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in hand, than mingle in the proudest assemblies. And above all, startlingly true, beneath my feet was

Yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild.

"A painting from the life could not be more exact. 'The stubborn currant-bush' lifts its head above the rank grass, and the proud holyhock flaunts where its sisters of the flower-knot are no more.

"In the middle of the village stands the old hawthorn tree,' built up with masonry, to distinguish and preserve it: it is old and stunted, and suffers much from the depredations of post-chaise travellers, who generally stop to procure a twig. Opposite to it is the village alehouse, over the door of which swings The Three Jolly Pigeons." Within, every thing is arranged according to the letter:

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The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock, that click'd behind the door,
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose.

"Captain Hogan, I have heard, found great difficulty in obtaining the twelve good rules,' but at length purchased them at some London book stall, to adorn the white-washed parlour of The Three Jolly Pigeons. However laudable this may be, nothing shook my faith in the reality of Auburn so much as this exactness, which had the disagreeable air of being got up for the occasion. The last object of pilgrimage is the quondam habitation of the schoolmaster,

There in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule.

"It is surrounded with fragrant proofs of its identity in

The blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay.

"Here is to be seen the chair of the poet, which fell into the hands of its present possessors at the wreck of the parsonage-house; they have frequently refused large offers of purchase; but more, I daresay, for the sake of drawing contributions from the curious, than from any reverence for the bard. The chair is of oak, with back and seat of cane, which precluded all hopes of a secret drawer, like that lately discovered in Gay's. There is no fear of its being worn out by the devout earnestness of sitters—a wear and tear that Geoffrey Crayon so humorously describes-as the cocks and hens have usurped undisputed possession of it, and protest most clamorously against all attempts to get it cleansed, or to seat one's self.

"The controversy concerning the identity of this Auburn, was formerly a standing theme of discussion among the learned of the neighbourhood, but since the pros and cons have been all ascertained, the argument has died away. Its abettors plead the singular agreement between the local history of the place and the Auburn of the poem, and the exactness with which the scenery of the one answers to the description of the other. To this is opposed the mention of the nightingale, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made;

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there being no such bird in the island. The objection is slighted, on the other hand, by considering the passage as a mere poetical licence. Besides, say they, the Robin is the Irish nightingale. And if it be hinted, how unlikely it was that Goldsmith should have laid the scene in a place from which he was and had been so long absent, the rejoinder is always, 'Pray, sir, was Milton in hell when he built Pandemonium?' "The line is naturally drawn between; there can be no doubt that the poet intended England by

The land to hast'ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay.

"But it is very natural to suppose, that at the same time his imagination had in view the scenes of his youth, which gives such strong features of resemblance to the picture."

To these proofs of the identity of Auburn and Lishoy, which seem to be sufficiently satisfactory, we shall only add one passage from the poem itself, where the author evidently alludes, in no fictitious character, to the scene of his childhood and early youth:

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Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs and God has given my share.
still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose;
I still had hopes-for pride attends us still-
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return- and die at home at last.

GOLDSMITH'S QUARREL WITH EVANS THE
BOOKSELLER.

THE following is the letter which occasioned the fracas between Goldsmith and Evans the bookseller, mentioned in our Life of the Poet, vol. i. pp. 43-6. It is said to have

been written by Dr Kenrick, who was, at the time, on terms of apparent friendship with Goldsmith, but whose malice seldom spared friend or foe, when they became sufficiently eminent to attract public attention. The letter is remarkable less for its wit than its malignity, and would scarcely have deserved insertion in this place, had it not given rise to a very ridiculous event in Goldsmith's personal history.

FOR THE LONDON PACKET. TO DR GOLDSMITH.

Vous vous noyez par vanité

"SIR,- The happy knack which you have learnt of puffing your own compositions, provokes me to come forth. You have not been the editor of newspapers and magazines, not to discover the trick of literary humbug. But the gauze is so thin, that the very foolish part of the world see through it, and discover the Doctor's monkey face and cloven foot. Your poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. Would man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told, that for hours the great Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque orangoutang's figure in a pier glass? Was but the lovely H -k as much enamoured, you would not sigh, my gentle swain, in vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will this same bard of Bedlam ring the changes in the praise of Goldy! But what has he to be either proud or vain of? The Traveller is a flimsy poem, built upon false principles-principles diametrically opposite to liberty. What is the GoodNatured Man but a poor, water-gruel, dramatic dose? What is the Deserted Village but a pretty poem, of easy numbers, without fancy, dignity, genius, or fire? And, pray, what may be the last speaking pantomime, so praised by the Doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of stuff, the figure of a woman with a fish's tail, without plot, incident, or intrigue? We are made to laugh at stale dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry for wit, and grimace for humour; wherein every scene is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws of nature, and of the drama: viz. two gentlemen come to a man of fortune's house, eat, drink, &c. and take it for an inn. The one is intended as a lover for the daughter: he talks with her for some hours; and when he sees her again, in a different dress, he treats her as a bargirl, and swears she squinted. He abuses the master of the house, and threatens to kick him out of his own doors. The Squire, whom we are told is to be a fool, proves the most sensible being of the piece; and he makes out a whole act, by bidding his mother lie close behind a

Miss Horneck.-B.

