looks like an after-thought; and has not the freedom
and pungency of a piece of improvisation. An imaginary dinner is
described, the guests being Garrick, Reynolds, Burke, Cumberland, and
the rest of them, Goldsmith last of all. More wine is called for,
until the whole of his companions have fallen beneath the table:

"Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the _dead_."

This is a somewhat clumsy excuse for introducing a series of epitaphs;
but the epitaphs amply atone for it. That on Garrick is especially
remarkable as a bit of character-sketching; its shrewd hints--all in
perfect courtesy and good humour--going a little nearer to the truth
than is common in epitaphs of any sort:--

"Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can;
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine:
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned 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 swallowed what came;
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who peppered 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 bepraised.
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 Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above."

The truth