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 pleased, 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 raised,
While he was be-Rosciused and you were be-praised!
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."

This portion of Retaliation soon brought a retort from Garrick, which we insert as giving something of a likeness of Goldsmith, though in broad cari

cature.

"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 pleased, 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 lips 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, shail fetch him, to make us sport here."

These are the last reliques we have of poor Goldsmith and his literary career. In the early part of 1774 he made an effort to rally his spirits by going into gay society: a mode of dissipating care which he commended in his essays. "Our club," writes Beauclerk about this time, "has dwindled away to nothing. Nobody attends but Mr. Chambers, and he is going to the East Indies. Sir Joshua and Goldsmith have got into such a round of pleas. ures that they have no time."

In this forced mood he gave entertainments in his chambers in the Temple, and at an expense far beyond his means. The last of these was a dinner to Johnson, Reynolds, and others of his intimates, who partook with sorrow and reluctance of his im. prudent hospitality. The first course vexed them by its needless profusion. When a second, equally extravagant, was served up, Johnson and Reynolds declined to partake of it; the rest of the company, understanding their motives, followed their example, and the dishes went from the table untasted; Goldsmith felt sensibly this silent and well-intended rebuke.

The gayeties of society, however, cannot medicine for any length of time a mind diseased. Wea. ried of the distractions and harassed by the expenses of a town life, Goldsmith now thought of retiring to the serene quiet and cheap pleasures of the country, and of only passing two months of the year in London. He accordingly sold his right in the Temple Chambers, and, in the month of March, retired to his country quarters at Hyde; but the recurrence of a painful disease, which had been gradually increasing upon him for some years

past, added to the general decline of his health, soon brought him back to London. The local complaint subsided, but was succeeded by a nervous fever. Mental anxieties and disappointments, which had previously sapped his constitution, doubtless aggravated his present complaint; for, in reply to the inquiries of his physician, he acknowledged that his mind was not at ease. His malady fluctuated for several days, and hopes were entertained of his recovery, but they proved fallacious. He expired on the 4th of April, 1774, in the fortyfifth year of his age. That his premature death was hastened by mental distress, was the universal opinion of his friends, especially when they found out the embarrassed state of his affairs. "Of poor Dr. Goldsmith," said Johnson to Boswell, "there is little to be told more than the papers have made public. He died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by uneasiness of mind. His debts began to be heavy, and all his resources were exhausted. Sir Joshua is of opinion that he owed no less than two thousand pounds. Was ever poet so trusted before."*

The death of Goldsmith was a shock to the literary world, and a deep affliction to a wide circle of intimates and friends; for, with all his foibles and peculiarities, he was fully as much beloved as he was admired. Burke, on hearing the news, burst into tears, and Sir Joshua Reynolds threw by his pencil for the day and grieved. In the warm feeling of the moment, it was determined to honour his remains by a public funeral and a

* His debts actually amounted to 40007.

tomb in Westminster Abbey. His very pall-bearers were designated, viz., Lord Shelburne, Lord Lowth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, the Hon. Mr. Beauclerk, Mr. Edward Burke, and David Garrick. This feeling cooled down, however, when it was discovered that he had died in debt, and had not left wherewithal to pay for such expensive obsequies. He was privately interred, therefore, on Saturday evening, in the Temple burying-ground, a few persons attending as mourners, among whom we do not find specified any of his peculiar and distinguished friends. One person, however, from whom it was but little to be expected, evinced real sorrow on the occasion. This was Hugh Kelly, once his dramatic opponent, and often, it was said, his anonymous assailant in the newspapers. If he had really been guilty of this basest of literary offences, he was punished by the stings of remorse, for we are told that he shed bitter tears over the grave of the man he had injured. His tardy atonement only provoked the lash of some unknown satirist, as the following lines will show:

"Hence Kelly, who years, without honour or shame,
Had been sticking his bodkin in Oliver's fame,
Who thought, like the Tartar, by this to inherit
His genius, his learning, simplicity, spirit;
Now sets every feature to weep o'er his fate,
And acts as a mourner to blubber in state."

One base wretch deserves to be mentioned, the reptile Kenrick, who, after having repeatedly slandered Goldsmith while living, had the audacity to insult his memory when dead. The following distich is sufficient to show his malignancy, and to hold him up to execration.

"By his own art, who justly died,

A blund'ring, artless suicide:

Share, earthworms, share, since now he's dead,
His megrim, maggot-bitten head."

This scurrilous epitaph produced a burst of public indignation, that awed for a time even the infamous Kenrick into silence. On the other hand, the press teemed with tributes in verse and prose to the memory of the deceased; all evincing the mingled feeling of admiration for the author and affection for the man. The following eulogy, by Mr. Woty, will serve as a specimen.

"Adieu, sweet bard! to each fine feeling true,
Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few;

Those forced to charm e'en vicious minds, and these
With harmless mirth the social soul to please.
Another's wo thy heart could always melt,

None gave more free, for none more deeply felt.
Sweet bard, adieu! thy own harmonious lays
Have sculptured out thy monument of praise;
Yes, these survive to Time's remotest day,
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay.
Reader, if number'd in the Muses' train,
Go, tune thy lyre, and imitate the strain;
But if no poet, then reverse the plan,
Depart in peace, and imitate the man."

Not long after the death of Goldsmith, the Literary Club set on foot a subscription, and raised a fund to erect a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey. It was executed by Nollekins, and consisted simply of the bust of Goldsmith in profile, in high relief in a medallion, with a white marble tablet beneath, bearing the following inscription, composed by Dr. Johnson.

OLIVARII GOLDSMITH,
Poetæ, Physici, Historici,
Qui nullum ferè scribendi genus
Non tetigit,