“MY LORD,

“Your lordship’s most humble, most obedient servant,

“SAM JOHNSON.”

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

(1728-1774.)

XLI.  THE RETALIATION.

The origin of the following satire is told by Boswell (who was prejudiced against Goldsmith) in this wise:  “At a meeting of a company of gentlemen who were well known to each other and diverting themselves among other things with the peculiar oddities of Dr. Goldsmith, who would never allow a superior in any art, from writing poetry down to dancing a hornpipe, Goldsmith, with great eagerness, insisted on matching his epigrammatic powers with Garrick’s.  It was determined that each should write the other’s epitaph.  Garrick immediately said his epitaph was finished, and spoke the following distich extempore: 

         “’Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll,
          Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll’.

“Goldsmith would not produce his at the time, but some weeks after,
read to the company this satire in which the characteristics of
them all were happily hit off.”

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 a good dish: 
Our Dean 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 flavour;
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour;
Our Cumberland’s sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: 
Our Garrick 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 sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

    Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,

Who mix’d 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 them out;
Yet some have declared, and it can’t be denied them,
That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them. 

    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: