouragement. Though a late, it is a beautiful recompense, transcending mere critical approbation, or even the reverence men offer to the monuments of mind. We can conceive of no motive to effort which can be presented to a man of true feeling, like the hope of winning the love of his kind by the faithful exhibition of himself. It is a nobler purpose than that entertained by heartless ambition. appeal is not merely to the judgment and imagination, it is to the universal heart of mankind. Such fame is emphatically rich. It gains its possessor warm friends in. stead of mere admirers. To establish such an inheritance in the breast of humanity, were indeed worthy of sacrifice and toil. It is an offering not only to intellectual but to moral graces, and its possession argues for the sons of fame holier qualities than genius itself. It eloquently indicates that its subject is not only capable of interesting the general mind by the power of his creations, but of captivating the feelings by the earnest beauty of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it the most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lovers of painting regard the truest interpreters of the art. They wonder at Michael Angelo but love Raphael, and gaze upon the pensively beautiful delineation he has left us of himself, with the regretful tenderness with which we look

upon the portrait of a departed friend. The devotees of music, too, dwell with glad astonishment upon the celebrated operas of Rosini and some of the German composers, but the memory of Bellini is absolutely loved. It is well remarked by one of Goldsmith's biographers, that the very fact of his being spoken of always with the epithet "poor" attached to his name, is sufficient evidence of the kind of fame he enjoys. Whence, then, the peculiar attraction of his writings, and wherein consists the spell which has so long rendered his works the favorites of so many and such a variety of readers?

The primary and all-pervading charm of Goldsmith is his truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful characteristic, as it exhibits itself not less in his life than in his writings. We see it displayed in the remarkable frankness which distinguished his intercourse with others, and in that winning simplicity which so frequently excited the contemptuous laugh of the worldly-wise, but failed not to draw towards him the more valuable sympathies of less perverted natures. All who have sketched his biography unite in declaring, that he could not dissemble; and we have a good illustration of his want of tact in concealing a defect, in the story which is related of him at the time of his unsuccessful attempt at medical practice in Edinburgh—when, his only velvet coat being deformed by a huge patch on the right breast, he was accustomed, while in the drawing-room, to cover it in the most awkward manner with his hat. It was his natural truthfulness which led him to so candid and habitual a confession of his faults. Johnson ridiculed him for so freely describing