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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 hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.†



After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a graves man:

Goldsmith alludes, when, in describing Sir Joshua Reynolds, he employed the epithet bland a word eminently happy, and characteristic of his easy and placid manner; but, taking into our consideration at once the soundness of his understanding, and the mildness and suavity of his deportment, perhaps Horace's description of the amiable friend of the younger Scipio-the 'mitis sapientia Læli,'-may convey to posterity a more perfect idea of our illustrious painter, than the unfinished delineation of his poetical friend."-MALONE, Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds.]

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

["These were the last lines Goldsmith ever wrote. He had written half a line more of this character, when he was seized with the fever which carried him in a few days to the grave. He intended to have concluded with his own character."-MALONE.]

Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

§ Mr. Whitefoord 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.

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 bon 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 newspaper essays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table be set in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall* confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper 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,

"Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd Muse."‡

* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

+ Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

[The wit of Goldsmith in this poem produced, as such things frequently

do, an effusion of wit from other men. Garrick, who had a turn for epigram, was the first in the field led by the skill and keenness with which his own character had been analyzed, but unprepared for reply, his first feeling seems to have been one of mere discontent, which he expressed in the following



"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."

Further reflection convinced Garrick of the enduring nature of the satire ; and he soon found that it was thought by others to contain much truth. This prompted a more labored effusion in the form of attack on his assailant; for the idea and point of which, however, he is indebted to Swift. It was not printed, and probably not written, before 1776.



"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 fine 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."

Cumberland, having no resentments to gratify, ventured to imitate his original, by applying to wines the characters appropriated by Goldsmith to dishes. The idea was good: and in the following piece, which was first printed about 1777, is cleverly executed, though infinitely inferior to the humor, discrimination, and talent that pervades Retaliation.'

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"To Cradock* next in order turn ye,
And grace him with the wines of Ferney.

"Now, Doctor, you're an honest sticker,
So take your glass, and choose your liquor.
Wil't have it steep'd in Alpine snows,
Or damask'd at Silenus' nose?


With Wakefield's Vicar sip your tea,
Or to Thalia drink with me?
And, Doctor, I would have ye know it,
An honest I, though humble, poet;
I scorn the sneaker like a toad,
Who drives his cart the Dover Road;
There, traitor to his country's trade,
Smuggles vile scraps of French brocade.
Hence with all such! for you and I
By English wares will live and die.
Come, draw your chair, and stir the fire;
And, boy!-a pot of Thrale's entire!"

Dean Barnard, who wrote verses with facility, printed the following lines

after perusing those of Goldsmith and Cumberland :

"Dear Noll and dear Dick, since you've made us so merry,
Accept the best thanks of the poor Dean of Derry!
Though I here must confess that your meat and your wine
Are not to my taste, though they're both very fine;
For Sherry's a liquor monastic, you own--

Now there's nothing I hate so as drinking alone:

It may do for your Monks, or your Curates and Vicars,
But for my part, I'm fond of more sociable liquors.
Your Ven'son's delicious, though too sweet your sauce is—
Sed non ego maculis offendar paucis.

So soon as you please you may serve me your dish up,
But instead of your sherry, pray make me a-Bishop."]

[Joseph Cradock, Esq. The allusion is to his having altered and adapted Voltaire's Zobeide' to the English stage.']


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