nd one note of liberty in the world's ears. But it seems
that the grosser and saner freedom of the happy beggar is still the
subject of a Spanish song.

That song is gay, not defiant it is not an outlaw's or a robber's, it is
not a song of violence or fear. It is the random trolling note of a man
who owes his liberty to no disorder, failure, or ill-fortune, but takes
it by choice from the voluntary world, enjoys it at the hand of
unreluctant charity; who twits the world with its own choice of bonds,
but has not broken his own by force. It seems, therefore, the song of an
indomitable liberty of movement, light enough for the puffs of a zephyr
chance.

THE LADIES OF THE IDYLL

Little Primrose dames of the English classic, the wife and daughters of
the Vicar of Wakefield have no claim whatever to this name of lady. It
is given to them in this page because Goldsmith himself gave it to them
in the yet undepreciated state of the word, and for the better reason
that he obviously intended them to be the equals of the men to whom he
marries them, those men being, with all their faults, gentlemen.
Goldsmith, in a word, meant them to be ladies, of country breeding, but
certainly fit for membership of that large class of various fortune
within which the name makes a sufficient equality.

He, their author, thought them sufficient. Having amused himself
ingeniously throughout the story with their nameless vulgarities, he
finally hurries them into so much sentiment as may excuse the convention
of heroes in love. He plays with their coarseness like a perfectly
pleased and clever showman, and then piously and happily shuts up his
couples--the gentle Dr. Primrose with his abominable Deborah; the
excellent Mr. Burchell with the paltry Sophia; Olivia--but no, Olivia is
not so certainly happy ever after; she has a captured husband ready for
her in a state of ignominy, but she has also a forgotten farmer somewhere
in the background--the unhappy man whom, with her father's permission,
this sorry heroine had promised to marry in order that his wooing might
pluck forward the lagging suit of the squire.

Olivia, then, plays her common trick upon the harmless Williams, her
father conniving, with a provision that he urges with some demonstration
of virtue: she shall consent to make the farmer happy if the proposal of
the squire be not after all forthcoming. But it is so evident her author
knew no better, that this matter may pa