Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,
Are here display'd. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts:
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,
Even liberty itself is barter'd here.
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.


It was with his good Uncle Contarine's money that Goldsmith
travelled to Leyden. The time came to leave, and Oliver was again
without resources. He borrowed a sufficient sum from Dr. Ellis, a
fellow-countryman living there, and prepared for his departure. But on
his way from the doctor's he had to pass a florist's, in whose window
there chanced to be exhibited the very variety of flower which Uncle
Contarine had so often praised and expressed a desire to possess. Given
the man and the moment, what can you expect? Goldsmith, chief among
those blessed natures who never interrupt a generous impulse, plunged
into the florist's house and despatched a costly bundle of bulbs to
Ireland. The next day he left Leyden with a guinea in his pocket,
no clothes but those he stood in, and a flute in his hand. For the
rest you must see the story of the Philosophic Vagabond.

Evelyn records an amusing experience at Leyden in August, 1641:
"I was brought acquainted with a Burgundian Jew, who had married