cided to publish his Retaliation, and Johnson at the same time undertook to write an epitaph for our lamented friend, to whom we proposed to erect a monument by subscription in Westminster-Abbey. This epitaph Johnson executed but in the criticism, that was attempted against it, and in the Round-Robin signed at Mr. Beauclerc's house I had no part. I had no acquaintance with that gentleman, and was never in his house in my life.

Thus died Oliver Goldsmith in his chambers in the Temple at a period of life, when his genius was yet in its vigour, and fortune seemed disposed to smile upon him. I have heard Dr. Johnson relate with infinite humour the circumstance of his rescuing him from a ridiculous dilemma by the purchase money of his Vicar of Wakefield, which he sold on his behalf to Dodsley, and, as I think, for the sum of ten pounds only. He had run up a debt with his landlady for board and lodging of some few pounds, and was at his wit's-end how to wipe off the score and keep a roof over his head, except by closing with a very staggering proposal on her part, and taking his creditor to wife, whose charms were very far from alluring,

whilst her demands were extremely urgent. In this crisis of his fate he was found by Johnson in the act of meditating on the melancholy alternative before him. He shewed Johnson his manuscript of The Vicar of Wakefield, but seemed to be without any plan, or even hope, of raising money upon the disposal of it; when Johnson cast his eye upon it, he discovered something that gave him hope, and immediately took it to Dodsley, who paid down the price above-mentioned in ready money, and added an eventual condition upon its future sale. Johnson described the precautions he took in concealing the amount of the sum he had in hand, which he prudently administered to him by a guinea at a time. In the event he paid off the landlady's score, and redeemed the person of his friend from her embraces. Goldsmith had the joy of finding his ingenious work succeed beyond his hopes, and from that time began to place a confidence in the resources of his talents, which thenceforward enabled him to keep his station in society, and cultivate the friendship of many eminent persons, who, whilst they smiled at his eccen

tricities, esteemed him for his genius and good qualities.

My father had been translated to the see of Kilmore, which placed him in a more civilised country, and lodged him in a more comfortable house. I continued my yearly visits, and again went over to Ireland with part of my family, and passed my whole summer recess at Kilmore. I had with unspeakable regret perceived some symptoms of an alarming nature about him, which seemed to indicate the breaking up of a most excellent constitution, which, nursed by temperance and regularity, had hitherto been blest with such an uninterrupted course of health, that he had never through his whole life been confined a single day to his bed, except when he had the small pox in his childhood. In all his appetites and passions he was the most moderate of men: ever cheerful in his family and with his friends, but never yielding to the slightest excess. My mother in the mean time had been gradually sinking into a state of extreme debility and loss of health, and I plainly saw that my father's ceaseless agitation and anxiety on her

account had deeply affected his constitution. He had flattered me with the hope that he would attempt a journey to England with her, and in that expectation, when my time was expired, I painfully took leave of him-and, alas! never saw him, or my mother, more.

In the winter of that same year, whilst I was at Bath by advice for my own health, I received the first afflicting intelligence of his death from Primate Robinson, who loved him truly and lamented him most sincerely. This sad event was speedily succeeded by the death of my mother, whose weak and exhausted frame sunk under the blow: those senses so acute, and that mind so richly endowed, were in an instant taken from her, and after languishing in that melancholy state for a short but distressful period, she followed him to the grave.

Thus was I bereft of father and mother without the consolation of having paid them the last mournful duties of a son. One surviving sister, the best and most benevolent of human beings, attended them in their last moments, and performed those duties, which my hard fortune would not suffer me to share.

In a small patch of ground, enclosed with stone walls, adjoining to the church-yard of Kilmore, but not within the pale of the consecrated ground, my father's corpse was interred beside the grave of the venerable and exempla ry Bishop Bedel. This little spot, as containing the remains of that good and great man, my father had fenced and guarded with particular devotion, and he had more than once pointed it out to me as his destined grave, saying to me, as I well remember, in the words of the Old Prophet of Beth-el," When I am "dead, then bury me in this sepulchre, where"in the man of God is buried; lay my bones "beside his bones-" This injunction was exactly fulfilled, and the protestant Bishop of Kilmore, the mild friend of mankind, the impartial benefactor and unprejudiced protector of his Catholic poor, who almost adored him whilst living, was not permitted to deposit his remains within the precincts of his own church-yard, though they howled over and rent the air with their savage

his

grave, lamentations.

Thus, whilst their carcasses monopolise the consecrated ground, his bones and the bones of