POSTSCRIPT. AFTER the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,* from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith. HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind * Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humourous essays. ↑ Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being affected with the itch of punning. Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross readings, ship news, and mistakes of the press. Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I'd almost said wit: This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 'Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd muse.' * M. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. † Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. TO THE PRINTER OF THE ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. * Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing; and were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning, for communications of a much more important nature. I am, SIR, Yours, &c., OLIVER GOLDSMITH. *The Friar of Orders Gray.' Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. i,, p. 243. "For here, forlorn and lost, I tread "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. " Here, to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And, though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. "Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestowsMy rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. "No flocks that range the valley free "But, from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. |