tion of
what we see, but of what a visionary might wish. The zephyr breathes
the most exquisite perfume; the trees wear eternal verdure; fawns, and
dryads, and hamadryads, stand ready to fan the sultry shepherdess, who
has forgot, indeed, the prettiness with which Guarini's shepherdesses
have been reproached, but is so simple and innocent as often to have
no meaning. Happy country, where the pastoral age begins to
revive!--where the wits even of Rome are united into a rural group of
nymphs and swains, under the appellation of modern Arcadians!--where
in the midst of porticoes, processions, and cavalcades, abbes turned
shepherds and shepherdesses without sheep indulge their innocent
_divertimenti_!"

In Germany the ponderous volumes of the commentators next come in for
animadversion; and here we find an epigram, the quaint simplicity of
which is peculiarly characteristic of Goldsmith. "Were angels to write
books," he remarks, "they never would write folios." But Germany gets
credit for the money spent by her potentates on learned institutions;
and it is perhaps England that is delicately hinted at in these words:
"Had the fourth part of the immense sum above-mentioned been given in
proper rewards to genius, in some neighbouring countries, it would
have rendered the name of the donor immortal, and added to the real
interests of society." Indeed, when we come to England, we find that
men of letters are in a bad way, owing to the prevalence of critics,
the tyranny of booksellers, and the absence of patrons. "The author,
when unpatronized by the great, has naturally recourse to the
bookseller. There cannot perhaps be imagined a combination more
prejudicial to taste than this. It is the interest of the one to allow
as little for writing, and of the other to write as much as possible.
Accordingly, tedious compilations and periodical magazines are the
result of their joint endeavours. In these circumstances the author
bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only. Imagination
is seldom called in. He sits down to address the venal muse with the
most phlegmatic apathy; and, as we are told of the Russian, courts his
mistress by falling asleep in her lap. His reputation never spreads in
a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not
for the fineness of his compositions, but the quantity he works off in
a given time.

"A long habit of writing for bread thus turns the ambition of every
author at last