LETTER,

IN PROSE AND VERSE, TO MRS. BUNBURY.(1)

MADAM: I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candour could require, but after all find so much to object to, and so much to raise my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer. I am not so ignorant, Madam, as not to see there are many sarcasms contained in it, and solecisms also, (solecism is a word that comes from the town of Soleis in Attica among the Greeks, built by Solon, and applied as we use the word Kidderminster for curtains from a town also of that name; but this is learning you have no taste for.)-I say, Madam, there are sarcasms in it and solecisms also. But, not to seem an ill-natured critic, I'll take leave to quote your own words, and give you my remarks upon them as they occur. You begin as follows:

I hope, my good Doctor, you soon will be here,

And your spring velvet coat very smart will appear,

To open our ball the first day in the year."

Pray, Madam, where did you ever find the epithet "good" applied to the title of Doctor? Had you called me learned Doctor, or grave Doctor, or noble Doctor, it might be allowable, because they belong to the profession. But, not to cavil at trifles, you talk of my spring velvet coat, and advise me to wear it the first day in the year, that is in the middle of winter ;-a spring velvet in the middle of winter!!! That would be a solecism indeed; and yet, to increase the inconsistence, in another part of your letter you call me a beau :

(1) [Miss Catharine Horneck became, in August 1771, the wife of Henry Bunbury, Esq., celebrated for the powers of his pencil. An invitation from the lady, in a rhyming and jocular strain, to spend some time with them at their seat at Barton in Suffolk, brought from the Poet the above reply, which is now printed for the first time. It was written in 1772. See Life, ch. xxii.]

now, on one side or other, you must be wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of wearing a spring velvet in winter; and if I am not a beau-why-then-that explains itself. But let me go on to your two next strange lines:

"And bring with you a wig that is modish and gay,

To dance with the girls that are making of hay."

The absurdity of making hay at Christmas you yourself seem sensible of; you say your sister will laugh, and so indeed she well may. The Latins have an expression for a contemptuous sort of laughter, Naso contemnere adunco; that is, to laugh with a crooked nose; she may laugh at you in the manner of the ancients if she thinks fit.—But now I am come to the most extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions, which is, to take your and your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption of the offer raises my indignation beyond the bounds of prose; it inspires me at once with verse and resentment. I take advice! And from whom? You shall hear.

First let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set and the word to be loo;

All smirking and pleasant and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fixed in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn,
At never once finding a visit from pam;

I lay down my stake apparently cool,

While the harpies about me all pocket the pool;
I fret in my gizzard, get cautious and sly,
I wish all my friends may be bolder than I ;
Yet still they sit snug; not a creature will aim,
By losing their money, to venture at fame.
Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold;
All play their own way, and they think me an ass;
What does Mrs. Bunbury? I, Sir? I pass.

Pray what does Miss Horneck? Take courage, come, do!
Who, I? Let me see, Sir; why I must pass too.
Mrs. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the Devil,
To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil;
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till made by my losses as bold as a lion.
I venture at all; while my avarice regards
The whole pool as my own.
Well done! cry the ladies;
The pool's very rich. Ah! the Doctor is loo'd.
Thus foiled in my courage, on all sides perplext,
I ask for advice from the lady that's next.

Come, give me five cards. ah! Doctor, that's good,

Pray, Ma'am, be so good as to give your advice;
Don't you think the best way is to venture for't twice?
I advise, cries the lady, to try it I own;

Ah! the Doctor is loo'd. Come Doctor, put down.
Thus playing and playing I still grow more eager,
And so bold and so bold, I'm at last a bold beggar.
Now, ladies, I ask if law matters you're skilled in,
Whether crimes such as yours should not come before
Fielding;

For giving advice that is not worth a straw,

May well be called picking of pockets in law;
And picking of pockets with which I now charge ye,
Is by Quinto Elizabeth, death without clergy.
What justice, when both to the Old Bailey brought!
By the gods I'll enjoy it, tho' 'tis but in thought!
Both are placed at the bar with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel and nosegays before 'em ;
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,
But the Judge bids them angrily take off their hat.
When uncover'd, a buzz of enquiry goes round,

Pray what are their crimes? They've been pilfering found.

But, pray whom have they pilfer'd? A Doctor, I hear;
What, yon solemn-faced odd-looking man that stands near?
The same.
What a pity! How does it surprise one!
Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on!

Then their friends all come round me with cringing and leering,

To melt me to pity and soften my swearing.

First Sir Charles advances with phrases well strung,
Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young.
The younger the worse, I return him again,
It shews that their habits are all dyed in grain;
But then they're so handsome, one's bosom it grieves :
What signifies handsome when people are thieves!
But where is your justice? Their cases are hard;
What signifies justice?—I want the reward.

There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty poundThere's the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pound-There's the parish of Tyburn, from the Hog in the Pound to St. Giles's Watchhouse, offers forty poundI shall have all that if I convict them.—

But consider their case, it may yet be your own, And see how they kneel; is your heart made of stone? This moves; so at last I agree to relent,

For ten pounds in hand and ten pounds to be spent.

I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot. It cuts deep; but now for the rest of the letter; and next-but I want room.-So I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week.—I don't value you all.

O. G.

EPILOGUE

TO

66

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT,"

Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the Character of Mrs. Hardcastle. (1)

Well, having stooped to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you :
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, compos'd to please,
"We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid;
Blushes when hir'd, and with unmeaning action,
"I hopes as how to give you satisfaction."

(1) [This comedy was first acted at Covent Garden Theatre, on the 15th of March 1773. In a letter to Mr. Craddock, written immediately after the representation of the piece, Goldsmith says:-" I thank you sincerely for your epilogue, which, however, could not be used, but with your permission shall be printed. The story in short is this; Murphy sent me rather the outline of an epilogue than an epilogue, which was to be sung by Mrs. Catley, and which she approved. Mrs. Bulkley hearing this, insisted on throwing up her part, unless, according to the custom of the theatre, she were permitted to speak the epilogue. In this embarrassment I thought of making a Quarrelling Epilogue between Catley and her, debating who should speak the epilogue, but then Miss Catley refused after I had taken the trouble of drawing it out. I was then at a loss indeed; an epilogue was to be made, and for none but Mrs. Bulkley. I made one, and Colman thought it too bad to be spoken; I was obliged, therefore, to try a fourth time, and I made a very mawkish thing as you'll shortly see. Such is the history of my stage adventures, and which I have at last done with. I cannot help saying that I am very sick of the stage; and though I believe I shall get three tolerable benefits, yet I shall on the whole be a loser, even in a pecuniary light; my case and comfort I certainly lost while it was in agitation." See Life, ch. xxii.]