HEN one gazes on a landscape of Turner or of Wilson, till his eyes are filled with all the charms of scenery, all the beauties of light and shadow, all the harmonies and contrasts of form and colour, and his heart is touched with a sense of the glories of Nature, and the skill of the limner, with what a feeling of dissatisfaction does he find his sleeve plucked by some critic, who assures him that such a piece of scenery never really existed-that the artist "has produced something which never was, and never will be, seen in any part of the world." In vain do you assure him that you have seen trees, and mountains, and stream, and verdure, and sky, and every other accessory of the picture over and over again in your wanderings through the world. Nay, that you can recall more than one scene that bears a strong resemblance to the whole landscape. You are met by the remark, "Quite true; but, nevertheless, such a tree never grew beside such a stream; such a sky never hung over such a mountain. The river belongs to England, the sky to Italy, the forest to Germany, the meadow to Ireland." "Well," you say, "but they might have all concurred in some lovely spot of earth without violating the harmonies of Nature." The critic answers you with a smile. of triumph, "Oh! certainly: but, then, they didn't." You turn from him with a conviction that he is impertinent and a trifler, and console yourself by gazing once more on the object of his criticism. With feelings akin to these do we regard the endless disputes upon the locality of "The Deserted

"It

Village," and the reality of its delineations. "Was Auburn in Ireland, or in England? Was it Lissoy, or Ballyoughter, or Springfield near Chelmsford? Was it anywhere? Could it be anywhere?" Let us answer: could well have existed. It did exist just where it alone needed to have existed in the imagination of the poet, and on the page of his poem." In the details we recognise well-known features of the poet's early haunts, both of Lissoy, and Ballymahon, and Ballyoughter; not alone of scenery, but also of the manners and customs of the people. With these may have been associated remembered beauties from other scenes to complete the composition, and make it a consistent and beautiful whole. Poetry has its truth as well as history. In neither must truth be violated; but the laws by which each is to be judged are essentially different. The test of the former is its accordance with an Idea, that of the latter with a Fact. When Lord Macaulay, in one of his "Lays of Ancient Rome," describes Castor and Pollux fighting in the Roman ranks, he is not poetically false; when he exaggerates the virtues of William III., or the vices of Charles II., he is historically untrue. Goldsmith had an idea, a theory (whether politically true or not is immaterial) that the depopulation of the country was the result of the increase of luxuries. This he illustrated by a picture of a village in its two conditions of prosperity and ruin. Enough that his ideal picture is not incongruous; but it is more— it has an enduring locality, as enduring and real as if we could point out its ruins on the map; and the beings with which he has peopled it are as real to the mind as if we could read their names and epitaphs on the churchyard tombstones. The village school, with its merry urchins; the mill, with its babbling brook; the snug farmstead; the wayside inn; the church and the manse are they not all realities?-verities poetical and natural? Do we not know the village preacher personally? Can we not say, This is no fancy portrait? Is not the pedagogue one who flourished within the memory of many a living man? Even to-day we see dances and athletic sports on the greensward, as we read of them in the poem. Is not the village, too, a reality?—pourtrayed with a charming power in its day of happiness, to make the picture more profoundly touching in its ruin.

As a poetical composition, no critic has impugned the high merits of "The Deserted Village." The whole world, learned and unlearned-all who have hearts to feel, and sensibilities to be moved-own its power. In versification, it is exquisitely harmonious; in language, it is polished, elegant, and vigorous. It teems with tender and pathetic sentiment, and touches of the finest humour; with high moral feeling; with noble and effective imagery; with portraitures of character that exhibit the conception of a genius, and the hand of a master. In fine, it abounds with all the elements that make

a great poem, and won for its author from the greatest of contemporary bards, the curt yet high eulogy, "That man is a POET."

We subjoin the Dedication, both for its elegance and as the best exposition of the Author's object :

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

DEAR SIR,-I can have no expectation in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel; and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, therefore, aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I

loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you.

How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire: but I know you will object—and indeed several of my best and wisest friends concur in the opinion-that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether the country be depopulating, or not; the discussion would take up too much room; and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head; and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to tastes by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right.

I am, dear Sir, your sincere friend and ardent admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

NOTE. The text of the sixth edition has been adopted in this Work.