childish ignorance, assuring us that the luminary within, though still below the horizon, is pressing hard upon the borders of conscious existence? And what parent is there, or what true friend of children, whose joy has not been marred, and turned into sadness, on seeing those simple expressions of affection, those first fruits of unconscious intelligence, brought forward as a matter of display, to court admiration, to gratify and stimulate the artificial appetite of a little child, that has already learned to prefer the sweetmeats of flattery to the home-made bread of truth?

Jesus blessed little children, and said, that "of such is the kingdom of heaven." And this blessing belongs to every one whose heart still inhabits the native heaven of its innocence. That which was said of the great prophet, when the indwelling glory appeared outwardly on his countenance, that "he wist not that his face shone," is true also of the little child. It is true as long as the image of God is still shining through the features of innocent childhood; as long as the eye, that was once single, has not learned to reflect the gaze of admiration, and to glow with a feverish thirst for praise.

It is for this reason that, when I hear well-meaning persons praising children to their faces on account of their bright sayings and winning ways, I have a feeling as if I heard the flattering insinuations of the serpent in paradise, tainting the innocent heart by the discovery of its nakedness.

Flattery is at war with the very soul of childhood. Under its influence, the freshness and simplicity, the freedom and pure enthusiasm, the holy unconcern and boundless confidence, of the child give way to an anxious and calculating pursuit after distinction and applause, until it destroys, at length, those very charms of manner and expression, that untaught grace and freedom of speech and motion, which make children the objects of flattery. The child knows now that his face is shining, and with the inward reality disappears the outward beauty of holiness.

As a careful gardener would expose the tender stem of a

choice plant to the fury of the storm rather than bare its root to the rays of the sun, so I would rather see my child exposed to unjust suffering, and the dangers of bad example, than to the exciting and enervating influence of flattery.

Flattery tempts man to begin his course of life as an actor and a parasite; and before he leaves the stage, it will make him a stranger in his home, nay, in his own bosom, leading him on, from step to step, to make the world his counsellor, his confidant, his conscience, and his God.

The love of display, the selfish anxiety about the appearance of what we are doing, is injurious, not only in the education of children, but in every occupation whatever. The reason is obvious. The apostle advises us, whatever work our hands find to do, to do it with our might. All our strength and attention are required to execute the work we have in hand to the utmost of our ability. Hence, if we give our minds, which should be in our work, to anxious reflection and calculation how it will appear when it is done, or how we shall appear when engaged in doing it, the performance cannot be so perfect and satisfactory as if it were the result of our undivided strength and attention. I presume the daily experience of every one of us will point out to him numerous instances in support and illustration of these remarks. Whoever is called to speak in public, be it from the pulpit or at the bar, or on the floor of a popular assembly, knows, as well as those who listen to him, that whenever he is thinking of himself, his words, his tones, his style or motions, instead of giving his whole soul to the subject which he is to bring home to his hearers, though he be possessed of the highest powers of eloquence, he fails to move and to satisfy either his audience or himself. While he is taking thought about his delivery, as to whether he is expressing himself in choice and appropriate terms and well-built periods, whether his gestures are significant, his tones musical, or his face shining, he is speaking to the eyes and ears, and not to the understanding and hearts of his hearers; or rather, he is addressing himself, as reflected in his own self-complacency or his morbid fear.

1.XIV.-EXTRACT FROM THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

GOLDSMITH.

[OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, Novem ber 10, 1728, and died April 4, 1774. Ile was educated a physician, but his real profes sion was that of a man of letters. His position in English literature is very high; indeed, there is hardly any writer who is so general a favorite, both in prose and poetry A considerable portion of what he wrote was mere task-work for the booksellers, and is of little value. His fame as a prose writer rests upon his essays, The Citizen of the World, and The Vicar of Wakefield. These are all delightful works, and the last is of unrivalled excellence. His prose style is easy and graceful; penetrated with a charming vein of humor; and showing a most engaging sweetness and kindliness of nature. There is an indescribable fascination about The Vicar of Wakefield. It suits all ages and all classes of minds; and no book has woven itself more extensively into the general heart of both England and America.

His two principal poems, The Traveller and The Deserted Village, enjoy great popularity, and deservedly so. Their versification is finished, yet easy; they abound in beautiful pictures; the style is of simple elegance; the sentiments breathe an unforced dignity; and in The Deserted Village, especially, there is a mixture of tenderness, pathos, and graceful humor, which has never been surpassed. Some of his smaller poems have also great merit. He was the author of two good and successful comedies, The Good Natured Man, and She Stoops to Conquer.

Goldsmith's life was not wise or happy. He had a warm heart and an amiable disposition; but he wanted dignity of character and strength of will; and many of those who loved him could not respect him. He was continually committing follies, and then repenting them. He was generous, but not just; and his improvident habits kept him in a miserable state of pecuniary distress, which imbittered, and perhaps shortened, his life. His works abound with sound observations on the conduct of life, but he could never be wise for himself.

Goldsmith has been happy in his biographers. His life has been written by Sir Walter Scott, James Prior, Washington Irving, and John Forster.* The first is a brief and well-written notice; the second is a laborious but rather heavy book; the third- by a man of kindred genius-is a delightful sketch; and the last is a work of great merit, written in a generous tone, and containing much admirable criticism, as well as many curious notices of the literature and literary men of Goldsmith's time.]

SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evenings close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below:
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung;
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;

Author of the Lives of the Statesmen of the Commonwealth, in Lardner's Cyclo pædia, and not to be confounded with John Foster, author of the essay on Decision of Character.

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whispering wind;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled 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 footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled,
All but yon widowed, 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 wished to change, his place:
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned 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-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned 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 leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed 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.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.