There's my countryman Higgins-oh! let him alone While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, Who smil'd as he gaz'd at the ven❜son and me. "What have we got here?-Why this is good eating? "Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting?" "Why whose should it be, sir?" cried I, with a flounce; "I get these things often"-but that was a bounce: "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, "Are pleas'd 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 ven'son to make out a dinner. "I'll take no denial-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 words, my dear Goldsmith-my 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 dislik❜d in my life, Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day, in due splendor 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 could not come; "And I knew it," he cry'd, "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 thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there were spinage 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 curst "But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.” "The tripe!" quoth the Jew: "if the truth I must speak, "I could eat of 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 ho!" quoth my freind, "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 değil, mon, a pasty!” re-echo'd the Scot; "Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd 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,' RETALIATION.* A POEM. Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Our Dean shall be ven'son, just fresh from the plains; Our Burkes shall be tongue, with a 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 Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. ¶ Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. ** Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces. tt Doctor Douglas, canon of Windsor, 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. Our Garrick's a salad, for in him we see That Ridge+ is anchovy, and Reynolds ‡ is lamb; If he had any faults he has left us in doubt; We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; 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; own, 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 teazing 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 Old Nick; 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; 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, 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; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd! To act as an angel and mix with the skes: The Rev. Dr. Dodd. + Dr. Kendrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspear." James Macpherson, Esq. who, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. § Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c, Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. J Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant crea ture, And slander itself must allow him good nature; Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Merry Whtefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: This debt to hy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best-himour'd man, with the worst-humour'd muse." * 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 humourous essays. Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor 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. The following Letter, addressed to the Printer of the St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that Paper in June, 1767. SIR-As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago: and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing; and were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me friendship and learning for communications of a much the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his more important nature.-I am, Sir, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. "TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, "For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." "Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dang❜rous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. "Here to the houseless child of want And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share "No flocks that range the valley free "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. The Fryar of Orders Gray, in Reliq. of Ancient Poetry, Vol. I. p. 243. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch The wicket, opening with a latch, And now when busy crowds retire The hermit trim'd his little fire, And spread his vegetable store, And gaily prest, and smil'd; And, skill'd in legendary lore The lingering hours beguil'd. Its tricks the kitten tries; But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the hermit spy'd, With answering care opprest: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. "And what is friendship but a name, On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, The bashful look, the rising breast, The lovely stranger stands confess'd "And, ah forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried; "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heav'n and you reside. "But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray? Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. "My father liv'd beside the Tyne, ' A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, "To win me from his tender arms "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove: No wealth or pow'r had he: "The blossom opening to the day, "The dew, the blossoms of the tree, "For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart, "Till, quite dejected with my scorn, In secret, where he died. "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay : I'll seek the solitude he'sought, And stretch me where he lay. "And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." "Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, My charmer, turn to see "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And shall we never, never part, "No, never, from this hour to part, THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. A TALE. SECLUDED from domestic strife, He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was-married. The raptures of the bridal night? The honeymoon like lightning flew; The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss; In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke While all their hours were past between Thus as her faults each day were known, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! Her face is grown a knowing phiz; And though her fops are wondrous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promis'd to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whose ruthless pow'r Withers the beauty's transient flow'r, Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell❜d its terrors at the fair; And, rifling ev'ry youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright: Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes.. In vain she tries her pastes and creams To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens: The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And e'en the captain quit the field. Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old. With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature ev'ry day: Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. THE GIFT. To IRIS, In Bow Street, Covent Garden. SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, My heart a victim to thine eyes, My rivals give-and let 'em; I'll give them-when I get 'em. I'll give but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud more in fashion; Such short-liv'd offerings but disclose A transitory passion. I'll give thee something yet unpaid, THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. In Imitation of Dean Swift. LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd As rational the human mind; Reason, they say, belongs to man; But let them prove it, if they can. |