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Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"*
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman

Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison 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


"For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale;

"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


That she came with some terrible news from the baker:

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not 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.

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,
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

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 spinage, and pudding made

In the middle a place were 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

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his

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 eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst."
"The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate

"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."
"O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a

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."

See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness,

Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1769.



THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies;
And every pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.


O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

THE CLOWN'S REPLY. JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears;

"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to


Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses."
Edinburgh, 1753.




[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.]

HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed, Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,

Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

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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 Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;

Our Burket shall be tongue, with the garnish of

Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the sa-


Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall

And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick'stt a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridgett is anchovy, and Reynoldsss 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.

The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined.

↑ Doctor Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland.
The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

§ Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.

Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.

Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian." "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," and various other productions.

**Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, (afterwards bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who 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.

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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 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund,† whose genius was

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

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 feeling, 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,

To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,


Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

And thought of convincing, while they thought of

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

While the owner ne'er knew half the good that
was in't;

The pupil of impulse, it forced 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.

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

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 Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall

Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com-

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross

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Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;

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 wish'd him full ten times a-day at

But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;

Doctor Bernard.

†The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

+Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.

S Mr. William Burke.


As an actor, confest 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 beplaster'd 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.

The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

† Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare."

I Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper'd 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 Woodfallst so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and
you gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you


While he was be-Roscius'd, 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 Shakspeare receive him with praise and with


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Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye:
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard
of hearing:

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,

and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.


After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the pub. lisher received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :‡ Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will; Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill:" A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!

Right and wrong shall be jumbled,-much gold and some Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, dross;

Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,

A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking,
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail:

For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,

This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet;
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-be Goldsmith his name;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him-to make us sport here.




Ate these the choice dishes the doctor has sent us? Is this the great poet whose works so content us? This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books? Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.

Yet content "if the table he set in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfalls confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb.
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

† Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.

§ Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I ad- There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen

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And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:
[Tasting them
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF O, there the people are-best keep my distance:

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I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non-
The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.

(Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued! Lord, what a sultry climate am I under! Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: Whose only plot it is to break our noses; [Upper Gallery. Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, And from above the dangling deities; SIR-I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold- And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew? smith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do! it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admi- No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage: rable comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns! it himself in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. pretty Irish air, called "The Humours of Balamagairy," to which, he told me, he found it very difficult to adapt words; Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme: but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate care.

I am, Sir, your humble servant,

soft-'twas but a dream.

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat-

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,

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