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cuted by Nollekens, and placed by that of Gay. Johnson furnished the epitaph in Latin, which has been thus translated :

OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH-
A Poet, Naturalist, and Historian.
Who left scarcely any style of writing

untouched,
And touched nothing that he did not adorn;

Of all the passions,
Whether smiles were to be moved

or tears,
A powerful yet gentle master;
In genius, sublime, vivid, versatile,
In style, elevated, clear, elegant-

The love of companions,

The fidelity of friends,

And the veneration of readers,
Have by this monument honoured the memory.

He was born in Ireland,

At a place called Pallas,
[In the parish] of Forney, (and county] of Longford,

On the 29th Nov., 1731 ;
Educated at [the University of] Dublin;

And died in London,

4th April, 1774.

Johnson also penned a Greek tetrastic on his lamented friend, which has thus been translated by Mr. William Seward :

“ Whoe'er thou art, with reverence tread

Where Goldsmith's letter'd dust is laid.
If nature and the historic page,
If the sweet muse thy care engage,
Lament him dead, whose powerful mind
Their various energies combined."

Judge Day, of the Irish bench, when a student in the Temple, was acquainted with Goldsmith, and in his reminiscences presents us with what is no doubt a truthful portrait.

In person he was short, about five feet six inches; strong, but not heavy in make; rather fair in complexion, with brown

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hair, such at least as could be distinguished from his wig. His features were plain, but not repulsive.--certainly not so when lighted up by conversation. His manners were simple, natural, and perhaps, on the whole, we may say, not polished; at least, without the refinement and good-breeding which the exquisite polish of his compositions would lead us to expect. He was always cheerful and animated, often, indeed, boisterous in his mirth; entered with spirit into convivial society; contributed largely to its enjoyments by solidity of information, and the naïveté and originality of his character, talked often without premeditation, and laughed loudly without restraint.”

Goldsmith's character has been drawn by many of our best writers, but we think by none so tersely and so truly as by Mr. Bolton Corney, in the memoir prefixed to the beautiful edition of his works illustrated by the Etching Club.

“ Oliver Goldsmith was a man of noble aspirations, but very incapable of self-command. His principal faults were extreme improvidence in pecuniary matters, and an avowed jealousy of rivals. His amiable qualities were—active philanthropy and good-humour. His frailties, of whatever nature, seem rather to have excited compassion than censure; such was the influence of his genius, and of his humane sympathy with distress.”

Goldsmith did not shine in conversation, for he talked with careless unpremeditation ; his ideas seemed occasionally confused, and his utterance was hurried and ungraceful. At the dinners of the Literary Club he was always one of the last to arrive; and on one occasion a whim seized the company to write epitaphs on him, as the late Dr. Goldsmith." The only one extant was written by Garrick :

“ Here lies poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll,

Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll." Whether in prose or in verse, Goldsmith is entitled to unmixed praise. His poetry, if not sublime, exquisitely beautiful. H the most flowing and elegant of our versifiers

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since Pope, with traits of artless nature which Pope had not, and with a peculiar felicity in his turns upon words which he constantly repeated with delightful effect: such as :

“His feast, though small, He sees that little lot, the lot of all."

“ And turn'd and look'd, and turn’d to look again." And one of the finest things he has left behind him in verse is that prophetic description of Burke in “Retaliation;"

“Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.” The distinguishing attributes of his poetry are simplicity, harmony, and sweetness. It affects no novelties of expression to strike: it tries no experiments on metre to surprise and confound us with the result. Its sole instrument is the tongue of the people; and with this it infallibly accomplishes its purpose. Studious only to please, it invariably delights. As long as the language of England shall survive, so long will “ The Traveller” and “ The Deserted Village” excite the respect of the reader for the genius, and will conciliate his affection for the benignity of the author.

As a novelist, his Vicar of Wakefield" has charmed all Europe. His “ Citizen of the World” and “Moral Essays" are conveyed in the most agreeable chit-chat that can be conceived. And as most of his prose works were written to relieve his necessities, and of course with consequent rapidity, it is marvellous to find, that in them narrative and reflection are so happily united, that they are models of artless diction.

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THE TRAVELLER.

Dedication.

TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH.

DEAR SIR,

I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity with an income of forty pounds a year.

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition—what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party—that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest.

Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, and at length supplant her: they engross all that favour once shown to her; and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birthright.

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse and pindaric odes, choruses, anapests, and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say-for error is ever talkative.

But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader who has once gratified his appetite with calumny makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire.

What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse, to support it, I cannot tell; nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness; and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these posi tions are illustrated in this poem.

I am, dear Sir,
Your most affectionate brother,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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