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THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled,

All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring:
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to

glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side:
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

From "The Deserted Village."

CASTLES IN SPAIN.

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS was born at Providence, R. I., on the 24th of February, 1824. He received his early education at Jamaica Plain, Mass.

The Curtis family went to New York City when George was fifteen years old, and he spent a year in the counting office of a merchant.

Three years later George and his brother went to Brook Farm, in West Roxbury, Mass., where some literary men had formed a community. They spent

two years there, studying, and enjoying the outdoor life.

After a winter at home they went to Concord, working on a farm half the day, and spending the remaining hours in study. Mr. Curtis recalled that season in these words:

"The soft, sunny spring in the silent Concord meadows, where I sat in the great, cool barn through the long, still, golden afternoons and read the history of Rome."

He had already become acquainted with Mr. Emerson, and became a member of a club where he met Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Alcott. It was at this time that Thoreau built his hut, and the Curtis brothers helped to raise it.

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Mr. Curtis sailed for Europe in 1846, and spent four years in traveling about Italy, France, Germany, and Palestine. On his return his first book, "Nile Notes of a Howadji," was published, and he began to deliver lectures. He became connected with the publishing house of Harper & Brothers, and also wrote for 30 the "New York Tribune" and "Putnam's Monthly." In this

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last-named magazine appeared his "Potiphar Papers" and "Prue and I." They were afterward published in book form and met with success. The charm of the latter book is as fresh to-day as

when it was first written.

For many years, Curtis held the position of editor of "Harper's Weekly," and was engaged in writing and lecturing until his death in August, 1892.

I AM the owner of great estates. Many of them lie in the west, but the greater part are in Spain. You 10 may see my western possessions any evening at sunset, when their spires and battlements flash against the horizon.

It gives me a feeling of pardonable importance, as a proprietor, that they are visible, to my eyes at least, 15 from any part of the world in which I chance to be. In my long voyage around the Cape of Good Hope to India (the only voyage I ever made, when I was a boy and a supercargo), if I fell homesick, or sank into a revery of all the pleasant homes I had left behind, I had 20 but to wait until sunset, and then looking toward the west, I beheld my clustering pinnacles and towers, brightly burnished, as if to salute and welcome me.

So, in the city, if I get vexed and wearied, and cannot find my wonted solace in sallying forth at dinner25 time to contemplate the gay world of youth and beauty, I go quietly up to the house-top, toward evening, and refresh myself with a distant prospect of my estates. And if I sometimes wonder at such moments whether I shall find those realms as fair as they appear, I am 30 suddenly reminded that the night air may be noxious,

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