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bush, persuading her that his father, her own husband, is a highwayman, and that he is come to cut their throats: and to give his cousin an opportunity to go off, he drives his mother over hedges, ditches, and through ponds. There is not, sweet sucking Johnson, a natural stroke in the whole play, but the young fellow's giving the stolen jewels to the mother, supposing her to be the landlady. That Mr Colman did no justice to this piece, I honestly allow; that he told all his friends that it would be damned, I positively aver; and, from such ungenerous insinuations, without a dramatie merit, it rose to public notice; and it is now the ton to go and see it, though I never saw a person that either liked it, or approved it, any more than the absurd plot of Home's tragedy of Alonzo Mr Goldsmith, correct your arrogance, reduce your vanity, and endeavour to believe, as a man, you are of the plainest sort; and, as an author, but a mortal piece of mediocrity.

"TOM TICKLE."

DR JOHNSON'S EPITAPH ON DR GOLDSMITH.

IT has been already mentioned in the Life of Goldsmith, (see vol. i. p. 51,) that this epitaph gave rise to a sort of respectful remonstrance by some of the poet's friends, which was forwarded ; to Dr Johnson in the form of a Round Robin. Our readers will not be displeased to find this literary curiosity, together with its history, transferred from the amusing pages of Boswell to the illustration of the works, of the poet, whose memory so many distinguished men were anxious to honour. We also transcribe two letters from Johnson to Sir Joshua Reynolds on the same subject:

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

"DEAR SIR, -I have been kept away from you, I know not well how, and of these vexatious hinderances I know not when there will be an end. I therefore send you the poor dear Doctor's epitaph. Read it first yourself; and if you then think it right, shew it to the Club. I am, you know, willing to be corrected. If you think any thing much amiss, keep it to yourself, till we come together. I have sent two copies, but prefer the card. The dates must be settled by Dr Percy. SAM. JOHNSON."

I am, sir, your most humble servant, "May 16, 1776."

"SIR,

TO THE SAME.

Miss Reynolds has a mind to send the epitaph to Dr Beattie; I am very willing, but having no copy, cannot immediately recollect She tells me you have lost it. Try to recollect, and put down as much as you retain ; you perhaps may have kept what I have dropped.

it.

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The lines for which I am at a loss are something of rerum civilium sive naturalium.* It was a sorry trick to lose it; help me if you I am, sir, your most humble servant, "June 22, 1776.

can.

"The gout grows better but slowly."

SAM. JOHNSON."

"It was, I think, after I had left London in this year," continues Boswell, that this epitaph gave occasion to a Remonstrance to the Monarch of literature, for an account of which I am indebted to Sir. William Forbes of Pitsligo.

"Sir William Forbes writes to me thus: I enclose the Round Robin. This jeu d'esprit took its rise one day at dinner at our friend Sir Joshua Reynolds's. All the company present, except myself, were friends and acquaintance of Dr Goldsmith. The epitaph, written for him by Dr Johnson, became the subject of conversation, and various emendations were suggested, which it was agreed should be submitted to the Doctor's consideration. But the question was, who should have the courage to propose them to him. At last it was hinted, that there could be no way so good as that of a Round Robin, as the sailors call it, which they make use of when they enter into a conspiracy, so as not to let it be known who puts his name first or last to the paper. This proposition was instantly assented to; and Dr Barnard, Dean of Derry, now Bishop of Killaloe, drew up an address to Dr Johnson on the occasion, replete with wit and humour, but which it was feared the Doctor might think treated the subject with too much levity. Mr Burke then proposed the address as it stands in the paper in writing, to which I had the honour to officiate as clerk.

"Sir Joshua agreed to carry it to Dr Johnson, who received it with much good humour, † and desired Sir Joshua to tell the gentlemen, that he would alter the epitaph in any manner they pleased, as to the sense of it; but he would never consent to disgrace the walls of Westminster Abbey with an English inscription.

"I consider this Round Robin as a species of literary curiosity worth preserving, as it marks, in a certain degree, Dr Johnson's character.""

"We, the circumscribers, having read with great pleasure, an intended epitaph for the monument of Dr Goldsmith, which, considered abstractedly, appears to be, for elegant composition and masterly style, in every respect worthy of the pen of its learned author, are yet of opinion, that the character of the deceased as a writer, particularly as a poet, is 'perhaps not delineated with all the exactness which Dr Johnson is capable of giving it. We, therefore, with deference to his superior judgment, humbly request that he would at least take the trouble of revising it, and of making such additions and alterations as he shall

* These words must have been in the other copy. They are not in that which was preferred.

+"He, however, upon seeing Dr Warton's name to the suggestion, that the epitaph should be in English, observed to Sir Joshua, I wonder that Joe Warton, a scholar by profession, should be such a fool.' He said, too, I should have thought Mund Burke would have had more sense.' Mr Langton, who was one of the company at Sir Joshua's, like a sturdy scholar, resolutely refused to sign the Round Robin. This epitaph is engraved upon Dr Goldsmith's monument without any alteration."

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