most thoroughly original productions are his comedies and minor poems, particularly She Stoops to Conquer, and the two pieces of wit and humor extracted into this volume. His comic writing is of the class which is perhaps as much preferred to that of a staider sort by people in general, as it is by the writer of these pages,comedy running into farce; that is to say, truth richly colored and overflowing with animal spirits. It is that of the prince of comic writers, Molière (always bearing in mind that Molière beats every one of them in expression, and is a great verse writer to boot). The English have no dramatists to compare in this respect with the Irish. Farquhar, Goldsmith, and Sheridan, surpass them all; and O'Keefe, as a farce-writer, stands alone.
Goldsmith, with all his imprudences, never forgot the one thing needful to a good author,—the “Porro unum necessarium,” -style.
Observe in the following poems how all the words fall in their right places, and what an absence there is of the unfit and super. fluous.
Of old, when Scarron' his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united,
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean3 shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains:
Our Will' shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavor,
And Dick5 with his pepper shall heighten their savor;
Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding substantial and plain;
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree;
To make out the dinner full certain I am
That Ridge' is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb,
That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
'Till all my companions fall under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encirciing my nead,
Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth,
Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt;
At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind,
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining ·
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient
In short 't was his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.10
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his arguments wrong;
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! What wit and what whim,
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short so provoking a Devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old Nick:
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine :
Like a Tragedy Queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather, like Tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and so drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks;
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds" shall be pious, our Kendricks shall lecture;
Macpherson" write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshends make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover:
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confest without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line :
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art;
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick,
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys " and Woodfalls' so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave?
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 Shakspeare, receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherish'd his friends, 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 were 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 out of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.“
"First printed in 1774, after the author's death. Dr. Gold. sinith, and some of his friends, occasionally dined at St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and, at the next meeting, prɔ duced the poem."-(Note in old edition.)
2 Scarron, the famous French wit, who was so poor that his friends made a pic-nic of their dinners at his house.
3 Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bishop of Limerick, and of Killaloe.
Dr. afterwards Bishop Douglas, who detected the forgeries of Lauder's pretended plagiarism, and Bower's History of the Popes. 'A gentleman at the Irish bar.
8 An eminent attorney.
9 The once famous statesman.
10 Burke's digestion was delicate, and cold mutton his standing
Dr. Dodd, the unhappy clergyman.
"Dr. Kenrick, a petty author, and troublesome critic of that day.
13 The famous compiler of Ossian.
14 Hugh Kelly, author of some clever sentimental comedies, of the success of which Goldsmith condescended to be jealous.
William Wood fall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
16 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the neces sity of using an ear-trumpet.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE, 1765.
Thanks, my lord, for your venison; for finer or fatter
Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.
Though my stomach was sharp I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;
I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù:
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show.
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