and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the dis-. temper. Like the tyger, that seldom desists from pursuing man, after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force, and his phrenzy fire. : What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse, to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to shew, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. 1 I am, DEAR SIR, Your most affectionate brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE TRAVELLER. REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest he that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fir ; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care; Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd, Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round, As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Pleas'd with each good that heav'n to man sup plies: |