e down;
To husband out life's taper at its close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes--for pride attends us still--
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt and all I saw.
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return--and die at home at last."

But he never saw Ireland after he left it in Seventeen Hundred
Fifty-four. He died in London in Seventeen Hundred Seventy-four, aged
forty-six. On the plain little monument in Temple Church where he was
buried are only these words:

Here Lies Oliver Goldsmith.

Hawkins once called on the Earl of Northumberland and found Goldsmith
waiting in an outer room, having come in response to an invitation from
the nobleman. Hawkins, having finished his business, waited until
Goldsmith came out, as he had a curiosity to know why the Earl had sent
for him.

"Well," said Hawkins, "what did he say to you?"

"His lordship told me that he had read 'The Traveler,' and that he was
pleased with it, and that inasmuch as he was soon to be Lord-Lieutenant
of Ireland, and knowing I was an Irishman, asked what he could do for
me!"

"And what did you tell him?" inquired the eager Hawkins.

"Why, there was nothing for me to say, but that I was glad he liked my
poem, and--that I had a brother in Ireland, a clergyman, who stood in
need of help----"

"Enough!" cried Hawkins, and left him.

To Hawkins himself are we indebted for the incident, and after relating
it Hawkins adds:

"And thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world trifle with his
fortunes!"

Let him who wishes preach a sermon on this story. But there you have it!
"A brother in Ireland who needs help----"

The brother in London, the brother in America, the brother in Ireland who
needs help! All men were his brothers, and those who needed help were
first in his mind.

Dear little Doctor Goldsmith, you were not a hustler, but when I get to
the Spirit World, I'll surely hunt you up!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,
extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation
of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most
humorous sadness.

--_As You Like It_

[Illustration: WILLI