appeal is little likely now to be lodged against it.  Within the circle of its claims and pretensions, a more entirely satisfactory and delightful poem than “The Deserted Village” was probably never written.  It lingers in the memory where once it has entered; and such is the softening influence on the heart of the mild, tender, yet clear light which makes its images so distinct and lovely, that there are few who have not wished to rate it higher than poetry of yet higher genius.  Goldsmith looked into his heart and wrote.

The poet had now attained social distinction, and we find him passing from town to country with titled friends, and visiting, in somewhat failing health, fashionable resorts, such as Bath.  His home remained in the Temple.  His worldly affairs continued a source of constant embarrassment, however, and when, in 1772, he had placed the manuscript of “She Stoops to Conquer” in the hands of Colman, not only his own entreaties but the interference of Johnson were used to hasten its production in order to relieve his anxieties.  Colman was convinced the comedy would be unsuccessful.  It was first acted on March 15, 1773, and, “quite the reverse to everybody’s expectation,” it was received with the utmost applause.

At this time Goldsmith was sadly in arrears with work he had promised to the booksellers; disputes were pending, and his circumstances were verging on positive distress.  The necessity of completing his “Animated Nature”—­for which all the money had been received and spent—­hung like a mill-stone upon him.  His advances had been considerable on other works not yet begun.  In what leisure he could get from these tasks he was working at a “Grecian History” to procure means to meet his daily liabilities.

It occurred to friends at this time to agitate the question of a pension for him, on the ground of “distinction in the literary world, and the prospect of approaching distress,” but as he had never been a political partisan, the application was met by a firm refusal.  Out of the worries of this darkening period, with ill-health adding to his cares, the genius of the poet flashed forth once more in his personal poem, “Retaliation.”  At a club dinner at St. James’s coffee-house, the proposition was made that each member present should write an epitaph on Goldsmith, and Garrick started with: 

    Here is Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll,
    Who wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll.

Later, Goldsmith retaliated with epitaphs on his circle of club friends.  His list of discriminating pictures was not complete when he died.  Indeed, the picture of Reynolds breaks off with a half line.

On March 25, 1774, the poet was too ill to attend the club gathering—­how ill, his friends failed to realise.  On the morning of April 4, he died from weakness following fever.  “Is your mind at ease?” asked his doctor.  “No, it is not,” was the melancholy answer, and his last recorded words.  His debts amounted to not less than two thousand pounds.  “Was ever poet so trusted!” exclaimed Johnson.