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How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith, in respect to that gentleman.
JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.
HERE Hermes, says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow, Go fetch me some clay-I will make an odd fellow; Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and some
Without cause be he pleas'd, without cause be he cross;
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery.
A JEU D'ESPRIT.
ARE these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,.
Then what was his failing! come tell it, and burn ye→
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind?
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. [stuff,
* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Doctor Gold
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a † grave man : Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill: A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to news-paper essays confin'd! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content "if the table he set in a roar;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall confess'd him a wit.
* Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.
Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes ; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb: To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.*
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy mem❜ry I cannot refuse, [Muse." Thou best humor'd man with the worst humor'd
* Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."*
AH me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
* Sir, I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, "The Humors of Balamagiary," to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words; but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand writing, with an affectionate care. I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,