A person named Goldsmith, who stated himself to be a nephew of the great Oliver Goldsmith, died a short time since of cholera, in the country. A correspondent of the Morning Herald observes, the assertion may be true, and states that Dr. Goldsmith had a brother, whose name he thinks was Charles, and whom he met in public company about thirty years since. In person he resembled the poet, and was a man of some pleasantry, sang a tolerable song, and, like his brother, had a good deal of oddity in his manner. He then resided at Somer's Town, and as the correspondent was informed, had been many years in the West Indies, whence he came to England possessed of a small independence. Some years since the correspondent made inquiry at Somer's Town for Charles Goldsmith, but was told that he had left his residence there for some years. He is anxious for some information respecting the latter history of the poet's brother: he has a faint idea of hearing he had some children by a native of the West Indies, and he thinks it probable that the first-named individual, lately deceased, might have been one of them. The settlement of this point may not be of general importance; but it leads the correspondent to mention that in the Temple churchyard, where he remembers the burial of Goldsmith, there is no stone or other memorial to mark his grave. So posterity, for nearly threescore years, have treated a man of genius, who, to quote Dr. Johnson's opinion, left no species of writing untouched, and adorned all to which he applied himself. "How different," observes the above correspondent, "the attention and honours paid to the memory of Walter Scott, scarcely cold in his coffin! a more voluminous writer certainly, but not a superior genius to the author of the Deserted Village and the Vicar of Wakefield." Goldsmith died in the Inner Temple. Aikin says he was buried with little attendance in the Temple church; the correspondent of the Herald states, in the churchyard, so that the poet's biographers are not even agreed WHERE he was buried. Yet, since his death, thousands of pounds have been expended in restoring the architecture of the Temple church, and one hears everlastingly of the rare series of effigies of Knights Templars: but a few pounds have not been spared for a stone to tell where the poor poet sleeps. True it is, that a monument has been erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey, with a Latin inscription, by Dr. Johnson, but the locality of his actual resting-place is untold. We may say with equal truth and justice—

Oh shame to the land of his birth!

PHILO.

THE SAVOYARD

By E.B. Impey, Esq

[The following ballad is founded on the melancholy fact of a Savoyard boy and his monkey having been found starved to death in St. James's Park during the night of a severe frost.]

Weary and wan from door to door With faint and faltering tread, In vain for shelter I implore, And pine for want of bread. Poor Jacko! thou art hungry too; Thy dim and haggard eye Pleads more pathetically true, Than prayer or piercing cry. Poor mute companion of my toil, My wanderings and my woes! Far have we sought this vaunted soil, And here our course must close. Chill falls the sleet; our colder clay Shall to the morning light, Stretch'd on these icy walks, betray The ravages of night. Scarce have I number'd twice seven years; Ah! who would covet more? Or swell the lengthen'd stream of tears To man's thrice measur'd score? Alas! they told me 'twas a land Of wealth and weal to all; And bless'd alike with bounteous hand The stranger and the thrall. A land whose golden vallies shame Thy craggy wilds, Savoy, Might well, methought, from want reclaim One poor unfriended boy. How did my young heart fondly yearn To greet thy treach'rous shore! And deem'd the while, for home-return To husband up a store. Why did I leave my native glen And tune my mountain-lay, To colder maids and sterner men Than o'er our glaciers stray? There pity dews the manly cheek And heaves the bosom coy, That quail'd not at the giddy peak Which foils the fleet chamois. Here—where the torrents voice would thrill Each craven breast with fear; For dumb distress or human ill There drops no kindred tear. The rushing Arc, the cold blue Rhone, That in their channels freeze; And snow-clad Cenis' heart of stone Might melt ere one of these. Why did I loathe my lowly cot Where late I caroll'd free, Nor felt, contrasted with my lot, The pomp of high degree? Lo! where to mock the houseless head Huge palaces arise, Whose board uncharitably spread The unbidden guest denies. O for the crumbs that reckless fall From that superfluous board! O for the warmth you gorgeous hall And blazing hearth afford! All unavailing is the prayer— The proud ones pass us by; Their chariots roll, their torches glare Cold on the famish'd eye. And yet a little from their need Some poorer hands have spared: And some have sighed, with little heed, "Alas! poor Savoyard!" And some have bent the churlish brow, And curl'd the lip of scorn; For they at home had brats enow, And beggars British-born. And some have scoff'd as proud to bear Brute heart in human shape; Nor drop nor morsel deign'd to share With alien or with ape. Poor Jacko! yet one soul can feel Sad fellowship with thee; And we have shared our scanty meal In bitterness or glee. Yes! we have shared our last—and here Have little now to crave; No bounty, save a passing tear, No gift, beyond a grave. Still let these arms to thy bare breast Their lingering heat impart; Come shroud thee in my tatter'd vest, And nestle next my heart. Partners in grief, in want allied, E'en as we lived, we die; So let one grave our relics hold, Entwined, as thus we lie.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 20, No. 573, October 27, 1832

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH

THE SAVOYARD

By E.B. Impey, Esq

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