My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
"And I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,
The one at the House, and the other with Thrale.
But no matter; I'll warrant we'll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
Who dabble and write in the papers, like you;
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge."
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there were spinach and pudding made hot
In the middle a place where the pasty-was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round.
But what vex'd me most was that d-d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,
And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on:
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curs'd,
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst."
"The tripe," quoth the Jew, "if the truth I may speak,
I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week;
I like these here dinners so pretty and small-
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."
"Oh, oh!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice-
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice.
There's a pasty"- -"A pasty!" repeated the Jew;
"I don't care if I keep a corner for't too."
"What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot; "Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out-for who could mistake her ?That she came with some terrible news from the baker;
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste.
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning-
At least it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own;
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for " Retaliation," and at their next meeting produced the following poem.
Or 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 the best dish:
Our dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke1 shall be tongue, with the 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;
1 Paul Scarron, a popular French writer.
2 The master of St. James's Coffee-house, where the Doctor and the friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined.
3 Dr. Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland.
4 Edmund Burke, Esq.
5 Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway.
6 Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada.
7 Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the "West Indian," Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and other dramatic pieces.
8 Dr. Dougl is, canon of Windsor, and bishop of Salisbury, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's "History of the Popes."
Our Garrick's1 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 Reynolds3 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, re-united 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 declar'd, and it can't be denied them,
That sly-boots 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.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining.
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit:
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir-
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam-
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits ? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
2 Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. 3 Sir Joshua Reynolds. 4 An eminent attorney.
5 Thomas Townshend, Member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney.
Here lies honest Richard,' whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest-and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball;
Now teasing and vexing-yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wished him full ten times a ay at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland2 lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine!
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out-
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last-and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines;
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines!
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety-I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds3 shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture-
Macpherson5 write bombast, and call it a style-
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
1 Barry, the painter, who had recently fractured his leg.
2 Cumberland, the dramatist, and translator of Terence.
4 Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspere."
5 James Macpherson, who had recently published a wretched translation of Homer
|