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How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd? But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:

Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will,

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.*

The following poems by Mr. Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith, in respect to that gentleman.


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 dross ;

Without cause be he pleas'd, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,

A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which warm'd in the baking,
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with find taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,

Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail :

For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet :
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-be GOLDSMITH his name ;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You Hermes, shall fetch him-to make us sport here.

On Dr. Goldsmith's Characteristical Cookery.


ARE these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great poet whose works so content us?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,.
And slander itself must allow him good nature;

He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? ah no!

Then what was his failing! come tell it, and burn ye→
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

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 manners was gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart :
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg'd without skill, he was still hard of

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 Goldsmith.

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 flattʼry, 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.

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AH me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could marry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner :
Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

* 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 agreea bly. 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,

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