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Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
"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,
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
In the middle a place were the pasty-was not.
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,
"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;
See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness,
Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor.-12mo, 1769.
FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.
THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing
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;
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*
[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,
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,
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
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.
§ 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.
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,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
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,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style,
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet?
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
†The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
+Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
S Mr. William Burke.
As an actor, confest without rival to shine;
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,
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,
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,
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;
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet;
ON DR. GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL
A JEU D'ESPRIT.
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;"
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
* 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
And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF O, there the people are-best keep my distance:
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non-
(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.