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What have we got here?-Why, this is good eating! Your own, I suppose, or is it in waiting?"

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Why, whose should it be?" cried I. with a flounce;

I get these things often "--but that was a bounce: "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words-I insist on't-precisely at three : We'll have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will be there; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.

And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner,

We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.

What say you?-a pasty, it shall and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter-this ven'son with me to Mile-end :
No stirring, I beg, my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine),
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come !'
"For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;
But no matter, I'll warrant we make up the party,
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They're both of them merry, and authors like you;
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge:
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge."
While thus he described 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 was 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;

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come.-"Goldsmith's poetry presents one well-known and remarkable instance of how he appreciated Burke and Johnson. In The Haunch of Venison,' partially an imitation of the Third Satire of Boileau, when Goldsmith came to the French poet's line announcing the non-arrival of the promised grand guests'Nous n'avons, m'a-t-il dit, ni Lambert ni Molière

he put in the place of the original names those of the two supreme objects of his own admiration.”—Serjeant Burke's Life of Edmund Burke. 233

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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 curst,

But I've ate of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.”

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The tripe!" quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, "I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small;

But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.'

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Oh, ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice,

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice:

There's pasty."-" A pasty!" repeated the Jew;

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'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 that."

"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Waked 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 misplaced,
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,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

INTRODUCTION.

HIS poem is invested with more than ordinary interest, for it is the last production of Goldsmith's pen. Written at intervals, during bodily suffering, and while his mind was often ill at ease-left, indeed, unfinished when the hand of Death was laid upon him it still exhibits his genius in undiminished brightness. Had he not left this composition behind him, posterity could not have formed an adequate estimate of the powers of Goldsmith. Without it we could not have known what a high order of wit, in its truest sense, he possessed; with what an accurate sense for discriminating character he was endowed, and with what terse and epigrammatic vigour he could delineate it. The portraits are all drawn with force-some of them with the skill and truth of a master. The strokes of satire, interspersed, are, like boreal lightning, luminous yet innocuous; and the praise which he bestows, though occasionally of the highest, is never offensive. A gentler vengeance was never inflicted, a

kindlier retaliation never administered.

We cannot better introduce the poem than by transcribing Garrick's account of its origin, first given to the world by Mr. Peter Cunningham in his admirable edition of Goldsmith's works:

At a meeting' of a company of gentlemen, who were well known to each other, and diverting themselves, among many other things, with the peculiar oddities of Dr. Goldsmith, who never would allow a superior in any art, from writing poetry down to dancing a hornpipe, the Doctor with great eagerness insisted upon trying his epigrammatic powers with Mr. Garrick, and each of them was to write the other's epitaph. Mr. Garrick immediately said that his epitaph was finished, and spoke the following distich extempore :

"Here lies NOLLY Goldsmith, for shortness call'd Noll,
Who wrote like an angel, but talk'd like poor Poll."

Goldsmith, upon the company's laughing very heartily, grew very thoughtful, and either would not, or could not, write anything at that time; however, he went to work, and some weeks after produced the following printed poem, called "RETALIATION," which has been much admired, and gone through several editions. The publick in general have been mistaken in imagining that this poem was written in anger by the Doctor; it was just the contrary; the whole on all sides was done with the greatest good humour; and the following poems in manuscript were written by several of the gentlemen on purpose to provoke the Doctor to an answer, which came forth at last with great credit to him in "RETALIATION."

D. GARRICK [MS.]

The place referred to was not the "Turk's Head," as sometimes supposed, but "St. James's Coffee House," frequented by Addison and Steele; and, in later times, by Goldsmith, Garrick, and their friends. It was the last house but one on the south-west corner of St. James's Street. It was taken down about 1806, and a large pile of buildings, looking down Pall Mall, erected on its site.

SF old, when Scarron1 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 Burke' shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains;
Our Will' shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick, with his pepper, shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick's 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 Reynolds 10 is lamb;

1 Scarron.-Paul Scarron, known by the sobriquet of "Cul de Jatte," from his deformity, was one of the wittiest writers of comedy in France in the seventeenth century. Despite of his physical infirmities and sufferings, he passed through life laughing and making others laugh, and died (1660) with a joke about death on his lips. Goldsmith translated his "Roman Comique."

2 Our Dean.-Dr. Thomas Barnard, Dean of Derry, and a member of the Literary Club. He was a student in Trinity College, Dublin, at the same time as Goldsmith, though it does not appear that they were acquainted there. He was a man of wit and learning, and a great friend of Johnson's, whose rudeness to him, notwithstanding, on one occasion, gave rise to some clever verses of Barnard's. He was afterwards Bishop of Killaloe, and, finally, of Limerick.

3 Our Burke.-Edmund Burke, the great statesman, then rising high in public estimation as "the first man in the Commons." He was an original member of the Literary Club.

Our Will. -William Burke, a cousin of Edmund's, and a man of considerable learning. He wrote many pieces of merit both in prose and in verse, some of which, under the signature of "Valens," were attributed to Edmund. He died in 1798. See Prior's "Life of Burke."

5 And Dick-Richard Burke, a younger brother of Edmund, distinguished as a wit, a politician, a writer, and a lawyer, of whom Lord Mansfield had a high opinion. He became one of the Secretaries of State in 1782, and afterwards Recorder of Bristol. He was celebrated for his wit and humour, and used to play off practical jokes on Edmund and other friends. Both his leg and arm were fractured.

He died in 1794

Our Cumberland.-Richard Cumberland, dramatist, novelist, and poet. He accompanied Lord Halifax to Ireland, and was subsequently sent on a mission to Spain. He is now best known by his memoirs. He was a generous and honourable man, but vain and irritable, and was the original of Sir Fretful Plagiary, in Sheridan's "Critic." He died in 1811.

1 Douglas.-John Douglas, afterwards Bishop of Carlisle, whence he was translated to Salisbury. He was a good scholar, and possessed of taste and a sound, logical understanding. He published an able defence of Milton, against Lauder's charge of plagiary; a powerful essay, in answer to Hume, on the subject of miracles; and many miscellaneous works. He died in 1807.

Our Garrick.-David Garrick, the greatest histrionic genius that England has produced. To him the Stage owes, in a great measure, the restoration of Shakespeare, and its purification from the gross licentiousness which disgraced it from the time of Charles II. He was for many years manager of Drury Lane; and besides some farces and prologues, he wrote occasional pieces, songs, and epigrams. He died in 1799.

9 Ridge.-John Ridge was called to the Irish Bar in 1762, and retired from practice in 1776. As he disappears from the list of the profession in 1778, I presume that he was then dead.

10 Reynolds.-Sir Joshua Reynolds, the founder of the English School of Painting, the first President of the Royal Academy, the Romulus of the Literary Club, and the affable host of the celebrated Leicester Square dinners. "One of the most memorable men of his time. There was no more amiable man or delightful companion than Reynolds." When studying